El Konki duet, compuesto por Kumi, Tam, and Zoe, es un trío franco-ruso-japonés, y se ve de su interpretación liberal de la palabra duet que son tan chistosas como son melancólicas. Mezclan guitarras, teclado, violín y percusión con elementos electrónicas. El resultado oscila melódicamente entre lo dulce-triste y lo dulce-cómico. Su debut Il Fait Tout son doce canciones cantadas en francés y japonés, respiradas con una tristeza pacifica y una alegría riot-girl. En su cadena de influencias se escucha sombras de Blonde Redhead, Animal Collective, música concreta, baladas, la música clásica y el pop de los años setenta japonés. Según su pagina web, también les gusta comer chocolate, beber champán, ver a la televisión y disfrutan del sexo con sus amigos.
personal page
embajada lilliput website
trans-pacific transit, tatuaje y todo lo demás
15.4.08
digging up the buried treasure
You Mean You Don't Know? circa 2001....
Call it screamcore, Appalachia-no!, porno-pop, rock-a-bully– IN[outré]DIE sounds like the Wedding Present was a Promise Ring, or, more accurately, Granddaddy met the Danielson Family at a reunion for Los Desaparecidos. This genre-bending gang of four from Tuscaloosa skillfully melds earily [sic] screeching vocals with whisper-soft choirboy harmonies, the pounding beats of drum and bass with mournful fiddle dirges to create dense summerscapes. Their brilliant use of the Würlitzer on the track "Ego-Blossom" calls up to heaven’s pond, where Walden, perhaps this identity-exploring band’s precedent, sits lotus-style picking his toe lint. Spiky glock work is backed up by drummer Lila’s emotive yelp, and contrasted with a looped sample of a thousand lockers slamming shut, presumably with the song’s alienated heroine inside.
No, I didn’t lift this from my guilty morning coffee perusals of pitchforkmedia.com–though they expend nearly this much hyperbolic energy to describe bands that sound more like "Simon and Carbuncle coffee Klatching with Kurt" than anything as exciting as screamcore. And what is screamcore, you ask? My frustrated wail at the baseball-card mentality that indie seems to foist upon the average arty collegiate and shameless inability to untangle myself from it. Chamber-pop, slowcore, shoegazer, kindercore, IDM–there is a genre for every moment, mood, and type of kidskin tennis shoe, but that doesn’t change the fact that most of the music we listen to is well, pop. But it’s new and different–yeah, exactly–indie rock turns obscurity, quirk, and cleverness into social currency the same way Seventeen turns Britney’s recipe for tuna casserole into news.
I'm not saying that commercial music is good, or indie is bad; I’m saying the attitude of superiority that "indie" as a posture assumes assures that the music works much the same way that any other pop does, albeit on a smaller scale. It hawks a different set of values, but the goal of the average pinback purchaser isn’t really that different than the goal of a James Taylor greatest hits album. A lot of indie music adds disillusionment and alienation to the basic formulas of summer nights; youth; love; carefree; wistful road trips; and city loneliness, but barely tinkers with four-chord structure. How could it, what with my expectation of four fresh reviews every morning? Groundbreaking greatness just doesn’t occur as frequently as Magnet would have us believe.
Nothing wrong with four-chord structure there–I mean, we all need a stable ground from which to grow into grad students and copywriters. But is it really necessary to buy in, read reviews, chatter, and laugh at anybody who doesn’t know the complete oeuvre of Television, and bitch that somewhere in Middle America, Bjork, Radiohead, and The White Stripes are sharing CD-changer space with Linkin Biscuit and Limp Pork to maintain our self-respect as good glasses-wearing Dec readers? And if what we want is pop, do we have to discuss the musical subtlety of Tortoise and Autechre?
I’ll admit it smarted a bit when it was announced that The Faint was touring with No Doubt–I mean, their slippery-synth-kraftwerky mix had resulted in three broken lamps, a shattered mirror in my living room, and the death of my last wine glass. Then the caffeine kicked in. They make dance music. They should be popular–unless you think the appropriate place for dancing is in your cramped living room. Friends who don’t participate in the "scene," as one perpetrator refers to it, complain that conversations about music often amount to little more than strings of names and third-rate towns, with little appraisal given to sensual quality of the sounds themselves, or how you maniacally replayed the same tape from ninth grade until it snapped one day while you [insert important moment here] and your weeping forced you to admit how excessive your CD collection really is. If we really wanted music to be an intellectual endeavor, we’d be discussing the evolution from Wagner to Stockhausen, rather than "indie" and hoping no one calls us a hipster. Indie, instead of being about love of the art, is small talk which people take too seriously, as shown by this column. You want to know what’s really obscure? Classical music. Especially the more recent stuff.
Of course, it’s not nearly so easy to pretend you know all there is to know about composers and their influences as it is to pretend to know everything about Indie, because rock stars (even the ones from Chapel Hill) are cool enough to bother being interested in. They have corduroys that fit, and a band, which implies friends. Not that there’s anything wrong with liking pop; these skinny four track vegans provide a nicely (re)packaged image of social and artistic success for us to emulate, and assure us that even people with myopic vision are ok. Except the ones whose myopia extends to emo . . . which is bad. Composers, they do what they do in the dark, all alone–and so who’s celebrating their identity?
Call it screamcore, Appalachia-no!, porno-pop, rock-a-bully– IN[outré]DIE sounds like the Wedding Present was a Promise Ring, or, more accurately, Granddaddy met the Danielson Family at a reunion for Los Desaparecidos. This genre-bending gang of four from Tuscaloosa skillfully melds earily [sic] screeching vocals with whisper-soft choirboy harmonies, the pounding beats of drum and bass with mournful fiddle dirges to create dense summerscapes. Their brilliant use of the Würlitzer on the track "Ego-Blossom" calls up to heaven’s pond, where Walden, perhaps this identity-exploring band’s precedent, sits lotus-style picking his toe lint. Spiky glock work is backed up by drummer Lila’s emotive yelp, and contrasted with a looped sample of a thousand lockers slamming shut, presumably with the song’s alienated heroine inside.
No, I didn’t lift this from my guilty morning coffee perusals of pitchforkmedia.com–though they expend nearly this much hyperbolic energy to describe bands that sound more like "Simon and Carbuncle coffee Klatching with Kurt" than anything as exciting as screamcore. And what is screamcore, you ask? My frustrated wail at the baseball-card mentality that indie seems to foist upon the average arty collegiate and shameless inability to untangle myself from it. Chamber-pop, slowcore, shoegazer, kindercore, IDM–there is a genre for every moment, mood, and type of kidskin tennis shoe, but that doesn’t change the fact that most of the music we listen to is well, pop. But it’s new and different–yeah, exactly–indie rock turns obscurity, quirk, and cleverness into social currency the same way Seventeen turns Britney’s recipe for tuna casserole into news.
I'm not saying that commercial music is good, or indie is bad; I’m saying the attitude of superiority that "indie" as a posture assumes assures that the music works much the same way that any other pop does, albeit on a smaller scale. It hawks a different set of values, but the goal of the average pinback purchaser isn’t really that different than the goal of a James Taylor greatest hits album. A lot of indie music adds disillusionment and alienation to the basic formulas of summer nights; youth; love; carefree; wistful road trips; and city loneliness, but barely tinkers with four-chord structure. How could it, what with my expectation of four fresh reviews every morning? Groundbreaking greatness just doesn’t occur as frequently as Magnet would have us believe.
Nothing wrong with four-chord structure there–I mean, we all need a stable ground from which to grow into grad students and copywriters. But is it really necessary to buy in, read reviews, chatter, and laugh at anybody who doesn’t know the complete oeuvre of Television, and bitch that somewhere in Middle America, Bjork, Radiohead, and The White Stripes are sharing CD-changer space with Linkin Biscuit and Limp Pork to maintain our self-respect as good glasses-wearing Dec readers? And if what we want is pop, do we have to discuss the musical subtlety of Tortoise and Autechre?
I’ll admit it smarted a bit when it was announced that The Faint was touring with No Doubt–I mean, their slippery-synth-kraftwerky mix had resulted in three broken lamps, a shattered mirror in my living room, and the death of my last wine glass. Then the caffeine kicked in. They make dance music. They should be popular–unless you think the appropriate place for dancing is in your cramped living room. Friends who don’t participate in the "scene," as one perpetrator refers to it, complain that conversations about music often amount to little more than strings of names and third-rate towns, with little appraisal given to sensual quality of the sounds themselves, or how you maniacally replayed the same tape from ninth grade until it snapped one day while you [insert important moment here] and your weeping forced you to admit how excessive your CD collection really is. If we really wanted music to be an intellectual endeavor, we’d be discussing the evolution from Wagner to Stockhausen, rather than "indie" and hoping no one calls us a hipster. Indie, instead of being about love of the art, is small talk which people take too seriously, as shown by this column. You want to know what’s really obscure? Classical music. Especially the more recent stuff.
Of course, it’s not nearly so easy to pretend you know all there is to know about composers and their influences as it is to pretend to know everything about Indie, because rock stars (even the ones from Chapel Hill) are cool enough to bother being interested in. They have corduroys that fit, and a band, which implies friends. Not that there’s anything wrong with liking pop; these skinny four track vegans provide a nicely (re)packaged image of social and artistic success for us to emulate, and assure us that even people with myopic vision are ok. Except the ones whose myopia extends to emo . . . which is bad. Composers, they do what they do in the dark, all alone–and so who’s celebrating their identity?
31.3.08
Last fm Blog
Como parte de este proyecto, os dejo ver que música me inspira tanto que, así como dicen, lanzo a escribir algo. Hay mucha información solo disponible en una lengua u otra, especialmente en las bordes de la cultura, aunque obviamente no solo tenga valor valor dentro de su contexto cultural/lingüística. La maquina de transmisión cultural suele reservar el privilegio de ser traducido y emitido aquella información que es, por lo general, lo mas comercial o ya conocido. Aquí voy con las cartas en botellas, y por supuesto, la música internacional poca conocida en español, seguiré mas adelante,con la música del mundo hispano-hablante que también merece ser destacado.
28.3.08
carta abierta al chupa-sangre
hubo la boda y luego hubo una chica emborrachándose al lado de los gritones. por la mañana el sol la pegaba como el sol suele hacer cuando una acaba de perder la memoria dentro de una botella de orujo.
se echó por el sofá, dormía, soñaba, seguía andando así como fuera despierta sin entrar en la consciencia compartida de los despiertos, los aseados:
atados a su orden, su desorden, su desgracia, pero, en su línea.
hay diálogos que mantiene a través de los sueños
así como fuera otro tipo de visitación.
la vida es mas larga, en que añade matices a lo vació y demasiada
corta, en que la cotidiana siempre gana como experiencia sobre la
alucinación, y los sueños.
hace calor, que sueñes con los perdidos.
regalos que llegan sin motivo ni
dirección de remitente.
soy débil con lo de escribir. no me gusta contar, porque me sobran detalles: antes de perderlo por completo:
el cuello de la búlgara, un palo delgado apoyando la cara de muñeca pescada del contenedor, ella en silencio, mientras chillaban todos los 80 niños desinteresados del bautizo, pidiendo coca cola en el nombre de dios, fumó entre la freidora y la pila de mármol, sus uñas agudas pintadas de negro, bajo un sol blanco y matador.
se echó por el sofá, dormía, soñaba, seguía andando así como fuera despierta sin entrar en la consciencia compartida de los despiertos, los aseados:
atados a su orden, su desorden, su desgracia, pero, en su línea.
hay diálogos que mantiene a través de los sueños
así como fuera otro tipo de visitación.
la vida es mas larga, en que añade matices a lo vació y demasiada
corta, en que la cotidiana siempre gana como experiencia sobre la
alucinación, y los sueños.
hace calor, que sueñes con los perdidos.
regalos que llegan sin motivo ni
dirección de remitente.
soy débil con lo de escribir. no me gusta contar, porque me sobran detalles: antes de perderlo por completo:
el cuello de la búlgara, un palo delgado apoyando la cara de muñeca pescada del contenedor, ella en silencio, mientras chillaban todos los 80 niños desinteresados del bautizo, pidiendo coca cola en el nombre de dios, fumó entre la freidora y la pila de mármol, sus uñas agudas pintadas de negro, bajo un sol blanco y matador.
Bloodletting
Podría ser
...puede describir la forma humana tan exactamente...
El puede describir una fruta con mucha precisión, y describe una figura con tanta precisión como describe la fruta.
Imagino que el texto es interesante.
...puede describir la forma humana tan exactamente...
El puede describir una fruta con mucha precisión, y describe una figura con tanta precisión como describe la fruta.
Imagino que el texto es interesante.
27.3.08
carta abierta al chupa-sangre, 2
hay que arrojar los momentos mas silenciosos de los mas ruidosos
la ventana atrapa toda la luz cuando la persiana esta bajada. podría quedar así siempre, podría yacer aquí en esta cama, sigo aquí yaciendo en esa cama si me cierro los ojos en otra cama con otra persona
no habían detalles en su piso, aparte de la arquitectura, entonces es muy facil accordarlo: entrar, una sala pequeña brindada por un espejo grande, en frente, las puertas del balcon, una sala amueblada con una silla, una mesa, un cenicero cuadrado de metal, dos puertas de cristal a la habitación que contenía una cama, una estanteria y una paleta pintada de blanco con numeros indeciphrables dirigiendo una persona desconocida a un lugar desconocido en otra finca que no es donde esta colgada de momento.
la ventana atrapa toda la luz cuando la persiana esta bajada. podría quedar así siempre, podría yacer aquí en esta cama, sigo aquí yaciendo en esa cama si me cierro los ojos en otra cama con otra persona
no habían detalles en su piso, aparte de la arquitectura, entonces es muy facil accordarlo: entrar, una sala pequeña brindada por un espejo grande, en frente, las puertas del balcon, una sala amueblada con una silla, una mesa, un cenicero cuadrado de metal, dos puertas de cristal a la habitación que contenía una cama, una estanteria y una paleta pintada de blanco con numeros indeciphrables dirigiendo una persona desconocida a un lugar desconocido en otra finca que no es donde esta colgada de momento.
uneven
Checkers is played on a board with red and black squares, closer to the red of tomatoes than the purple of cherries. It is not an
interesting game, it moves in lines
....
absolutely beautiful the letter
to let you know that I always feel a bit like reality cracks open a bit at the seams every now and then
¿no?
A young Scottish yoga professor’s Buddhist name is sudaka, which is homonym for sudaca, extremely offensive slur for South American. The flier is purple.
I want the experience of you more than I want the experience of writing you.
I’ve started wearing makeup.
met with the lawyer about the “house of the falling balcony”, wearing the strange punk cheerleader dress with two count two pairs of tights, black with cocoa fishnet, red sunglasses lipstick and went to sit in a turquoise and orange bar
the sun was out and it was raining,
The chemically extruded aioli glimmered under the fluorescent bulb of the vitrina, and the peppers to left looked as though they had been cut with a saw by the dueñas grandfather who vacantly preoccupied himself around the room.
You can tell that I’m hungry and want to take off the stockings.
Varicose veins still jumping out of my flesh, stockings still responsible for an agenda full of subtly disguised men´s names.
I wish this were typewriter, I might enjoy hearing the big key go clack at the end of a row.
When I hear myself typing sometimes I expect to turn to spot my mother looking up scratching her head and taking a drag off a cigarette while she pauses to comment. The beige nubbed cushion on the wooden chair. The blinds, and the absence of sound. The feng shui of the desk always struck me as wrong. Facing the window, if there was a window, which in most American homes one’s back is always to the door, if one is facing the window. Having his back to the door has always made my father very nervous.
My skirt looks like a Christmas tree crossed with a very cheap Venetian lamp. Marie Antoinette is in. Its all greasers and skins these days.
Unchanged. I found myself watching youtube videos on pinup hair: in part because I found them bizarre- who makes this, and why and of course, it’s audience. No, because, my lost inner child, who still conceives of sexual attraction as an external phenomenon, could not have imagined such a simulacrum for friendship. Here, now, in your home, a pretty british girl showing how to wrap neatly sectioned hair around foam, and hold it all in with bobby pins. it sucked me in.
…
Although my mother is not against staring at a wall, as long as it moves.
My mother
In my memory has dirty folded up crossword puzzles in her purse in case she gets bored.
sometimes knitting, and always several crumpled tissues.
interesting game, it moves in lines
....
absolutely beautiful the letter
to let you know that I always feel a bit like reality cracks open a bit at the seams every now and then
¿no?
A young Scottish yoga professor’s Buddhist name is sudaka, which is homonym for sudaca, extremely offensive slur for South American. The flier is purple.
I want the experience of you more than I want the experience of writing you.
I’ve started wearing makeup.
met with the lawyer about the “house of the falling balcony”, wearing the strange punk cheerleader dress with two count two pairs of tights, black with cocoa fishnet, red sunglasses lipstick and went to sit in a turquoise and orange bar
the sun was out and it was raining,
The chemically extruded aioli glimmered under the fluorescent bulb of the vitrina, and the peppers to left looked as though they had been cut with a saw by the dueñas grandfather who vacantly preoccupied himself around the room.
You can tell that I’m hungry and want to take off the stockings.
Varicose veins still jumping out of my flesh, stockings still responsible for an agenda full of subtly disguised men´s names.
I wish this were typewriter, I might enjoy hearing the big key go clack at the end of a row.
When I hear myself typing sometimes I expect to turn to spot my mother looking up scratching her head and taking a drag off a cigarette while she pauses to comment. The beige nubbed cushion on the wooden chair. The blinds, and the absence of sound. The feng shui of the desk always struck me as wrong. Facing the window, if there was a window, which in most American homes one’s back is always to the door, if one is facing the window. Having his back to the door has always made my father very nervous.
My skirt looks like a Christmas tree crossed with a very cheap Venetian lamp. Marie Antoinette is in. Its all greasers and skins these days.
Unchanged. I found myself watching youtube videos on pinup hair: in part because I found them bizarre- who makes this, and why and of course, it’s audience. No, because, my lost inner child, who still conceives of sexual attraction as an external phenomenon, could not have imagined such a simulacrum for friendship. Here, now, in your home, a pretty british girl showing how to wrap neatly sectioned hair around foam, and hold it all in with bobby pins. it sucked me in.
…
Although my mother is not against staring at a wall, as long as it moves.
My mother
In my memory has dirty folded up crossword puzzles in her purse in case she gets bored.
sometimes knitting, and always several crumpled tissues.
para casandra dixit excerpt
i am weak writing. I don´t like to tell stories, because there are too many details: before I lose it all:
that girl´s neck: a slim stick supporting a doll-face fished out of a dumpster. She was silent as the baptism´s 80 disinterested children screeched and asked for coca-cola in the name of god, she smoked between the deep-fryer and the ancient marble sink, sharp black-painted nails beneath sunlight white and fatal.
satvic
excerpt from an earlier entry, translated:
Cuando pienso en el acto de comer carne, pienso en abrir la puerta una mañana fría, sóla aun en la presencia de un amante, y me encuentro con un pájaro muerto en el escalón. No quiero ni tocarlo ni moverlo porque el amor nunca quiere acercarse a la muerte, ni tan cerca como pasar el rato atrapado en el ascensor con un perro y tres días de alimentarse solo de ajo, sin bañar, porque todavía no ha pasado ningún día sin lluvia para tender las toallas y el piso es como un baño de humo y hongos, y te acostumbras.
Pero en el ascensor o por el asfalto, no hay tiempo para acostumbrarse, y entonces, os miráis, y eso es todo, los romanos y saber que hoy habrá sol y sí tuvieras hambre, podrías comer el pájaro y enfermarte como la gente en lugares pobres que tienen que comer los muertos que arrojan.
Cuando pienso en el acto de comer carne, pienso en abrir la puerta una mañana fría, sóla aun en la presencia de un amante, y me encuentro con un pájaro muerto en el escalón. No quiero ni tocarlo ni moverlo porque el amor nunca quiere acercarse a la muerte, ni tan cerca como pasar el rato atrapado en el ascensor con un perro y tres días de alimentarse solo de ajo, sin bañar, porque todavía no ha pasado ningún día sin lluvia para tender las toallas y el piso es como un baño de humo y hongos, y te acostumbras.
Pero en el ascensor o por el asfalto, no hay tiempo para acostumbrarse, y entonces, os miráis, y eso es todo, los romanos y saber que hoy habrá sol y sí tuvieras hambre, podrías comer el pájaro y enfermarte como la gente en lugares pobres que tienen que comer los muertos que arrojan.
gothic design
************************
In response to the question: is there a tantra of the masochistic experience?
Yes. It is found in the insomnia of the unloved.
The dark thoughts- those which say no, it hurts, I don’t accept- invade, dampening the fibers of the mind beyond recognition. They evade dissection, because they are unique and certain in their assertions, circling about like animals recently escaped from the zoo, many prepared to bite. They saturate the dreaming mind into wakeful-ness; leave it to silent watching, calmly resentful, protecting the peaceful sleeper. I give you my lack of grace. I rewrite my love letters.
My mind writes scripts for violent films shot in the half -light of nature in which the tears answer blood and bruises rather than silence or absence.
And yes, with no insult to modesty or chastity, it’s always sexual, in the same way that eating is always shitting, always participation in the yes of decomposition, touching you is always complete, always could end in any kind of surrender.
I would suffer for you: gets longer rather than shorter as the months pass.
It’s sexual because I feel you in my body even when you haven’t touched me for years, because I feel myself slowly accepting the rhythms of your breath with my body even in your absence. And in your presence I feel nothing but you, except for the moments in which I feel nothing but pain at your eternal absence. Not only sexual: metonymic, and maternal. My appreciation for the subtlety of your body, its warm completeness and beauty: the grace of being permitted to touch even your shoulder reverberates through my nerves as if you were touching me, building on the briefest yet most intense memories of physical dissolution, of feeling bone-less.
Please wake me up.
In response to the question: is there a tantra of the masochistic experience?
Yes. It is found in the insomnia of the unloved.
The dark thoughts- those which say no, it hurts, I don’t accept- invade, dampening the fibers of the mind beyond recognition. They evade dissection, because they are unique and certain in their assertions, circling about like animals recently escaped from the zoo, many prepared to bite. They saturate the dreaming mind into wakeful-ness; leave it to silent watching, calmly resentful, protecting the peaceful sleeper. I give you my lack of grace. I rewrite my love letters.
My mind writes scripts for violent films shot in the half -light of nature in which the tears answer blood and bruises rather than silence or absence.
And yes, with no insult to modesty or chastity, it’s always sexual, in the same way that eating is always shitting, always participation in the yes of decomposition, touching you is always complete, always could end in any kind of surrender.
I would suffer for you: gets longer rather than shorter as the months pass.
It’s sexual because I feel you in my body even when you haven’t touched me for years, because I feel myself slowly accepting the rhythms of your breath with my body even in your absence. And in your presence I feel nothing but you, except for the moments in which I feel nothing but pain at your eternal absence. Not only sexual: metonymic, and maternal. My appreciation for the subtlety of your body, its warm completeness and beauty: the grace of being permitted to touch even your shoulder reverberates through my nerves as if you were touching me, building on the briefest yet most intense memories of physical dissolution, of feeling bone-less.
Please wake me up.
carta a admirador secreto translation
in response to
a secret admirer
Knowing is easy
understanding is harder.
and who are you?
sociologically i view these things as positive, that´s to say, the same as putting ships in bottles.
leaving prayers in shinto temples in Japan etc.
and like any westerners of a certain post-consumist inclination,
we could say that we have more in common than many just because of the music we listen to,
and the aesthetic it supposes
we could say that it is unlikely a footballer is out there looking for the latest 12" put out by skintone; etc.
although i´m not looking for it either
i am obsessed with music, but always as a listener, as friend, girlfriend and sister; as a critic, i don´t know enough to comment, my personal world revolves around the visual realm, that of words
and the erotic
nice shoes.
and you?
a secret admirer
Knowing is easy
understanding is harder.
and who are you?
sociologically i view these things as positive, that´s to say, the same as putting ships in bottles.
leaving prayers in shinto temples in Japan etc.
and like any westerners of a certain post-consumist inclination,
we could say that we have more in common than many just because of the music we listen to,
and the aesthetic it supposes
we could say that it is unlikely a footballer is out there looking for the latest 12" put out by skintone; etc.
although i´m not looking for it either
i am obsessed with music, but always as a listener, as friend, girlfriend and sister; as a critic, i don´t know enough to comment, my personal world revolves around the visual realm, that of words
and the erotic
nice shoes.
and you?
26.2.07
prueba
Good morning says the turtle. He says quietly taking off the shell. How to explain such a long gap and so much cold.
If life was a canyon, we would have fallen longer ago than our memories, but I don’t remember anything about that.
What shrines have we collecting and dissecting:
We have one drawing composed of four abstract pen lined sheets of paper sewn together tinted painted and adorned in every sense
In every technique possible at the same time
In a fiendish desire to make a story, to always look towards something finished. Sweet even.
A cell, open inside its walls.
Encapsulating, pain is a flower.
Like this one, and that one and that one.
But small, hole, and polished. Yes forget me, screaming towards rebirth.
How they come together:
There once was a ghost, half lion and half spider. He spun a web, I fell in. In a tower, in the corner. Along came the wind, witch, wicked and unsparing and swept it all away. Before it ever began, over and over again. On the beach. Morality and mortality. Nudity amongst the bathers, nipple colored glasses in the sand.
Nights of sleeping nothing in the golden light of streetlamps
And waking up once again, days later beneath a pessimistic swan, cloaked in cast off sails unsure of the year. As if every moment had been the same had always been the same for much time or rather every moment constituted its own static reality disjunct from its neighbors, just as your neighbor could be your constant companion, were you to whittle away a small hole in between the floors. A hole is far more intimate than a window. The gradual realization that one is an alien, that one, like everyone, is a complete stranger from every other, the more intense the realization, the more specialized the construction of windows and attempts, to export ones own personal little world to the world at large. Architects, for example, are not like the rest of us.
If life was a canyon, we would have fallen longer ago than our memories, but I don’t remember anything about that.
What shrines have we collecting and dissecting:
We have one drawing composed of four abstract pen lined sheets of paper sewn together tinted painted and adorned in every sense
In every technique possible at the same time
In a fiendish desire to make a story, to always look towards something finished. Sweet even.
A cell, open inside its walls.
Encapsulating, pain is a flower.
Like this one, and that one and that one.
But small, hole, and polished. Yes forget me, screaming towards rebirth.
How they come together:
There once was a ghost, half lion and half spider. He spun a web, I fell in. In a tower, in the corner. Along came the wind, witch, wicked and unsparing and swept it all away. Before it ever began, over and over again. On the beach. Morality and mortality. Nudity amongst the bathers, nipple colored glasses in the sand.
Nights of sleeping nothing in the golden light of streetlamps
And waking up once again, days later beneath a pessimistic swan, cloaked in cast off sails unsure of the year. As if every moment had been the same had always been the same for much time or rather every moment constituted its own static reality disjunct from its neighbors, just as your neighbor could be your constant companion, were you to whittle away a small hole in between the floors. A hole is far more intimate than a window. The gradual realization that one is an alien, that one, like everyone, is a complete stranger from every other, the more intense the realization, the more specialized the construction of windows and attempts, to export ones own personal little world to the world at large. Architects, for example, are not like the rest of us.
11.6.06
13 thoughts
The house smells like burning, the first job of a housewife is not to burn the house down. I walk in and nothing is burning in my house. Today, mild success.
I still think of him in terms of termination, I think, take, I want him to leave himself permanently except for when I need to iron his shirts or wash his dishes, I want him to leave all his desperation in my body with a gesture of quietly explosive resignation so I can do something useful with it like make a baby, I want the table to always be in front of the window, I don't need to talk.
I feel this way because he no longer exists, perhaps never did, except in memory. Doesn't every woman want to give birth autonomously, to an invisible father, all-powerful but contained within the limits of untouchable reaches of the mind.
I think of him whether the window is open or closed, but I think of him with more intensity if there is a breeze floating across my skin.
Our washing machine is Italian, it is compact and always gets stuck mid-cycle. It has a metal basin with a plastic lock, all the wet clothes settle to one side and if any water stays, it sends a charge through all the clothes and you reach in and it electrifies your whole arm until you discharge by tremulously touching something metal which reaches to the ground.
The quietest moments must be dredged up from the loudest.
The window blocks all the light when the shutter is drawn. It could stay drawn for ever, I could lie in this bed forever, I am still lying in this bed if I shut my eyes in another bed with another person and that's it, there were no details in his apartment, apart from the architecture, so it is very easy to remember: Enter, ante room with floor-length window, floor-length mirror across, one chair one table one metal square ashtray, fleur-de-lis stone tile, two glass doors to the bedroom, which contained, a bed, a shelf, and one white block of wood with indecipherable numbers directing an unknown person to its position in an unknown building, which is not the building it is in now.
We sit on the bed, an indeterminate period away from sleep which is not still grasping the sensations of waking.
If you thought this was building towards a conclusion, you're wrong: I can say that the light comes through the window, that light is light the same way realtors think beige is beige, the light doesn't change but how it reflects does. I remember the same things every day in a different order, I enjoy feeling that reality just touches me lightly on the shoulder. It could ask me to dance if it wanted; but I just told it to sit down and do another line, I just told it that speaking was equivalent to not, possibly the unsaid is richer.
I don't hear voices from the salon in my bedroom, nor do I hear the door open into the apartment when I am seated in the salon. When people sing in French, I don't hear words because I don't know French. I hear singing. I hear the baby crying in my room, the people fucking upstairs in his room and the man snoring in his room and the children shouting across the courtyard in the salon. The overheard from the other apartments mandates a certain course of action in the apartment. In my room I cough and sleep and wake and it is always cool and dark and empty and preverbal; in his room we always have sex whether we continue reading or talking or doing whatever it is we were doing. In the kitchen I always think how I would like to stay and how the calendar on the wall is as dishonest as a tabloid because i am doing dishes and watching a pot of something simmering and this activity is without time, and in the salon I am waiting for someone to come home and make noise again, because the quiet is so pregnant.
I want desire without expectation but this is impossible.
I still think of him in terms of termination, I think, take, I want him to leave himself permanently except for when I need to iron his shirts or wash his dishes, I want him to leave all his desperation in my body with a gesture of quietly explosive resignation so I can do something useful with it like make a baby, I want the table to always be in front of the window, I don't need to talk.
I feel this way because he no longer exists, perhaps never did, except in memory. Doesn't every woman want to give birth autonomously, to an invisible father, all-powerful but contained within the limits of untouchable reaches of the mind.
I think of him whether the window is open or closed, but I think of him with more intensity if there is a breeze floating across my skin.
Our washing machine is Italian, it is compact and always gets stuck mid-cycle. It has a metal basin with a plastic lock, all the wet clothes settle to one side and if any water stays, it sends a charge through all the clothes and you reach in and it electrifies your whole arm until you discharge by tremulously touching something metal which reaches to the ground.
The quietest moments must be dredged up from the loudest.
The window blocks all the light when the shutter is drawn. It could stay drawn for ever, I could lie in this bed forever, I am still lying in this bed if I shut my eyes in another bed with another person and that's it, there were no details in his apartment, apart from the architecture, so it is very easy to remember: Enter, ante room with floor-length window, floor-length mirror across, one chair one table one metal square ashtray, fleur-de-lis stone tile, two glass doors to the bedroom, which contained, a bed, a shelf, and one white block of wood with indecipherable numbers directing an unknown person to its position in an unknown building, which is not the building it is in now.
We sit on the bed, an indeterminate period away from sleep which is not still grasping the sensations of waking.
If you thought this was building towards a conclusion, you're wrong: I can say that the light comes through the window, that light is light the same way realtors think beige is beige, the light doesn't change but how it reflects does. I remember the same things every day in a different order, I enjoy feeling that reality just touches me lightly on the shoulder. It could ask me to dance if it wanted; but I just told it to sit down and do another line, I just told it that speaking was equivalent to not, possibly the unsaid is richer.
I don't hear voices from the salon in my bedroom, nor do I hear the door open into the apartment when I am seated in the salon. When people sing in French, I don't hear words because I don't know French. I hear singing. I hear the baby crying in my room, the people fucking upstairs in his room and the man snoring in his room and the children shouting across the courtyard in the salon. The overheard from the other apartments mandates a certain course of action in the apartment. In my room I cough and sleep and wake and it is always cool and dark and empty and preverbal; in his room we always have sex whether we continue reading or talking or doing whatever it is we were doing. In the kitchen I always think how I would like to stay and how the calendar on the wall is as dishonest as a tabloid because i am doing dishes and watching a pot of something simmering and this activity is without time, and in the salon I am waiting for someone to come home and make noise again, because the quiet is so pregnant.
I want desire without expectation but this is impossible.
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