Archive for November, 2015
It’s shivering
Like a little lady rattling her bell
Calling for tea
Quivering in the old style
There’s a red light in Boston
At the close of day
Like the red light of idiocy
All along the bricks
Of Harvard Yard & a blue
Sky so hard & irradiated
In the way of old cinema
Whose screens
Reflect the pops & black
Rot spattered
As though it were something
Perhaps nice
As if to say please
No extra charge
Please
Visualize now the idea of your blind spot
I will even do it for you
As the physical reel unspools
& unspools & you blink
In a dark
Room narrow with shadows
Narrow shadows like avant-gardes
It was a dream that woke up
The Fall
It really is something
A sick feeling
Like stopping lying
A dangerous feeling
Like giving up trying to live as though you were otherwise
As though my mouth could water along the split
Waistlines of all the apricot colored squashes
As though the real pumpkins, horns
Of plenty at my hearth
& in my wealth, my death
Were visibly grinning
Thru the rosebud lip of womanhood
Behind which all the women
I really am (they claim)
Hide behind my face & do their flips
Behind my teeth
In the red darkness there
In my potions
In my chemicals
In the mouth I never use
In my poisonous mouth
Source: A Yellow Leaf by Ariana Reines
An Opening to Basho’s Road
A hundred generations are made of months and days passing by, as each passing year is a traveller too. By boat to living’s limits or leading a horse by its mouth towards old age is taking each day as journey, dwelling in journey. Many ancients have perished in journey. I too–from which year was it?–guided by winds from distant clouds, cannot keep from thinking to drift, roaming the strand, from autumn of last year ridding this ramshackle hut of cobwebs, year’s end soon, hazy sky raising spring, would sooner be passing through the Shirakawa Barrier and in spite of myself feel totally involved with things of god, feel summoned by the god of travel and cannot take up what’s at hand. [So] mend my breeches, fasten a new cord to my “kasa”–no sooner treating my shins with moxa than Matsushima’s moon burns in my heart–turn tenancy over to another and move to Sampu’s country house.
– Basho
Scott Watson’s version
Sendai, Japan
The following is a translation of a text by Beatriz Preciado that originally appeared in the french newspaper Libération (21/11/2014) and was written on the occasion of a debate on courage organise…
Source: The courage of being one’s self: Beatriz Preciado | Autonomies
Because we abhor the utilitarian, we have condemned ourselves to a life-long immersion in arbitrariness… The average contemporary lunch box is a microcosm of junkspace: a fervent semantics of health – slabs of eggplant, topped by thick layers of goat cheese – cancelled by a colossal cookie at the bottom… Polarities have become equatorial, nothing left in between. There is nothing between desolation and turmoil, between beauty and crassness. LAX: welcoming – possibly flesh-eating – orchids at the check-in counter…
‘Identity’ is the new junkfood for the disposessed, globalization’s fodder for the disenfranchized.
If space-junk is the human debris that litters the universe, junk-space is the residue mankind leaves on the planet. The built (more about that later) product of modernization is not modern architecture but junkspace. Junkspace is . . . .
An augmented HTML 5 version of Rem Koolhaas’ Junkspace essay from 2002
Source: Rem Koolhaas | Junkspace (2001)
st.dio is a London-based imprint producing digital and physical artefacts.
Source: st.dio | stdio.002
TAMING OF THE SALMON: A salmon leaps in a submerged cage at Marine Harvest in Norway, one of the world’s largest salmon producers. There are now more salmon on the planet than there have ever been before, and nearly all of them depend on humans for their habitat.Eric Piermont/AFP/Getty Images