saturday, the 30th of July
The feeling was as though the blood at the tops of her legs was on spin-cycle. She stopped just before apartments, where the parking space flattened out the tarmac, and the white-blindness came on. Blank flakes beyond which the world escaped its pictures. Her own hands appeared to be insubstantial. And yet she recognised this feeling as being alive, her blood being rediverted along all the routes that kept her alive, operating on such a precise level of efficiency that she experienced the dips in availability fully and visceral. The warmth of the sun on her skin came justly, into her fingers even, and it was welcome. She seemed to be running a slight temperature these days that cooperated pleasingly with the outside weather conditions. Her heartbeat sped up to a count of 5 for each in breath and decreased markedly to 2 for every out. It was like running a tap through a sensitive hose and being able to monitor all manner of readjustments the intelligent liquid within the casing was making. Yes, indeed it was, she thought, it was like being able to do both these things simultaneously. The pounding behind her ears, where her neck became her skull bucket, would soon subside, swoosh into a resting frequency, she would think it had stopped. The general faintness would pass into a lightness of being and she could set off down the dry-cleaning street feeling happier and happier at being here and being able. There is a trick of letting the optimum time evolve so that she can walk the length of the apartments in the sunshine having had the more insistently mechanical preparations of her body dissipate prior to turning left into the oncoming at full stride. No counting, just breathe through it.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
light fantastic
Monday the 25th of July
the pudgy hands from under the computer console, jerking the other one off, in the cartel of childhood, always must playact, complete with the mock authority voice, the brusque ineffectual smacking away, well aimed slaps, but the legs remain, the legs are out of combat, you know we know you know where the fidelity lies.
and it makes me an anger of sorts, because the deflective sensationalism that makes up most of the reportage on this subject, has groomed indignation to be the first reponse, and in a process of misnaming and batting all the little cruxes that build the symmetry of encroachment and complicity and release and relief away, makes it a vortex of common sense hermetically sealed.
look at me, the kids are screaming. they shriek it. there is a vein of laughter within it, you know the cunning laughter that is closely tempered to cleverness as it winds itself around revelation upon revelation. look at us , we are hurting the other, look at our bad behaviour, you are not invited to our bad behaviour, this is private, this is our choice, look at us. this is private, look at us.
ha, got you there. but nobody has been got, the conventions of respect, autonomy, expression, and protection have got themselves into a tangle in the uncertain terrain of responsability.
to be frank, i am not interested, i know this memory of shadowy anger to be a fake.
i remember maths lessons with clarity here, and water polo, and ballet classes before the teacher arrived, and scavenger animals caught by children beside the club kitchens, and the coldness in my eyes wanting to scream at the white fuck up by the blackboard. Don't be ludicrous. abstract thought and general principals, are an odd screen for an immediate education in neglect and blindness.
So much is a product of bad behaviour. The conditions of today are the product of an earlier set of circumstances. Something happened to somebody once, sort of thing. Things like this will keep on happening, to you, by you, by me, for me, for the ancestors, because it's good for you, because you deserve it, because this is who you are, because this is who we are, for no reason, why are you asking so many questions, why are you asking such stupid questions.
Mothers who cannot protect their children for one - who are mothers today because they were unprotected and who receive no societal fortification today, cut down and endlessly self-justifying. Subscribing to rationalisations for their own inferiority, invented by the people whose existence they support.
the pudgy hands from under the computer console, jerking the other one off, in the cartel of childhood, always must playact, complete with the mock authority voice, the brusque ineffectual smacking away, well aimed slaps, but the legs remain, the legs are out of combat, you know we know you know where the fidelity lies.
and it makes me an anger of sorts, because the deflective sensationalism that makes up most of the reportage on this subject, has groomed indignation to be the first reponse, and in a process of misnaming and batting all the little cruxes that build the symmetry of encroachment and complicity and release and relief away, makes it a vortex of common sense hermetically sealed.
look at me, the kids are screaming. they shriek it. there is a vein of laughter within it, you know the cunning laughter that is closely tempered to cleverness as it winds itself around revelation upon revelation. look at us , we are hurting the other, look at our bad behaviour, you are not invited to our bad behaviour, this is private, this is our choice, look at us. this is private, look at us.
ha, got you there. but nobody has been got, the conventions of respect, autonomy, expression, and protection have got themselves into a tangle in the uncertain terrain of responsability.
to be frank, i am not interested, i know this memory of shadowy anger to be a fake.
i remember maths lessons with clarity here, and water polo, and ballet classes before the teacher arrived, and scavenger animals caught by children beside the club kitchens, and the coldness in my eyes wanting to scream at the white fuck up by the blackboard. Don't be ludicrous. abstract thought and general principals, are an odd screen for an immediate education in neglect and blindness.
So much is a product of bad behaviour. The conditions of today are the product of an earlier set of circumstances. Something happened to somebody once, sort of thing. Things like this will keep on happening, to you, by you, by me, for me, for the ancestors, because it's good for you, because you deserve it, because this is who you are, because this is who we are, for no reason, why are you asking so many questions, why are you asking such stupid questions.
Mothers who cannot protect their children for one - who are mothers today because they were unprotected and who receive no societal fortification today, cut down and endlessly self-justifying. Subscribing to rationalisations for their own inferiority, invented by the people whose existence they support.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
mechanical wings and solider things
agate husked beetle
animate
on red granite
the tiny resolution of rock crumbling the slab cut in heat and water
as impartial as each other
animate
on red granite
the tiny resolution of rock crumbling the slab cut in heat and water
as impartial as each other
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Which brings me to "Sah
saturday the 1st of July
Blatant
is hollywood as selfdestructuve as to advertise it's own crapness in the tidal wave of crapness currently washing over the neon plastic cinema houses, in crap areas of the world where the people are supposedly sub-optimal and thus receptive to cinematic representations of themselves as disposable sidewatchers, invisable, unwarranted until they are patronised.
Blatant
the abscess of a hero (what, you thought i was going to say absence?) coupled to anthemic music to which the lyrics "Make Way for the Idiot" are too easily fitted might actually be by design.
The storytellers-elect are embarked on increasingly bloody and violent creation myths. Bang an empty oildrum 'why don't you?' for all the hollow resonance they provide. If you are accustomed to recognising the stirrings of a redemptive heart at the existential cavity of human endeavours, the redundant premise of soulless mirth (yes i think i bled that phrase from somewhere else) is faintly disturbung and highly destructive and as insulting as it is possible to be - as the bigot castigates the seagull.
Repulsive crapulous crapsousity, crapscular extrapolations from a mind unsatisfied by it's inability to relate to the social space in which it's physical body receives information on which meanings are ascribed to it. And so whole fake epics are knocked up whose only message is to herald the haggard ego of somebody's child who cannot fathom his relationship to his penis. Skin-numbingly arrogant aggressive spiels of all things under the sun as manipulated by a one-eyed belief in them as functions of an appendage. And fanaticata, ad nauseum, a scary appendage.
I have never met an American who didn't seem normal, but yet there seems to be an institutional obstacle so that the experience of empathy eludes them. Maybe, in addition to not hearing the voices of those in the conversation with them, their own voices and words are deafened by the din of their ideology. They do seem to have a ideology that blocks out the actual living realities and subtleties and delights and sensitivities and the possibilities of diverse and responsive proclivities to keenness. One that kind of pfluffs like a fat yellow cushion inside their minds and callously invalidates independant expression and meta-systemic organisation.
Yes, it is true that I never want to go to America for this reason; that from the pallor of their skin and the quality of their eyes (dull, it seems to me and that is a cause for concern), and from the arrangement of their skeletons (the girth of their bones perceptibly augmented), their food sources are acting upon the population an experiment, or several ill-thought-through experiments on biodiversity, on behaviour. A commercially readjusted pseudo-controlled reality.
It makes my skin numb with the aggressive arrogance of it all, and I am disconcerted by the obtuseness of Americans that I know.
Ponder the attempts some people make to respect and give respect to those who do not respect them.
Blatant
is hollywood as selfdestructuve as to advertise it's own crapness in the tidal wave of crapness currently washing over the neon plastic cinema houses, in crap areas of the world where the people are supposedly sub-optimal and thus receptive to cinematic representations of themselves as disposable sidewatchers, invisable, unwarranted until they are patronised.
Blatant
the abscess of a hero (what, you thought i was going to say absence?) coupled to anthemic music to which the lyrics "Make Way for the Idiot" are too easily fitted might actually be by design.
The storytellers-elect are embarked on increasingly bloody and violent creation myths. Bang an empty oildrum 'why don't you?' for all the hollow resonance they provide. If you are accustomed to recognising the stirrings of a redemptive heart at the existential cavity of human endeavours, the redundant premise of soulless mirth (yes i think i bled that phrase from somewhere else) is faintly disturbung and highly destructive and as insulting as it is possible to be - as the bigot castigates the seagull.
Repulsive crapulous crapsousity, crapscular extrapolations from a mind unsatisfied by it's inability to relate to the social space in which it's physical body receives information on which meanings are ascribed to it. And so whole fake epics are knocked up whose only message is to herald the haggard ego of somebody's child who cannot fathom his relationship to his penis. Skin-numbingly arrogant aggressive spiels of all things under the sun as manipulated by a one-eyed belief in them as functions of an appendage. And fanaticata, ad nauseum, a scary appendage.
I have never met an American who didn't seem normal, but yet there seems to be an institutional obstacle so that the experience of empathy eludes them. Maybe, in addition to not hearing the voices of those in the conversation with them, their own voices and words are deafened by the din of their ideology. They do seem to have a ideology that blocks out the actual living realities and subtleties and delights and sensitivities and the possibilities of diverse and responsive proclivities to keenness. One that kind of pfluffs like a fat yellow cushion inside their minds and callously invalidates independant expression and meta-systemic organisation.
Yes, it is true that I never want to go to America for this reason; that from the pallor of their skin and the quality of their eyes (dull, it seems to me and that is a cause for concern), and from the arrangement of their skeletons (the girth of their bones perceptibly augmented), their food sources are acting upon the population an experiment, or several ill-thought-through experiments on biodiversity, on behaviour. A commercially readjusted pseudo-controlled reality.
It makes my skin numb with the aggressive arrogance of it all, and I am disconcerted by the obtuseness of Americans that I know.
Ponder the attempts some people make to respect and give respect to those who do not respect them.
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