There was once a girl with a terrible gift.The girl could pull any kind of fruit out of any kind of pocket. Oranges, quinces, lemons, kiwis; bananas, watermelon, guava. Even dragonfruit. The most difficult were blueberries, becausenobody ever wanted just one and the girl could only pull a piece at a time. She didn’t mind, though. Nobody else did, either: in her city, fresh fruit was hard to come by, and most people were willing to wait. So it took a long time for her to realize the secret horror of the gift. Because all things considered, fruit is more useful than other kinds of terrible talents. (Her best friend, for example, could produce flowers from any kind of hat, which caused all kinds of problems, like pollen allergies and bee-stings and the inevitable scratchiness of a hat with flowers poking out of it).
“If we don’t ever sleep again, so much the better,” José Arcadio Buendía said in good humor. “That way we can get more out of life.” But the Indian woman explained that the most fearsome part of the sickness of insomnia was not the impossibility of sleeping, for the body did not feel any fatigue at all, but its inexorable evolution toward a more critical manifestation: a loss of memory. She meant that when the sick person became used to his state of vigil, the recollection of his childhood began to be erased from his memory, then the name and notion of things, and finally the identity of people and even the awareness of his own being, until he sank into a kind of idiocy that had no past. —Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude I read this, appropriately enough, just after four in the morning, in that languishing time of night when falling asleep is depressingly unlikely and sunrise is equally depressingly far-off.
O journeyer, deaf in the mould, insane with violent travel & death: consider me in my cast, your first son. Would you were I by now another one, witted, legged? I see you before me plain (I am skilled: I hear, I see)Dream Song #42The first time I read the Dream Songs, I treated it like something that would help me know, something. Something something something - something about fathers and sons, about life on earth, life after, the glory of God, or an obsession that could replace it. Looking back, it was foolish of me to read poetry and expect knowledge, to go searching for enlightenment like a Leader could show the Student the answers that would get rid of pain. The Dream Songs didn’t do any of that for me, but what they did instead was rip all of it open.The book is Berryman’s weapon, the tool he uses to dig far into every potential answer to reveal the sublime chaos beneath it all: God is your father, who is not a thing but is the sky, the road, the path towards death and back.
“Numbers Stations” transmit recordings on shortwave radio frequencies that loop periodically into infinity. These recordings, bouncing and caroming off the atmosphere, can be heard from any location on earth and their source cannot be traced. Messages began to appear on these frequencies during World War I, and their content was mysterious and diverse: a female voice reciting strings of numbers in Czech, a child’s voice singing in German, a short, disembodied melody played by an old music box. The recordings, it was discovered, were encrypted messages for the purpose of espionage. To this day, we are unable to decode many of the messages, nor do we know their senders nor their recipients. These looped recordings are compiled in The Conet Project, whose website promises to send an authentic Roman coin to anybody who successfully cracks one of the codes.
Zoom in,dawn redwood,shadow of a cactus and an orchid on the wall next to Jacqueline.It’s dark in a box built by the father.Being, grazeSekhmet’s conceit:primitive methodism,grace and dignity, self-maintenance.Piousnotes toward a goodnight poem in the manner of self-help with a moral.A lucrative and realistic career.Gymafter fishing.
I cannot take this punishment that is too much for me. The Archdiocese of dirty library has been hiding for too long the books in the halls and elevator shafts and I am ashamed and, Archdiocese, this punishment is a too great one and it is not right or fair for me. I have been leaving them books in all the places, especially these ones.I am a bad man because often I drink. I am a shameful man because too often I am without my clothes and I cannot sleep in all this warmth of my bed and from an angle my spine will stick right out of my back, like it were at the base of a crucifixion. It is a pain that is all too great for me and I do not deserve it, it is the wrong one, my wrath and jealousy did not warrant this pain I have. God, Cain, relieve me from this pain, I have already lost one, and I am thinking.
I don’t know much about the history of internet art, but supposedly it started popping up in the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, probably before I was born and before my parents really knew what to do with the monitor that sat in “the piano room” which then became “the computer room” and is now again void of The Computer, since we all got laptops. Recently I was told we are actually in the postinternet era, a name I don’t understand completely, but according to Wikipedia means “art that is about the internet's effects on aesthetics, culture and society.”Whether it’s internet or postinternet, I’ve been really into art found online lately, and I recently stumbled upon this piece by the artist Joe Hamilton, called indirect.flights. To me, it’s a perfect piece of online art: it’s is made to be online and to be accessed on the go.
This animation is an homage to William Kentridge’s “Taking a Line for a Walk.” It is an attempt to explore self perception and image distortion by manipulating a removed self image through hand-drawn animation. It is also a play on computer graphics and traditional animation techniques, as every frame was drawn and photographed using a pane of glass laid over a still image on a computer screen. Animation is a physical means to habitually re-encounter the same figure and to confront it’s changing form as it moves through space. This is an interpretation of that idea. Featuring “La valse d’Amélie (Version piano)” by Yann Tierse
Division of the body in western funereal practices has historically been reserved for the highest and lowest dead. Dismemberment has been at once permitted –– celebrated even –– by the Church and considered the greatest of abominations. When the Murder Act of 1751 was passed in Great Britain, for example, the punishment for all criminals executed on murder offenses was a public dissection and subsequent display of the stripped corpse. That same year, William Hogarth published a threatening series of engravings following the life of a criminal from childhood to his public execution. The fourth and final engraving, The Reward of Cruelty, shows Nero’s body, hanged, cut from the gallows, and spread on a surgeon’s table in a crowded anatomical theatre as three men set about taking him apart.At the same time, however, the Church had made a habit of saving and displaying the various “relics” (read: body parts) of monarchs and saints.
A towering archway straddles the cobbled artery that leads to Prague's Old Town Square. It's stoic and unyielding, and it announces that you are entering a district that is Very Old and Very Czech. With bated breath, the main street scurries past a fleet of picturesque buildings, exhaling grandly onto the bustling plaza. From the last week of November to the first week of January, the plaza is home to Prague’s Christmas Market, a sugar-dusted precinct of holiday spirit so idyllic that even the Christian Right could not shake a fist to it. (Baroque church spires loom vigilantly over the smorgasbord of tinsel and chocolate—it’s the kind of capitalism that Our White Lord Jesus Christ would have been okay with.)The businesses that orbit the square—sitting pleasantly along the main street and its neighbors—cling to a similar Old World charm.
Fears are supposed to work this way: you are afraid of something and then you do it. You do it enough times to become accustomed to it and then it is banal. "You can normalize," says LCD Soundsystem in the song "Get Innocuous." He goes on: "Don't it make you feel alive?" The reality is that normalizing makes me feel dead. Everything and anything can be decathected. The world around us triggers emotions and these make our heart race and then we feel ourselves living. Acclimation neutralizes everything into the same tone of grey. For me planes are moving in the opposite direction of normalization. I've been flying since before I could make permanent memories: as a kid planes were a place for Gameboy Advance and those beverage carts specially designed to fit through the aisles. I would always get apple juice and cranberry juice mixed together.
Platitudes. The Carpenters. Idioms and platitudes as a truly American means of expression. Cain’s anger has become the broken man. The legless father. Most think that an idiom of happiness and anger can let us express the complexes we feel inside. It is a means of community. But why is this idiom not the thought itself. Something we would not have if it did not exist. Why is it that we don’t have the simpleton Cain’s anger deep inside us. And we cease its trembling (of happy or sad or anger) by saying our sayings. That our thoughts are not our own, but they are only our saying. We do not think, we think what we say, the sayings, the hell of Cain, the brother. The sayings and knowings are a shooting line and star, complex cosmos, and astrological insight, and lightened miscue. We feel Cain, we hurt Abel, we express from the conspiratorial theorist the sayings of our Midwestern grandparents, we shout and we only think what we shout, our outcries of pleasing senses and drained swamps.