Often I have written of moments of blitz, the artistic condition that smites the distant eye and traps the artist between observance and feeling. But blitzfast as these moments are, they perhaps are born of an impatience, a ceaseless wish for something to happen.
I sit outside, it is past midnight, the moon waxes over ridges and a river roars close by. When will they come? I can't sit here all night! When does the next thing happen? I could be inside with the others watching a movie, but t
Lost in a room is nothing new
and sometimes pleasanter than others
and watch the young people dancing
watch the young people smiling
watch the young people leave the room
smiling, dancing, making sense
No, not one of them, not me
there they go and I am not
one of them
or two of them
I am happy for all the others
all the others
all the others
I wish them everything I can't
have and sometimes a tear fills my well
being but happy they have
a moment of p
An Explosion, in several parts
Fassung fassen! jabberwalk!
Part one is that I part from grief
part to partial partitur, I hate, I love
I wear away, I'm here and why
my own words crack my head asunder
shedding tears and sobs like stress.
DAMNED! and Damning!
Walled in now, with music and my headphone towers
no one reaches me who cannot, willnot, write.
Mimetic? Stuffed! I build with words
the world I ought to see and don't.
Part one is that I part from grief
And it was high summer in the south of France. Work and the car, oven cleaner and scraping the oil off the grill were the escape and now life was real, like the marmelade that would have been roundly condemned under the auspices of science. It was contained in a giant mason jar as a gentle wind carried hints of the afternoon heat to come through the muslin barrier at the window; my bare arm in the shade of hundreds of years absorbed the heat and held on to the cool...I watched it run across th
Parallel events: a scream rushes from my brain towards my lips, in my dream I plummet toward a ground I can't see. Just as I hit the ground full force, the scream bursts from my mouth, and again I sit bolt upright, breathless. For one moment I am blissfully unaware, and perplexed as to where I am. In hindsight that moment, the whole succession of events moves slower than a snail, though it was certainly no more than two blinks of an eye. The moment ends too quickly and it all floods over the
Finding joy in the little things! At times I am good at it, but in my Costanza-like way I hang on a universe of begetting, with every peep of the joyful there will come the slight of the bad. One does well not to get caught up in the euphoria, distracted from the lurking demons ready to take you down a notch in every corner of life. I forgot that little mantra last week, and, euphoric over the joy of others surrounding me, I was utterly dumbstruck by the comeupance of rejection. A small step
The artistic condition is when life is most tortuous, because it is the most vivid; it is when the painter, the poet loses him- or herself in the intensity of the living moment, when the artist transcends and becomes like a string resonating with tension and force. Solitary in his or her ob-con-servatory and suddenly struck like by lightening with the closeness and force of life around him or her, though not from within.
I cried different tears today than I have ever cried before, for shee
I write not of art, not of what I know, and yet in the artistic condition, under the premise that a theraputic attempt to record the artistic condition is all I know to do. I stand at the bottom of an abyss, and feel nothing.
If I could only write a song...
Midnight in my heart and I wish the sun would go away. The time when I could be really alone and the night would seem bigger than it ever has before. Just the light of the pagescreen here and a star or two in the black black sky;
For me it is late and I am very active...almost euphorically active.
Yet slowly I am becoming aware of a feeling of uneasiness, as if something is coming...these periods of euphoria are almost always followed by a severe blow. Sometimes it is an earthquake...sometimes something else.
I hope I am wrong.
(A silly face to take the edge off.)
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.
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 extremel
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,
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 orc
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
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 parti
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 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 mark
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 m
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 partie
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
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 authent
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 p