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Testing, testing

:) Hi everyone This is "pilot" blog entry to see if it actually works. Being a newbie/novice type blogger, I thought I might test the waters first. I have about 50 minutes a day to reply to posts on this and other forums, including personal and work emails :o so until I can work out a system where I maximize my virtual efficiency, this blog will be rather bereft of content.

isobel

isobel

 

The Angel

I had never met anyone quite like him before, and he called me angel. And I was beautiful, maybe. I exuded something, certainly, maybe beauty but something you can't quite see so much as sense, that I stretched through time and space, like Anima...or like an angel... and angels only look backward in shock and horror and they can't do anything. Because they exist through space and time. Metaphor or not. The idea means an all-encompassing sense, around you, exceeding words, exuding aura. It is the aura. Angel is another word for sublime. Terrifying, wonderful. And you don't know where it comes from. He's never seen my family, or even my home town. He knows none of my friends, and doesn't feel he has to. He is content with me. And it simply goes on forever, it is immortal, omnipresent, and needs nothing from you (that is how you envision the sublime--after all, you must subject yourself to something, that way you control how you see it, and therefore what it means). He is much older than me. He will never experience my death. He does not want me to have children. And why should he, if in his eyes I will never die? Angel. That is my metaphor. I have no past, I come from no where, no one; I have no future, and will live on after he is dead. I am immortal. I am angry. I am not a metaphor. I do not want to be a metaphor. I want to be a woman, a lover, a mother. I want to hit you so you see I am real, scream so that you hear my soul. I am not an angel. I am not an angel. I AM NOT AN ANGEL. I want a history, I want a future. Do not make me immortal, I do not want to live forever like this. Not like this.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

The Monster Ball

17 March 2010 I did promise to tell everyone about Lady Gaga's Monster Ball, didn't I. And then time slid away from me like...a slimy thing. I am reminded of it though because of the recent release of Gaga's music video "Telephone". I said in my last post I doubted it would take long before someone starts to write critical theorily of her work, and I was right. A graduate student here in the US was even interviewed by one of our larger national TV stations (ABC) because of her extremely theoretical (and good) analysis of "Telephone," because Gaga herself evidently found it so intriguing that she tweeted a link to the blog discussion. Gaga is of course a pop performance artist [see last post], and it stands to reason that there would be theoretical complexity to her work; the filmmaker/auteur has come forward in the ABC interview saying that the video is just kind of crazy and that theoretical analysis goes too deep. If the point of the analysis were to guess the riddle of the artist's mind, he might be right. But whether Akerlund filmed the video with all the theory in mind or not, the video absolutely matches up to Cand. Phil. Vicks's analysis, and I must say the analysis even shook a few things into place for me. My initial response was: well, it's a liberal quote of Tarantino pastiche [for which I have little patience]. And that is because I was looking at it as a narrative like Bad Romance--somehow it had escaped me to view it as a meta-pastiche, a symbolic mosaic of artistic development and consumer culture. The reading holds up, and really brings a lot out in the video. Kudos to Gaga for making art that draws such intense and thoughtful scrutiny, kudos to Comp Lit PhD candidates who take her work seriously. Why that reminded me of Monster Ball: I was absolutely floored by the crowd it attracted. It was the most diverse group of people I've ever seen at any show--all age groups represented, all walks of life represented, people from all over just getting down and having a good time. And the screaming was DEAFENING. I would never have known how loud a collection of human voices can be. It was astonishing. She brought all these people together on the coldest night of the year. She played Michael Jackson CDs while we waited between acts. She made us wait a long time between acts (Semi Precious Weapons? Um. No thanks. Just give me Gaga, please) and I told the people I was with that the show had better f#@king blow me away for all this waiting. Ok, it did. She was on stage for nearly 2 hours. The sets were beautiful. The costumes remarkable. The songs exciting. She asked us a lot if we wanted to ...um...you know her. It was like a drag show, but larger, louder. And all these people... just having fun. She appeals to a wide demographic, and that for me is a hallmark of real greatness. You might be awesome, but have a small following. But if you can manage to be awesome and corner a diverse and huge following, that's pretty impressive. And a man who will follow you to Gaga is a keeper.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Jiminey Crickets!!

I wished so hard upon a star for months I wished and wished and wished I lay awake the night's long line for fear that it would come to nicht. my soul strech'd out twixt ev'ry star I saw for nights around around and wished my soul on ev'ry one and cried out loud, but without sound. The stars must hear! the planets, too! align themselves from me for you where is justice, where is right? I cried out into that dark night Came the message with the sun War is over, battle won. Now my work here is done. [Expires]

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Space Madness

Angrily I returned from the library, driven relentlessly by my compulsion to feel music. Earphones pressed close to my head if only I could get the music inside my heartbeat rather than the other way round. I know why string instruments are closest to the human voice, I can feel it as I hum along with the cello, the way my vocal chordes work just like a bow across strings. I need to be closer. Wolfi I think you really are going mad... Remember, George, remember when I was in the orchestra and we played Malcom Arnold and I was right in the middle and it was like I dissipated into the vibrations whenever the orchestra swelled, whenever the piccolo carried the melody, whenever the percussionist struck the Bells. Why did that ever have to end? I can never get back to that space, between the air and the music where I slid along the sounds of physics in motion. Who would check out Corelli's Christmas Concerto? I can't get close enough to the music through the headphones so I'll get the score and play it. Play it feel it. I listened to it all the way to the library only to find some jackass checked it out. Who would check out Corelli's Christmas Concerto?! This is what I always look like: Actually it is usually just my left eyebrow and my mouth isn't quite so dramatic. But it occured to me that I haven't really laughed or even smiled in a long, long time. In fact I can't remember the last time I really, genuinely smiled, and I really can't remember the last time I laughed. I am afraid to do both. Afraid. I am afraid to be caught. Because then someone will know that something elated me, and they will feel threatened. I hate that. You'd never know it, but I don't have much to say. Well, not much I would say to anyone. I don't speak except to answer questions and otherwise I live in my mind--before which I live in fear--and speak on the page. I hope no one sees me enjoying it...

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Through form, formlessness

Where is there a more insistent form than rhythm? O we strive to keep with it, weave our dance steps into it or around it, but nonetheless in concert with it, we have people with batons who mark it for us and who yell themselves red in the face if the rhythm is in any way disregarded or not observed; we have both fascinatingly manual and electronic machines that keep it for us, since we cannot count upon ourselves to keep rhythm properly. Man is an inexact creature. We strive within reason to be on the beat. We even get happy feet. Or happy anything else, if we can't get to our feet just at the right moment. A highly-regarded work of lyric poetry flawlessly imitates a set rhythm while extolling the virtues of the unspeakable. The universe was said to be constructed of flawless rhythmic intervals. Rhythm is unforgiving, it plows on without you, will not wait for you to understand or follow, it is a Golem perpetual motion machine in theory, once started ever forward, its only goal to maintain itself, its reason its own existence. To find rhythm requires thought. To follow it requires abandon. It is weirdly freeing, in that it replaces some sense of consciousness, and in that abandon when the rhythm really carries you, you cease to think. That is, one can suddenly find oneself looking at oneself from the outside; or, conversely one can find oneself lost in the rhythm, a more internal release. In either case, it seems that the rhythm replaces or even displaces the consciousness of you; you exceed your form. "Freed" by the music, which both accentuates and masks the rhythm, to dance or to float, to sense a formlessness divorcing you from the banal. Through the most insistent form, formlessness. I know this O I know this yes, and when I cannot exceed my form--which is my consciousness--I replace it with Corelli's baseline; I replace it with "Runnin up that Hill;" I replace it with the musical representation of the rhythm of a washing machine, or a commercial jingle; I replace it with ancient airs and dances. I cease to be Jayne proper and am released into Jayne's instinct, for I suppose that form of name never dissolves entirely; but in fact there is a set of regulated appeals that means "Jayne" and so in that formless moment I become more like Jayne than I ever am otherwise, and no one will ever see that side of me. It is nevertheless an administered abandon, or I could never write about it. I live in fear of my own mind.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Childhood

I am wary of nostalgia. I am I am I am. Nonetheless. Sometimes you have these moments, and something from the now sutures itself in a flash to a then. And again like the Werdegang time both stops and stretches out and moves, it seems you are endlessly a child before yourself while the scene that is not you unfolds before you in slow motion and it seems like all nights last forever. The floodlights from the house sent a layer of light out across the back yard. It was like light particles danced around you, were part of the night air, but didn't really light anything up except the house. I had on a white and orange stripey shirt, horizontal stripes. That was when my hair was blond and curly, and the night seemed to last forever. I and my two friends were playing, while their parents were in my house with my parents. They were probably talking about music, because that is what they did. Syrinx how my mother used to play Syrinx and I would cry and she would say, laughing, why are you crying? and I said it's just so sad!! Why didn't anyone else see that? We ran around in the yard, I don't know what we were playing, probably we didn't really have a plan we were just running around in the night and we had a little pool in the yard so it must have been early autumn and we were having so much fun running around that I ran right into the pool. Into it. That shirt was uncomfortable when wet. And it was glorious and the night lasted forever. That's what suddenly appeared in my head the other night watching a little league baseball game. There was a boy, probably 11, he had played his game earlier in the day so he was wearing his uniform and a windbreaker, but had an air of "it's over and now I can eat nachos" about him. His brother was playing now, and he quietly ate nachos and when his brother came up to bat he would yell "Go Bones!" A nickname for his brother. What a nice kid he seemed to me. And the wind blew across the back of his neck and his hair fit perfectly under his baseball cap, and then he went and played catch with some very small kids under the haze of floodlights that didn't really light up anything but the baseball diamond. And the night seemed to last forever and I thought someday that kid will remember how this night lasted forever, in the cold, in the wind, under the haze of the floodlights.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

The Silence and the Voice of Dissent

I come from a town famous for producing expatriates. Our walk of fame is like a collection of memorials for those who turned their back on the city, the state, the country; a kind of expression of acknowledging disappointment, and catalysm: We are the place that drove them away (to greatness). Oh yes, this planted the seed in me, as well. I am an American. What I mean by that is, really, that I was born here, and I am familiar with ways of thinking and behaving in particular parts of the country to such an extent that, when I am not in those environments, I become aware of how thoughtlessly I maneuver in them. Which is interesting given the fundamental statement of my life: I don't fit in. When I was small, I knew I didn't fit in. Even among people who didn't fit in, I didn't fit in. As I got older, I got more defiant about it (I had to feel better, you know) and became sort of belligerent and aggressive about not fitting in. Then it became national. I realized all the books I liked, the music I liked--it all came from other places. I knew that anyway, but then a foreign exchange student ended up in most of my classes, and most of the classmates were sort of afraid of her, but I was not, before I knew her because she was from a country I had always wanted to know more about. Driving around one day, she starting singing along to one of my tapes. I said, "how do you know that song?!" and she replied that it had been on the radio endlessly when it had been released. I hit the brakes. Surely you're joking, I cried! NO ONE HERE KNOWS THAT SONG! Oh no, she said, we all knew it. It was very popular. That was it. That was when I knew. I was going to be an expatriate. ASAP. It took me several years before I made it away from the USA for the first time, and within 24 hours I had realized something that utterly disrupted my way of thinking: I didn't fit in outside of America, either. I didn't quite know how to take this. I felt like a total outsider, such a foreigner, lost and confused. I longed to be back "home" (I grimaced as I said that) where I didn't have to think about how I was communicating with people, or worry that I might be recognized as a foreigner, just to be silent and unrecognized, not waiting to do the wrong thing every second and be immediately spotted--American. Because of course that can be--and was in my own eyes--a very bad thing to be. I tried to erase my American-ness. And I achieved a modest victory. With time no one could spot me anymore, even when I talked. And yet... And yet... I could never escape myself. I was still foreign and I knew it. I could never entirely push that out of my mind. And so I went back "home." To find that I fit in even less. I walked around the airport, just off the plane, looking at my countrymen in their baseball hats (and I love baseball hats, by the way), and thinking, I am not one of you. I am not one of you. Of whom am I one? Silence. I had hated America. Then I lived elsewhere and realized everywhere has its problems, and suddenly I didn't hate America so much anymore...I felt like it was a place, like any other place loved and hated. Looking at it from outside gave me a perspective I can never describe. It was sometimes like looking at a loved one lying in a hospital, and it was sometimes like peeking in at paradise. I missed it, either way. And then I went back and hated it again. For a while. But I began to develop a new role in it: You're-all-bumpkins-and-I-know-better. It was obnoxious, it was pretentious. It was the result of being told all my life that America is a place where stupid backward illiterate uncultured people live. But I had been to Europe as an American who was not stupid, backward, illiterate, and perhaps less uncultured than, say, many of my relatives (and had encountered people in Europe who did not correspond to the American ideal of Europeans...). I was a little confused over where the problem began, but I took it upon myself to use both sides of the equation: Americans are not as stupid as we tell ourselves we are, so that is no excuse for, say, not learning a foreign language; and then our perspective can be a little narrow. So try something new. This had more of a dark side than I found I could stand, there was a tendency among people I worked with to swing too extremely to one side: all things American are inferior, shallow, to be avoided; non-American is automatically superior. They prefer not see themselves as "American," try to conceal their origins, overplay the role of the sophisticate. Eventually I came to wonder what they themselves understood "American" to mean. Obviously more than "I was born here, and I understand the behavior." Fast forward to a few years ago, when a colleague observed me and then timidly posed the question: You don't fit in here, do you. Me: No. Why don't you move to Europe? You are much more European. You would fit much better there. I blinked at her, because suddenly I had begun to think something quite new, actually I had known it all along but I had never articulated it before. Me: Well, in Europe I don't fit. And in the US I don't fit either. But I am more familiar with being a misfit here, and anyway, who said I am aiming to fit in anywhere? I know a lot of people who can take being an expat much better than I can. And I know a lot of people who identify themselves with an American way of life that makes no sense to me whatever. I do not wish to comment on politics, but like my friend singing that song in my car, the last election was for me the moment of clarity. I have to stay here and not fit in. I have found that I make a difference everywhere that way--when I live abroad and when I live here. I do not defend my position as superior, I do not think other people are wrong. This is my way of being the voice and the silence of dissent. This is what happens when you die. And that is what happens when they die. We have our ways.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Or They Decided I Was Spamming?

I am suspicious I just got deleted now. I forgot, so you remember? Mustn't mess about with a man's information you know that? it is a dangerous business, making a man confused what he should think of the world, did you realize that even remotely? It is a business not to be entered into lightly, messing with a man's head, and also extraordinarily bad manners, not a thing to do lightly- Confuse your man. Even if the lottery said your man is a little bit stupider than you? don't be cruel to your man, Yield a little like the body of any good woman says you should...

curly willow

curly willow

 

Noodling Away At A Life-

I am suspicious I just got deleted now. I forgot, so you remember? Mustn't mess about with a man's information you know that? it is a dangerous business, making a man confused what he should think of the world, did you realize that even remotely? It is a business not to be entered into lightly, messing with a man's head, and also extraordinarily bad manners, not a thing to do lightly- Confuse your man. Even if the lottery said your man is a little bit stupider than you? don't be cruel to your man, Yield a little like the body of any good woman says you should...

curly willow

curly willow

 

Werdegang

The poetic meaning of "Werdegang" is: I have a book. [this is not a universalizing "the," but a "the" that bears its own doubt, followed as it is by "poetic;" I could have written "my," but the "I" is implied in the poetic. Trust "the poetic meaning," but do not submit to it.] The semantic linguistic meaning of "Werdegang" can be broken down as follows: Werdegang: noun, masculine. German. signifies: a path to becoming. Made up of the nominalisation of two verbs: "werden," the marker of future tense; to become; and to get (in the passive sense: he got run over) and "gehen," to go. The "Werdegang" of "Werdegang" is unknown to me, but it came to me last night while reading about Feudalism as a precursor to Capitalism. "Werdegang," like it fell into my thoughts, and then "poetischer Werdegang," the becoming of a poet. Poetic becoming. It says in one word what in English takes a much clumsier phrasing, and so I prefer "Werdegang," for its rhythm, for its consonants, and most especially for its nominalizing. As its parts demonstrate, it contains both location and movement: "Werde"--movement towards being, and "Gang"--path, hallway. At any point you can stop and consider your "Werdegang," but still it keeps going. Keeps becoming. Werdegang. I have a book. I've had it for ten years, someone bought it for me out of kindness. It has been my constant companion these ten, soon to be eleven years. I brought it to an event. Someone said, Ah, that must be your Bible. They meant that metaphorically, which is to say ironically, because of its role in my life as a source, both in the sense of what it all comes down to, and a book I look things up in constantly. I considered the metaphor false, somewhat. It's more like a siddur, because I carry it around with me. It is not so much sacred as a text as it is practical. I don't roll it up and keep it in an ark. I carry it around and write in it. Its pages are dog-eared, some of them have fallen out in clumps and as I take it out to read, huge parts of it always flutter to the floor. Part of the ritual of reading is picking up the table of contents, which is now hopelessly out of order, and in the wrong part of the book. Metaphorically appropriate for the "Werdegang"--I don't need the table of contents anymore. The way I scuff around with the book translates well into images complementing the siddur--I remind myself of some of the Orthodox men I used to see hurrying to shul, prayer shawl and siddur under one arm, barely able to keep their hats from blowing off their heads. They take their place, they get out the very old, very well thumbed through siddur, they read aloud. They read quietly. They feel the rhythm. Poetry has often been compared to prayer, just as art has been understood as an evolution of ritual objects, and theater-going (Theatergang!) has been compared to congregation. Werdegang. Siddur. These words have a historical and memorial texture I like very much. My book is both these things. Anyone who flipped through it could trace my Werdegang, easily find points of invocation. It started very simply, I had to mark one or two poems so I could find them while I was talking about them or because I couldn't remember the titles well enough to find them in the table of contents, when it was in the right place. With time, most every poem had to be marked, but I was unwilling to unmark the other poems, as some might have done to relieve confusion; but this became unnecessary, because the urgency and immediacy with which I had to mark poems led to the habit of taking whatever object was handy and using it as a bookmark. The markers mark not only poems but periods of time during which I marked the poems, each one can be indentified with several compatriots or related objects. They mark the places I was when I marked the poems. In some cases they mark the mindset I was in when I marked the poems. They mark periods of development in life. A microcosm of this process is present in the notes I left myself in the margins of many poems, the time separating them erased for all but me--and even I can't remember a lot of the time--because there they all are, developmental stages recorded next to, on top of, within each other and left with only one time to read: NOW. A brief tour down the Werdegang: The cover streaked and bent. Was once blue. When opened the first two pages of the book come with it. Upon the first page, in light pencil, notes so as not to forget page numbers (numbers are meaningless to me, so I have to record them again and again, to match the images): "the value of mystic strains of death and rebirth is that language is reborn 141" (written sideways, and circled; probably written about 8 years ago). "Cycle=duality?" (3 years ago) The first marker you see is actually marking the poem on the other side of the page, it is therefore the backside of a red plastic paperclip, my marker of choice 1,5 years ago. But the page is dog-eared, too, facing me, from the primitive years, before I had "werdegang"ed to the paperclip. Clearly an early stage, when I had marked fewer poems. The red paperclip is supplemented by the words "Space of words" in light pencil. The next marker is a yellow post-it attached to a purple post-it, one of which has instructions to tape something on TV, and the other the phone number of a local lock specialist. My Marlene Dietrich bookmark. A folded up piece of paper with summaries on it. A piece of note paper from an antique book shop, ripped into strips, so as to make many markers. 2 years ago? A piece of paper with three consecutive shopping lists. My new cellphone number I could never remember (4 years ago). Eventually the paperclips begin to mark not only pages but specific lines. I flip to the end, and the table of contents disperses. It all can be read: the poems, the notes, the markers, the book itself, the way I carry it, the pages that fall out. It is my narrative, my Werdegang. My book. Charles has a book. Charles shows them his crayons. Marie has the book of Charles. (Good for Marie!) I wonder who the next reader will be...

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Ask me not what I know.

I would rather suffer quietly and internally than stake my rights on another night of finger-pointing. What happens when one reaches that feeling--or even absence of it--when it doesn't matter anymore who said what and when, when it doesn't matter where anything began, you'll take anything, give anything just to have the tension go away. A part of me ceased to be, a little part that insisted on rights, among them the right to express oneself. It was a strangely compacted paradoxical part of me, a part that fought bitterly to maintain myself as a sovereign space and yet only bitterly fought as a veil or frame, because it was that part that I had carefully tried to weave into the other. It was a battle to colonize and then assimilate, and in such a way that--I shuddered to recognize--mirrored fascist thinking. I died a little that night. But maybe I became bigger than life, too. When you love enough / you lie a lot Ask me not what I think. I don't want to be my self anymore and I don't want to be your self anymore, I said. The sensors that registered the meeting of you and me have burnt out, not collapsed. Ask me not what I know. Let me be. My recourse to life is through recordings of the artistic condition. Anything life-like must immediately become the object of philosophy. If I will not feel, then I will reason.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Somewhere in between fragments

I perceive that I belong to those who believe that what differentiates the human from, say, my cat, is that humans strive to overcome instinct. A vague definition of what I perceive as reason, the attempt to combat instinct, in favor of rational behavior, which overcomes the instinct when it calls itself into question. As soon as the question mark is thought, instinct has been impeded. But it never is completely--man is an animal first, and a tribal one at that. Behaviors exhibited at parties and airports demonstrate this quite clearly. When instinct and reason collapse into one another--this is the fascist moment. Order with reason behind it, order that allows for the space of individual thought is not fascist order. Order becomes fascist when individual thought is sacrificed for the state or authority. I am not speaking of National Socialism specifically, or Fascism, but the kind of thinking that proceeds toward them, that supports them as a fundament. When order is obeyed simply for the sake of obeying order, without any rational explanation behind it other than order for order's sake, the fascist moment has been entered. Instinct has within it the benefit of preserving first the individual--when my cat runs from the dog next door, he is acting on an instinct of self-preservation. When the organizing principle of reason capitalizes on the survival of the individual by compromising the survival of the individual by coaxing it into abandoning its individuality, the individual identity becomes one and the same with the authority, and the individual ceases to think for itself, thinking instead with the consciousness of the authority. Maintaining the inbetween space, where the individual can consider politics, religion, education, the self, while it does not ultimately destroy the potential for fascist thinking, maintains awareness of choice, which does undermine Fascism. Fascist art reaffirms the erasure of the individual; the individual appears as a metaphor for the state. Come, let's to prison. I am drawn to melancholia. Even the most uplifting thing contains for me a moment of pain, if it is beautiful to me. It is dialectical to an extent--the joy of life is its urgency in the face of death. Mortality is the greatest gift to me, for the meaning of life is derived from the imperative to live before becoming entirely a memory. Case in point--also keeping Kate in the discussion--Jig of Life. One of the few truly uplifting things to me. Despite its upliftingness it is thick with the melancholia of space and time. A gap that cannot be bridged--a mirror image is a reflection, after all, a line in a hand memory. A place and time you cannot be, and the longing to understand that moment--I can't, I didn't write the song, I wasn't there, it will forever remain a gap to me, and it creates images of a place like a memory that I never had--is a longing I listen to feel again and again, and revel in the longing. That longing, linked with the gap represented in the continuo, compounded by the pulse of the drums, is beautiful because I cannot capture or bridge it. The artistic condition, one I cannot record. A related item, at least to me. I love and hate the Walkman, the Ipod. I can never get the music loud enough. I don't want to merely hear it, I want feel it. I want a Walkman experience that conveys the music through my whole body, not just to my ears.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

Juliet and her Romeo

It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. And I hate it when she puts that lipstick on. Like a mortician painted on her face, a cold and lonely lovely work of art, a death role hanging in exhibition. She doesn't belong to me, those lips make her, acceptable and more gorgeous. That lipstick strips her to a photograph that does not recognize me and I can't touch her anymore. I wish that I could part from her but I fall before her, begging her to return, dying away from her deathly pallor with those dark red lips. I have to finish the hat. Should we or shouldn't we strive for beauty? Beauty is pain. The most beautiful art is painful. I don't want to hurt anymore. What of those who say that art is the ideal of life? We love the beautiful sacrifice because we don't want it. Yet those who would sacrifice themselves for art are considered tragically hip, not tragic. Authentic is not art. Art cannot be authentic. The most beautiful art transcends artifice; but then ceases to be art as it approaches authenticity. Art is artifice, not innocence. The best art is that which conceals its artifice. Artificial authenticity. Is that our ideal? Authentic artificiality? Neither is right, neither is what affects us. Is art a condition, a condition which must be recognized, rather than classification or a mimetic process? Is art a moment, and can it be recorded? Just being alive/ it can really hurt. And in that sublime moment, I must say I have trouble recognizing the aesthetic significance. I don't want to succumb to parting or poison. When life reaches art, is that the end?

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

I had so much fun, I can't find my car.

I spend a lot of time thinking about fascism. I think about its impact as well as its legacy. I think about the line between minor despotism and fascist thinking. I can never decide where it lies but I rail against any attempt to conform for no reason. For example: I was at a party at which there was much food. I picked the items I thought I might enjoy. I sat down to enjoy them. I was suddenly descended upon by incredulous colleagues who had apparently just been upbraided by some authentic epicure for eating their food incorrectly; they wanted to save me from a similar fate, and encouraged me to eat the food as directed by said epicure. I looked at them in disbelief of my own. While I understand that there are suggestions as to how one eats, or with what beverages one eats, because certain flavors and textures enhance one another, I feel that personal taste overrides these suggestions, as they are suggestions and not absolute rules. The colleagues who wanted to save me from a fate worse than mis-eating couldn't have told you the difference between eating the way they wanted and the way they were told to. They merely crumbled in front of what they understood was an authority. I told the authority he could go home if he didn't approve of my eating habits. The colleagues looked on in further disbelief. I find this indicative of fascist thinking. They want to belong to the correct club, because it's correct, not even because it's a belief system they wish to uphold. Instances of fascism are all around us. And I must marvel at how attractive they are. Example 2. A small friend who lives near the sort of amusement park where bored teenagers go to misbehave on friday nights. The entrance fee is cheap, and for the privilege of paying little, you're exposed to rowdy kids and chewing gum stuck all over the rather ill-kempt rides, epithets and suggestions for "good times" scrawled in permanent marker or etched into the fiberglass. My small friend said, 'when can we go to [aforementioned park] again?' I retorted, 'why in the world would you go there?!' because he recently acquired a season pass to a far superior amusement park. At this amusement park, everything is clean and if there were any rowdy behavior, it would be quickly suppressed by smiling authority figures in snappy outfits. The park is far from any highways, it does its best to remove you from your everyday world. It forces you to follow every of its little rules--and there are many, and no escape--and you pay a lot of money exactly for that privilege. The privilege of no unruly teenagers, who could never afford to get in there. You trade freedom for cleanliness and order. I--even I, who spends so much time thinking about fascism--prefer the park that has been compared to a fascist state over the park where you could do pretty much whatever you want. I pay extra to have others made orderly. I frown at any attempt to subvert its order. And while I stroll along the grounds, enjoying even the nature that has been forced into the ideology of the park, cut as it is in delightful thematically appropriate shapes, I am completely aware of the thin line I walk, and I am amazed both at myself and at the brilliance of constructing such an Other world. A journalist and cultural critic wrote in 1912 of a particular group of people, that their definitive characteristic in modern history was to act as a critical mirror to the majority, reflecting back its discrepancies and short comings. Has this become the ironic role of fascism? What once strove to mask itself is now a mode for exposure?

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

All Things in Moderation

The theme-cum-strange phenomenon of the day. And perhaps something worth keeping in mind embarking on a blog. Inspired by so many others, particularly here, to make the blog whatever one wants, encouraged by the common link we share, to be read or not to be read and anyway perceived by a kind, intelligent, international community. A sentence that isn't a sentence; hardly a suitable beginning. I will keep them, as all things should be, in moderation. I miss moderation. I long for a period in which moderation is abundant, is all things, in which all things might dwell. I have too much: time. sun. heat. thought. worry. debt. saturated fats. fruits. pasta. of a lot of things. I do not have enough: differentiation. rain. cold. distraction. confidence. money. general fats. vegetables (especially potatoes!). pancakes. of a lot of things. ['a lot of things,' the common denominator and foundation of moderation, and yet...] I contemplated all this, and the fact that it all descended upon me at once into my life of dark moderation, as I sat among too many cars on a road that was too small in the inescapable sun listening to the motor whirrrr, inching forward toward the next extreme. The ultimate. The top ten. Fifteen. If you only discover it all, eat only the right things, extremity of moderation, all will be well, all will be well, no disease, no depression, wellness, that -(n)ess emphasizing the unattainable essence good humanity is expected to strive for, and slyly-semantically implying that women are slightly more likely to buy it. And two articles that addressed the point from other angles, perhaps advocating moderation, but advocating a less exhaustive drive to achieve it. In diet and psychotherapy. The two topics most frequently visible in women's magazines, always (it seems, here) addressed to women. I never wanted to believe that. And it depends on the source. But there's a way in which those your-easily-accessible-life-coach people stand, talk, smile, touch their fingers together, narrate their stories, it's clear who their audience is. Must it always be so? Where is the moderation they want us to achieve? There is a shift afoot, oh yes, and I hope it's headed toward me, too; rather than partitioning neurosis into files of memories to be understood in their entirety, or divided into healthy food groups that will lead to the ultimate wellness, it does not seek an answer which will emerge if only we look hard enough (and then we have found answers no doubt, but they turn out to be insufficient, and we feel robbed) but rather suggests that we accept a certain lack of control while recognizing a certain amount of it. A different moderation. You can't stop some things. And you don't always deserve better. And to my utter surprise, I heard it all succinctly stated by a radio talk show host, who said [i paraphrase, of course]: attempt to insert yourself in your way, where you find a spot. But don't muscle for the top spot--you'll lose. Well, here I am. Waiting out the tidal wave of excess, not fighting, not muscling. A little more moderation in waiting wouldn't hurt, though.

Jayne Dullahan

Jayne Dullahan

 

come to the point

(excerpt)It came to the pointwhere for the new physics to work,the realtime affect of the physicists on the physicsnecessitated the physics they workedbeing included in their physics,whilst they worked-And when the physicists stoppedworking their physics,The physics relaxed,back into it's natural state again...(self reference)

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Cant Help But Love...

Music.... My oxygen! no music,.. then I can't breathe... My two Sons.... Sebastian and Nicky... they are my gardian angels! Kate Bush... My Guide, My therapy, ! Red wines..... and we have some of the best in the world!! Chocolate.. anything Romance ... there is never enough around these days Horseriding.... bareback and barefoot, accross the top of a mountain on a big black Andalusion wattle trees..... they look gorgeous and smell so living! The colour Blue..... softness, strength, language, and soothing everlasting Love... thats what Blue is to me! Clock's ...... beautiful timber and working mechanisms, how soothing to hear them ticking away when there are 10 different clocks of varied kinds, small mantle clocks, to swinging Vienna's, to wall clocks....... thier different rythms of ticking create a sound like 'water' its 'magic' playing my piano..... purely my own world!

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Relax

It's okay, don't worry-I swear I'd make a million dollarsgoing on the lecture circuitas a Demotivational Speaker,And yet, strangely?I haven't...Haven't they learnt anything yet?There are seven billion people in this world-you could be one of them.

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