June 22, 2009
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place. 

Because I know that time is always time

And place is always and only place

And what is actual is actual only for one time

And only for one place. 

June 20, 2009

Larry made his nest up in the autumn branches
Built from nothing but high hopes and thin air
Collected up some baby blasted mothers
They took their chances and for a while
They lived quite happily up there

He came from New York City, man
But he couldn’t take the pace
He thought it was like a dog eat dog world
Then he went to San Francisco, spent a year in outer space
With a sweet little San Franciscan girl

I can hear my mother wailing
And a whole lot of scraping of chairs
I don’t know what it is
But there’s definitely something going on upstairs

Meanwhile Larry made up names for the ladies
Like Ms. Boo and Ms. Quick
He stockpiled weapons and took pot shots in the air
He feasted on their lovely bodies like a lunatic
And wrapped himself up in their soft yellow hair

I can hear chants and incantations
And some guy is mentioning me in his prayers
Well, I don’t know what it is
But there’s definitely something going on upstairs

Well, New York City, man
San Francisco, L.A., I don’t know
But Larry grew increasing neurotic and obscene
I mean, he, he never asked to be raised up from the tomb
I mean, no one ever actually asked him to forsake his dreams

He ended up like so many of ‘em do
Back in the streets of New York City
In a soup queue, a dope fiend, a slave
Then prison, then the mad house
Then the grave, oh, poor Larry

But what do we really know of the dead
And who actually cares?
Well, I don’t know what it is
But there’s definitely something going on upstairs

— Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

May 10, 2009

The sites of aesthetic discovery are as varied as our passions and our fears. The objects of our fascination, the raw matter of our arts, are sometimes familiar and reassuring, sometimes bizarre and uncanny. Sometimes such things lead us back to our childhood, sometimes forward to the moment of our death. On certain rare occasions, birth and death are conflated, and we are privy to the internal workings of the cosmos, revealing the very origins of our being.

—Allen S. Weiss from Shattered Forms: Art Brut, Phantasms, Modernism

April 23, 2009


THE ALIENS”
from The Last Night Of The Earth Poems

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little 
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with 
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.

you may not believe 
it 
but such people do 
exist.

but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there

and I am
here.

- Charles Bukowski

February 11, 2009
January 25, 2009
So I got a bunch of nuns together to get you some good grace today. No big.

Enjoy your cake. Vegan concoction?

So I got a bunch of nuns together to get you some good grace today. No big.

Enjoy your cake. Vegan concoction?

November 30, 2008

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

T.S. ELIOT

November 2, 2008

Apartment hunting?

Ok, so it’s a bit of a commute from school next year—but this place is perfect for us.

http://www.liviodemarchi.com/casa1_uk.htm

October 31, 2008
Happy birthday, my beautiful Halloween chicken.

Happy birthday, my beautiful Halloween chicken.

October 2, 2008

A town is a tool. Towns no longer fulfill this function. They are ineffectual; they use up our bodies, they thwart our souls. The lack of order to be found everywhere in them offends us; their degradation wounds our self-esteem and humiliates our sense of dignity. They are not worthy of the age; they are no longer worthy of us.

A city!
It is the grip of man upon nature. It is a human operation directed against nature, a human organism both for protection and for work. It is a creation. Poetry also is a human act—the harmonious relationships between perceived images. All the poetry we find in nature is but the creation of our own spirit. A town is a mighty image which stirs our minds. Why should not the town be, even to-day, a source of poetry?

This age is no longer one in which it is possible to take things easy or to relax. It is held powerfully buttressed in action. You cannot be a “defeatist” and achieve anything at all (and stupidity and disillusionment are equally fatal); faith is necessary and confidence in the innate decency of people.

Le Corbusier