"The line grows from yesterday. Tomorrow it rained." Joe Ceravolo
-forget about today until tomorrow-
Creases, fissures in the passageway silent so as not to repeat memories of what cannot be compared to itself
so as to think
I learned the way folds undo themselves lines cutting across a tunic
as yet unspoken in the obsessive records, the archives of impossible perfection
were replete, even complete we felt certainly secure enough
garnering knowledge over time
Vadim Zakharov The History of Russian Art From the Avant Garde to the Moscow Conceptual School currently at the Guggenheim Museum
"The installation represents an authors subjective classification of Russian art staged as a bureaucratic drama -any other art could have taken its place. The important thing is this; the files are those artifacts common to all cultures that have spread out to the dimension of architectural erection, and are but an affirmation of the universal striving of humankind for the utopia of the eternal archive,"
Duchamps piece The Large Glass was broken into innumerable pieces when transported 60 miles from Brooklyn. Duchamp found great value in this, a narrative of the event,a story to trace, a pattern to observe.
Say 'Salt,' I'm soaking in it. My throat is fat with salt-water but my hair drifts in front of my eyes, kelp undulations, a cradle. I'm remembering now, gills. My lungs are oily solids but along my neck skin splits and resews itself; flutters. Take off, hands, we're swimming now.
And we all say "cheese". And no one sees our knuckles, white, pale and crushing. There is stardust falling. It never brought the magic, you see in all the adds. Once I was holding stars, you see. I believed the adds. I remember all was magic, before stardust started to fall white. Pale and crushing we wear brass knuckles. And all of us say "cheese".
the convivium began at 7:30. our wines had already been separated, and i had been handed a bottle of the worst possible. that in itself was enough to start the war, even though my own brother was at the head handing out the drinks.
if wine grapples his brain, he will not need to be chased, so he said, but i did not agree. the sword was the only answer for him.
5:10 am. First snow. Shooting in Dundas Ontario. This house could hold 15 my apartments. Drink coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Eat squash carrot soup. Hump gear. Think of you & you & me. Take the occasional hit as I am prone to do. Tell Terri and Tina that my mood is greatly improved these last five years. Looked at old books -- 3 volumes of Napoleon. Note: Plan to steal them. Snow squalls as I wait to flip a breaker. Stand inside, outside on a scaffold, on a ladder. Check my Relic Hunter watch. 1:49 pm. Actresses scream upstairs I hear them through the soundman's headphones.
Eat steak, white rice, sleep.
First Christmas orange. Added layers, rumours of an early day. George's business venture: 'Quim Trim.' Night. Hamilton's orange lights twinkle through the leafless trees & I think of you & you & me. The fellas call me 'The Hammer' I don't know why. Window! Go Go Go! Wrap! Go Go GO!
Have a listen to my show of poesie from Dublin, where Ogma lives on cobbles, Amergin's true poetic weaves its long path back to druidic knowledge only spacers, wasters, scangers scums bums and mongs can claim to own; and boiling news freely singing is that the crossover's complete
Saul Williams supported by good ones Marty Mulligan, Raven, Jo Jo. On his tour two weeks ago around the isle where poesie still lives, at home smiling on those who smile on love.
Celestial swirl: Tir nOg: all knowing power and otherworldly force grinding my knowledge nuts from hazel; swill,
pour from the cauldron straight sound; swirl verse, switch wit, light up the cast of love as night falls- Joy -Albard - Dawn and John. They who all comedy tossers playing to score bulls-eye every arrow throw straight for.
Light of craic, twinkle; glittering mirror find what joke will laugh Blue Peter real and arrive unannounced; weave art: work: cut this daft dream with the cloth of one liners: stitch the breeze quip: nail John's breath on paper to breathe consciously at titter, jape or guffaw gushing with free flow in the debacle
Brim an episodes of froth; cliche, fall the way wind blows when a turtle dove cooing flies from a loft to studio, shifts shape to a circus clown tamer and bawls
"Yo! You - funny farm gob slop, light heart's bore; free druid-pawns and playthings of love; wish only for permanent triples on boards, your sticks hit giggling bulls and thud in double top all day long to tickle love as you quack trafficking craic between you."
Come lah bull minstrel clown, mimic speech to plump nine nuts beyond the comedic eye where flow master of ceremonies - Noaks fellow and one time action man show won't babble
"...when it was Blue Peter, not like it is now with kids who don't know what they're doing..."
Circus swish slopping spray tame sea motion smooth a stir of whirling liquid through a splatter mass splodge of telly.
tilt the lingo, flutter pigeon music flap ruffle spread your turtle wings and limbs freely soar and jangle from his dome
"...with real papier mache; not like it is now. The microwave and scramble to life stuff...."
whack out licks - that lived then and live now.
" ...I was jumping out of a plane one week sticking empty bog rolls together the next dashing round the studio..."
after elephant waste
"...and mucking in. Star of the whole hoo ha..."
John before kids replaced you and juiced up the models
"...you can't put a price on..."
from a centre where twitter and tiddley-winks still hold reckoning the toggable taggle and balancing laughter you and your colleagues had when at giggle;
peck this needle from the shiny gutter commune with our entourage of party fawns living le joi de vire.