Thursday, January 29, 2004
Plasma Vision
Quand etait-ce la derniere fois que nous avons juste regarde les etoiles?
C'etait un de ces jours de lumiere et d'ampleur
Comme c'est joli d'etre une famille encore une fois
Nous avons zappe juste derriere un homme avec un chien-loup
La fumee pendait aux poutres des petites taches
Il regardait un homme courir sur piste
Se caressant comme les steroids faisaient effet:
Nous avons visionne qu'il regardait d'une triste distance.
posted byJack 7:53 AM
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Is there ass at the end of the rainbow?
posted byJack 2:12 PM
To Ashton Kutcher
The ocean is given a bicycle
Luis Bunuel made this satire
A tough, lawless and sentimental boy
practicing strict self-denial
His heroism, apt, a slow attentive butt
piloting construction in 9-minute loops:
The only entertainer in the pool
responsible, jovial and superfluous
Rolling up what ties him down, gorgeous
for his or her attention, and in need of a duel
Between today and the information
everything slips his way:
If you have a fresh flower, place it in his hair:
an ace of shits:
A character written as unemaciated
near-square:
Bunuel (like him)'s a fleck of mutation:
not Mr. Right he's Mr. Blinding Hope.
posted byJack 1:14 PM
Friday, January 23, 2004
Ann Miller, John Ashbery's date, dead at 84.
posted byJack 8:31 AM
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Oh, yeah, maybe MacAdams didn't pen that dirge about the Thames, Seine, etc. But he writes
the Arroyo meekly flows...
Today there's
thirty guys with jackhammers, levelling
the river
ahead of an airport runway paving machine
posted byJack 12:38 PM
Reading about conservationist Lewis MacAdams in Jan. 26 The New Yorker. Says, today, "I've learned that when you put parks in working-class neighborhoods, suddenly working-class people can't afford to live there." Started with bad performance art in 1985. "My girlfriend left me...She thought it was such bad art that there was something wrong with me." Political activist puts poetry to matter. "London's got the Thames, Paris's got the Seine, Vienna's got the Blue Danube, L.A.'s got a concrete drainage ditch."
posted byJack 11:48 AM
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Marianne never stopped.
posted byJack 7:52 AM
While all of John Latta is blogolicious, check out posts dated 1/19 & 20 for some things extra tart.
Latta's 1/20 post side-bars, as it were, James Meetze's informative 1/16 report on Peter Gizzi's reading at Santa Cruz.
posted byJack 7:36 AM
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Review, nice.
posted byJack 9:26 AM
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Brazen content in avant forms proliferates in a number of directions. Recent examples of political critique are Pause Button from Kevin Davies, sKincerity from Laura Elrick, Verite from Michael Scharf, The Lobe from Lytle Shaw, and The Disparities from Rodrigo Toscano, texts that carry the anti-hegemonist flame up into an extremely efficient language-cooling system rigged glacier-like by "ambient muses" pestering "Taco Hell" (Shaw), "This much, this long, new uninhabitabilities" (Toscano), linguistic infrastructure that turns out to inhabit, among other things, "20,000 feet of meeting space, two / restaurants, two / lounges … [where] the casual observer [is] unaware of the causal chain" (Scharf).
'Big procedures' might be another sort of 'content' to consider. Too much attention to the dictionary-dependent, uni-vowel experiment recorded in Eunoia by Christian Bok might distort one's reception of the accomplished lyricism (lyric = content?) that results. Debate over content v. form v. procedure happily dissipates in ambitious procedural works that bite, from Bok, Kenneth Goldsmith, Darren Wershler Henry, Tan Lin, Steve McCaffery, et al. In Day Goldsmith's appropriation of one full day's New York Times graphs the enormity of a design, complete with its inevitable socio-political undertones as refracted in the outrageous, dominant discourse spoken by our newspaper of record. With regard to politics and design, I like Tan Lin's take on Goldsmith's earlier compendium:
If the late twentieth century Age of Information were converted into a massive sound-text file it might end up sounding like Kenny Goldsmith's No. 111, a 606 page text compilation of material dredged from the web during a four year period from 2.7.93 to 10.20.96. Like the Census Bureau, Kenny Goldsmith singlehandledly accomplishes a similarly bureaucratic work of social monitoring…
[to continue]
posted byJack 12:01 PM
Monday, January 12, 2004
Anticipating a much stronger force sans booby trap.
posted byJack 7:04 AM
Is there wild or even brazen content?
posted byJack 6:49 AM
How long is your list of originals?
posted byJack 5:39 AM
Tamed City. Not many supervening the rules.
posted byJack 5:36 AM
Moondance? I mean, yuck.
posted byJack 5:32 AM
Thursday, January 08, 2004
On another front, David Cameron's selected photos of NYears at the Project.
posted byJack 6:13 AM
"No, no, no, we won't make you do it with Schroder." Dr. Rice to GWB over the summer.
A president that's teased and scolded into policy. Before a meeting in September between Schroder and GWB at the UN, GWB is quoted 'laughingly': "I knew that was going to happen," and Dr. Rice retorts, "Now, look, it's the right time to do it."
Having blasted through trots and digests of Proust, Kafka, Ionesco and the like for college, our political leaders can't help themselves without being lied to and cajoled via special handling, graphically enhanced oral and written summaries of the news, gossiplike briefings of planetary events.
Elizabeth Bumiller, page one of Wed.'s NYTimes, describes GWB and Rice as a "partnership that has shaped one of the most assertive foreign policies in recent American history." Sure, it's a partnership if Rice stays in the background whispering into Alfred E Newman's ear, and the policies are assertive once we make the discourse leap beyond Alfred's whining compromise: "Wait a minute, you'll get me back with Schroder, I know what you're trying to do."
Wolf moon.
posted byJack 6:03 AM
Monday, January 05, 2004
Your writing is thrown together like butter and canola.
posted byJack 9:50 AM
I enjoy watching the fat build up on your blog.
posted byJack 8:22 AM
You have nothing to say and only blubber to say it with.
You are disordered.
posted byJack 3:06 AM
The entity slowed down and stopped.
"How flabby are you?"
The entity drove off.
posted byJack 2:51 AM
Friday, January 02, 2004
It's an unlikely place to be at 4:30 a.m., since I'm not much on celebrations subject to drenching rains ticking off time at different rates, for example, although the more wildly uncertain celebrations take minimal notice of most everything. I was, as I recognized through the fog, a complementary feature (velocity) becoming one with other revelers, awaiting images on a giant screen of festivities with individuals carrying kegs, umbrellas, clocks and flip-books.
Clocks that we carry inside our hearts or stomachs are in relative motion welcoming the new year and the hazy steam billowing from manhole covers coming into play, a sign of rank turbulence as we go through it even while each flip-book "in our heads" provides an equally valid compendium of the history of inebriation, of exhaustion, and of not agreeing on what belongs on a given page. We see time dominates flexibility of time's passage becoming readily apparent when adhering to description of time.
Regardless, relativity lays out a bulletproof time-travel to the future. Were you to head out from earth at 99.999999 percent of light speed, travel for six months and then head back home, you'd be one year older upon your return — while everyone on earth would have gone on to something else, passing one another in the street in a repetitive flip-book rotation that is imperceptibly tiny but inevitably directed to gunshots and weaponized incivility.
Back here common experience fails to reveal discrepancies with regard to our past, present and future, all emerging from particular combinations of more fundamental, though still unidentified, entities. These entities have shucked the space-time matrix to inhabit a more basic "realm" that is itself devoid of time and space, a realm where distinctions between past and future are an illusion. Yet their persistent absence in my presence on a rainy morning — losing sleep to mark an arbitrary moment in the passage of time, a derivative concept, to them — attests to the power of my friends with the flip-books who must have figured out why time seems to flow together with a handful on earth while the further out of synchronization will fail.
Diced forest ham, peppers, onions, a blend of cheeses.
posted byJack 7:48 AM
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