Skip to main content

Yes yes we've invented nothing (maybe not)

fig.1) ...we've come to this path by dirt and imitation. (ca.1988)

“My image of the “ghost,” including everything conventional about its appearance as well as its blind submission to certain contingencies of time and place, is particularly significant for me as the finite representation of torment that may be eternal. Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.” 
Breton, Andre. Nadja. New York: Grove Press. 1960, 31
"Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; Protest by fists with all one’s might in taking destructive action is Dada;...abolition of Dada;...abolition of memory is Dada; abolition of property is Dada; abolition of history is Dada; abolition of property is Dada; abolition of the future is Dada; absolute and indisputable god-like faith in every product of immediate spontaneity is Dada.” Attributed to Tristan Tzara; Lewis, Helena. The Politics of Surrealism. New York: Paragon House Publishers. 1988, 5
“The anarchist artist, on the other hand, has no trouble saying, as Breton wanted to, that the art has the same meaning as the act. Individualist aesthetics is perfectly compatible with individualistic politics. The problem of reconciling politics and culture goes away if anarchism is the ideology that informs both.” Weir, David. Anarchy and Culture: The Aesthetic Politics of Modernism. Massachusetts: University of Massachusetts Press. 1997, 1


Popular posts from this blog

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.

Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…