Invisible Ink

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

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

“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

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