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pull a roxy  "Where J.B. and especially Jimi and sly took music isn't something that can be summed up in a few quotidian riffs any more than a Marquez novel can be experienced through synopses. It's at once a thought process, a textural language, and a way of reordering tradition and myth onto itself." George Tate Sonnet XI I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. Pablo Neruda joanna newsom interview from "dusted": I think I was hugely influenced -— I don’t know to what extent it comes across -— but I love Nabokov, especially his gift for stringing words together, and his sense of how different words impact each other when they bump up at the edges. Like a really long strange word next to a really small, colloquial, and familiar word. And also the fact that English was his second language, sort of imparts on his diction this hypersensitivity. He’s always, always watching himself, making sure that every single word he chooses is perfect, and because of that, it’s sort of like the highest form of an English sentence, even more than one by someone who’s born here. But it also has this wonderful sense of disorientation; there’s always a bizarre element to every sentence he puts together, because it is not an inborn language. There’s something inspiring to me about that, but I’m not sure in what way that affects the way that I write. ________________ My professor went to Cornell, and he said that local lore has it that Nabokov would ride the busses around town, listening to teenage girls speak so that he could capture it in his books i am in a constant loss for words, so i resort to the visual  ~s  guy bourdin shorts: click to see  Deconstruction Icon Derrida Dies ETA: "To write is to produce a mark which constitutes a kind of machine that is in turn productive... The writer's disappearance will not prevent it from functioning." >s from Soma, latest issue, Stephen Barrows: Money dictates the level of design in fashion today, hence you have collections looking like they are straight out of college, embellished to hide a lack of design innovation. Today's youth is immersed in a nostalgic obsession that is depressing in its consistent banality. What's more surprising is that it is accepted as new and revolutionary by today's media. It is all surface and cosmetically enhanced-all you get is "bland sauce and no meat". Exceptions include Lagerfeld and Gaultier "Thank God for saviors" ________________ 
In an article/interview with Professor Ricks: " He began listening one evening at Smith College in 1968 when after dinner his host turned out the lights and put on "Desolation Row"— a song bound to catch an English teacher's attention since it has the lines (or used to, until Mr. Dylan stopped including them) about "Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot/Fighting in the captain's tower/While calypso singers laugh at them." "Well, the depth of that," Mr. Ricks said. "I thought those were wonderful. I thought those were great lines." ... Around the same time Mr. Ricks also began listening to Mr. Dylan's love songs. "You love a song at first by applying a person you knew to that song," he said. "And then it very beautifully turns into the other, complimentary thing, which is that you understand the person better by virtue of the song, and it's a lovely sort of virtuous circle that this is. The extraordinary applicability of the songs does seem to me to be part of their greatness. I do in the book somehow say, `How did Dylan know this about me?' " Must find and read: _Dylan's Visions of Sin_ by Christopher Ricks What to do: browse the NYT more, internship, lunch at Coffee World, watch Harry Potter What to listen to: Joss Stone- currently obessed with the video "Super Duper Love" and Joni Mitchell's Blue Album passage from Roland Barthes: Camera Lucida Society is concerned to tame the Photograph, to temper the madness which keeps threatening to explode in the face of whoever looks at it. To do this, it possesses two means. The first consists of making Photography into an art, for no art is mad. Whence the photographer's insistence on his rivalry with the artist, on subjecting himself to the rhetoric of painting and its sublimated mode of exhibition. Photography can in fact be an art: when there is no longer any madness in it, when its noeme is forgotten and when consequently its essence no longer acts on me: do you suppose that looking at Commander Puyo's strollers I am disturbed and exclaim "That-has-been!"? The cinema participates in this domestication of Photography---at least the fictional cinema, precisely the one said to be the seventh art; a film can be mad by artifice, can present the cultural signs of madness, it is never mad by nature (by iconic status); it is always the very opposite of an hallucination; it is simply an illusion; its vision is oneiric, not ecmnesic. The other means of taming the Photography is to generalize, to gregarize, banalize it until it is no longer confronted by any image in relation to which it can mark itself, assert its special character, its scandal, its madness. This is what is happening in our society, where the Photography crushes all other images by its tyranny: no more prints, no more figurative painting, unless henceforth by fascinated (and fascinating) submission to the photographic model. Looking around at the customers in a cafe, someone remarked to me (rightly): "Look how gloomy they are! nowadays the images are livelier than the people." One of the marks of our world is perhaps this reversal: we live according to a generalized image-repertoire. Consider the United States, where everything is transformed into images: only images exist and are produced and are consumed. An extreme example: go into a New York porn shop; here you will not find vice, but only its tableaux vivants (from which Mapplethorpe has so lucidly derived certain of his photographs); it is as if the anonymous individual (never an actor) who gets himself tied up and beaten conceives of his pleasure only if this pleasure joins the stereotyped (worn-out) image of the sado-masochist: pleasure passes through the image: here is the great mutation. Such a reversal neccessarily raises the ethical question: not that the image is immoral, irreligious, or diabolic (as some have declared it, upon the advent of the Photograph), but because, when generalized, it completely de-realizes the human world of conflicts and desires, under cover of illustrating it. What characterizes the so-called advanced societies is that they today consume images and no longer, like those of the past, beliefs; they are therefore more liberal, less fanatical, but also more "false" (less "authentic")---something we translate, in ordinary consciousness, by the avowal of an impression of nauseated boredom, as if the universalized image were producing a world that is without difference (indifferent), from which can rise, here and there, only the cry of anarchisms, marginalisms, and individualisms: let us abolish the images, let us save immediate Desire (desire without mediation). Mad or tame? Photography can be one or the other: tame if its realism remains relative, tempered by aesthetic or empirical habits (to leaf through a magazine at the hairdresser's, the dentist's); mad if this realism is absolute and, so to speak, original, obliging the loving and terrified consciousness to return to the very letter of Time: a strictly revulsive movement which reverses the course of the thing, and which I shall call, in conclusion, the photographic ecstasy. Such are the two ways of the Photograph. The choice is mine: to subject its spectacle to the civilized code of perfect illusions, or to confront in it the wakening of intractable reality. musings playlist: the frames, elton john, low, m ward, ima robot, pixies a new development has thrown everything into uncertainty ~s |
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