Sunday the first of October, 2006
He draws attention to the news interests, to the state of the world. He reverberates the myths. Enervates the thinking people. Abhors the shoddy veneration that is resurrected to the unconscionable hijinks of previous bands of brothers by historically-grouped and nationally-collective. Uneducted - to give it an apologetic, possibly useful in today's climate - or the descendents, those vesting their beneficence in the continuing hallowing of certain tilts of human relationships under the name of "tradition".
His subjects are not funny. His technique is comic. His command is inspired, deft, clinical.
A warrior holding a falcon on the back of a fierce winged cat.
If you can do nothing but laugh at the funny presentation, then pay for the laughs. The revenue will go to alleviate the conditions, in the long run. As the jokes, themselves, are not funny. At present, the stream will continue the research, production and performance of readjusting the main-frame of a population less-aware of their comparative relevance than they are of the diminishing effect of their marginality as exotic.
The roman alphabet is exotic in form but who cares what it says. Semiotically irrelevant.
Irreverently semiotic.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
swaying in the breeze
Sunday, the 17th of September
A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.
Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...
A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.
Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
spatially elastic
Sunday, the 10th of September, 2006
Unless you've taken a trip to somewhere unpronounceable - even if it's extended - with full intentions to come back, you have never seen anything as colossal as this palace we saw out the back of the tourbus windows, as palatial as the colusseum we skirted on our way through the forest-scented pines barricading the rocky inlet after spending the morning at an exquisitely appointed mausoleum.
Unless you've taken a trip to somewhere unpronounceable - even if it's extended - with full intentions to come back, you have never seen anything as colossal as this palace we saw out the back of the tourbus windows, as palatial as the colusseum we skirted on our way through the forest-scented pines barricading the rocky inlet after spending the morning at an exquisitely appointed mausoleum.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
the span of sound
Tuesday, the 5th of September, 2006
It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.
It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.
Friday, September 01, 2006
aria
Saturday, September the 2nd, 2006
To hear Pedro tell it, I'm a beautiful beast, with a sleek sleek coat and beautiful feet.
Pedro is a liar at the best of times and in the present mayhem, put it down to verbal hyperbole of the fantasist stripe.
These days are fast approaching from the left and from the right, they suddenly arrived and replaced the shapeless night, making lenses that picked up on what was previously unclear, and sounding out vibrations of normally inaudible frequencies.
It's the days , it's the days, and the time containing meanings. It's the moments, and in the moments, in the panic that ensues, I think Pedro's having visions, seeing things that are not there, being kissed by the poetry bruising the air.
To hear Pedro tell it, I'm a beautiful beast, with a sleek sleek coat and beautiful feet.
Pedro is a liar at the best of times and in the present mayhem, put it down to verbal hyperbole of the fantasist stripe.
These days are fast approaching from the left and from the right, they suddenly arrived and replaced the shapeless night, making lenses that picked up on what was previously unclear, and sounding out vibrations of normally inaudible frequencies.
It's the days , it's the days, and the time containing meanings. It's the moments, and in the moments, in the panic that ensues, I think Pedro's having visions, seeing things that are not there, being kissed by the poetry bruising the air.
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