presentsubs

[ireland]

2005-05-24T12:52:00.000-04:00

by a. atiya

I am alone on the Isle of Inishmoor. I drink a coffee, black, and eat a tuna fish sandwich on a rickety wooden picnic table outside the island’s sole shop. In the bright August sun the sea shines, and a squat rainbow stretches out to Connemara.

I am reading a book, uninterrupted, until a man with blue Irish eyes comes to sit across from me. He asks me if it’s all right, and I agree. He wears a filthy pinstripe blazer and I can see the dirt under his fingernails. His clothes are all black, and he slides a white cigarette out from his pocket. He sets it between his rotted bluish teeth.

“It gets crowded around here this time of day,” he says. I look around and he’s right. There are only four tables, two are occupied by a large pack of Swedes, the other one by those gangly youthful Italians, and he and I are alone at the fourth. “It’s still the high part of tourist season,” he adds.

He lights his cigarette and pulls the Gaelic newspaper out from the inside of his blazer. He doesn’t unfold it, just flips it over and starts the crossword. He focuses on the paper, which grants me a moment to watch his eyes. The Irish eyes are not overrated. His are luminous, they seem to be several shades of blue at once, bordered by thick black eyelashes.

But I stare too long and he starts to notice. He asks me for help with a question in the crossword. I awkwardly reply that I don’t know Gaelic, so I won’t be of much use.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks. I tell him that I’m a student on vacation. He says, “We get all kinds out here.” He asks me if I am out here by myself, and I say that I am. I ask him if I can bum a cigarette, and he says sure. I apologize, especially since cigarettes are so expensive out here. He says that he higher the government makes the prices the more we should smoke, tell ‘em to go feck themselves. I finish the last sips of my coffee.

An old woman with cropped white hair hobbles over to us and flops down on the bench. “Johnnnnnny,” she cries, and kisses the man on the cheek. She wears an identical filthy pinstriped blazer. Both wear sullied black t-shirts as well. She turns toward me, and I can see the resemblance between the two, though she has the drastic underbite of old age.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it,” she says. “No sign of rain!” Which is sad for me, I sort of idolize the Irish rain. Johnny sighs.

“Sometimes it’s like the feckin United Nations of Beautiful Women out here,” he says, and I watch him admiring the tallest of the Swedish women. She wears big round sunglasses. She is trying to untangle her legs from the picnic bench. His mother agrees. “This one too,” she adds, pointing to me. He nods, and we take a moment to appreciate the sea. The moment is almost peaceful. Then, she asks Johnny for a cigarette. He tells her no. She says just one and she’ll quit tomorrow. He says no. She says that she’s been so good. He says no never. She says just half of one and she’ll quit tomorrow. He slides another white cigarette out of his left pocket and hands it to her. She pulls his lighter out from his right pocket and lights it for herself.

She leans back for a second, exhaling, and shows me the hairy underside of her chin.

She readjusts her glasses. “What’re you reading?” she asks. I answer, The Virgin and the Gypsy, and lift the book so she can see the cover.

“Oh oh D.H. Lawrence! I know what that is! That’s pornography!” she exclaims.

“Only in your day, mother, did they call it pornography. In my day they call it literature,” the son replies.

“Well I don’t care what they call it. I know what that is! That’s pornography. She’ll tell you, it’s pornography, isn’t it?” She looks to me for a response.

I say that sadly, I haven’t found it to be pornographic at all. In fact, I am quite disappointed. I’m even contemplating getting my 1.50 Euro back from Charlie Byrne’s bookshop in Galway.

For a moment she is silent. A reddish rooster approaches our bench, pecking at some crumbs of tuna I have dropped. I am tempted to smile, but I am afraid that I have already offended her. Before I can utter a retraction, however, she explodes into enormous peals of laughter.

“Did you hear that Johnny! She’s disappointed that it isn’t pornographic! She is disappointed! Well isn’t that a good one!” Johnny sets another cigarette between his bluish teeth and lights it. The mother continues laughing, she laughs so hard she starts to cry a little, and she lifts her glasses up to pat her glistening eyes with the back of her hand.

Still laughing, she props herself up to climb out of the bench. “She’s disappointed,” she mutters under her breath. She kisses Johnny again on the cheek and then walks over to me and kisses me too. “Lovely to meet you,” she says. I can feel the hairs on her chin brushing up against my face. She asks Johnny for one more cigarette, he obliges, and she hobbles off again.

“Your mom seems like fun,” I say. “She is, a bit wild even for her age,” he replies. I wonder if she was drunk. We sit for a moment, reading again. “The Virgin and the Gypsy,” he says, after a minute. “Which one are you?” I laugh politely, but don’t reply. He starts the crossword again.

Half an hour or so later, I’ve finished the book. He’s now reading the paper, I guess that he’s finished the crossword too.

“Hey,” I ask, “Which beach do you prefer here?” He asks I am interested in swimming or contemplation. I say for swimming.

“I don’t really know. I’m not much of a swimmer. I’ve lived here my whole life and I don’t go swimming. But some travelers have enjoyed that beach near to the entrance of Dun Aengus.” He gestures towards the sea with his left hand.

I thank him for the advice, and for the cigarette. I climb out of the table. “Nice to meet you,” he says, and I say the same.

Tucking my book into my bag, I start on the path down to the sea.

The Heavyweights Of Extreme Championship Rocking | World Tour 2004: Day 31

2005-05-21T18:00:00.000-04:00

By N. Sylvester

12 September 2004, 3:31AM – Washington, DC

Enough with the fucking melodrama. I'm going to tell it to you straight as a baby's asscrack: The Heavyweights of Extreme Championship Rocking are indie rock's answer to Norah Jones. They're the fucking olive branch to the War on Drugs, the Thomas Paine to the Boston Fucking Tea Party. I'm the band's manager – but I manage many things. In this business, where kings are paupers and paupers are in Iraq FIGHTING ANOTHER MAN'S WAR, somebody has to be reliable. While the band's hanging out back stage reading Nietzsche, there I am at the merch table, "managing" to break a twenty because somebody only wants to buy a fucking button. And let me tell you something else: there are a lot of fucking buttons to sell. Who do you think "manages" to sell them all? Does the band "manage" to put them on their shirts in such a way that the buttons look like flat nipples? Not that I'm complaining– I think it's pretty goddamn grand these guys are such visionaries.

When their show at the Black Cat finished last night, we (heretofore Me and the Heavies) packed up our shit like Dick Tracy framing Roger fucking Rabbit on the set of The Wonder Years. Now we're driving around outside Philadelphia in our tour wagon, a 1989 Ford Aerostar with tinted windows, looking for a place to get some fucking shut eye. I'm outside making some calls from a glass phone booth. Zeke is in the back-- he's the Heavies drummer, our resident sex guru, and the only man I know who can read Maxim and FHM at the same fucking time-- reading the latest issues of Maxim and FHM. The other guys are passed out, or sleeping, or in the mini-mart buying cigarettes. I mean what am I, their fucking mother? This is indie rock for chrissakes. They do whatever they want, and any of the tour t-shirts we don't sell I'm gonna keep for myself.

I call a motel and order eight rooms: one for each guy in the band, one for me, and three for Rock Elijah. By the time we've tongued our way to the place, Chris, Joel and Yanson are still in the Aerostar, and I'm not the kinda guy who fucks with that. They want to sleep in a van, that's fine, that means more empty rooms for me and my dogs-- call me a pussy, right? but I swear to fucking Christ I'll put up any stray pets I can find in this fucking shanty town of Libertas. One day my message will be clear: I don't care who let the dogs out-- it's just time for someone to let these dogs in-- into their hearts.

12 September 2004, 3:01PM – Philadelphia, PA
3PM the next day we wake up with bloody noses and the motel alarm clocks covered in boogers. Man was I shot-- like the fucking sheriff-- but I kept it cool-- like the deputy of our country, Bill Fucking Gates. The Heavies were hungry as horses at the dog track, and really wanted some breakfast. We messied up the hotel room before we left, then started hunting down some diners. Places to eat. Things for Sustenance. BEING. TIME. GEIST.

We dug our way out of that shithole and climbed up onto this shit mountain of a diner on Sixth and Spring Garden. The place reminded me of “Heroin”, a poem I wrote about Eric Clapton’s song “Heroin.” We sit ourselves down and get ready for some nutritional facefucking. Now the thing you need to know about the Heavyweights: these guys are comedy geniuses. Wherever we go, there they are, talking to each other. Then they start RIFFING. Now settle the fuck down before your shit comes out your eyes. These aren't just any sorts of riffs the Heavies are doing– these are magical rock and roll comedy duels, reminiscent of Louis Armstrong skat-battling himself coked out in front of the bathroom mirror.

Joel is the king of riffs. This guy just can't stop riffing – he's always in the midst of a riff. I swear to god it's a good thing this is a DEMOCRACY (still, but it might not be because of the fucking ELEPHANTS), because Joel is the king of riffs, a tyrant of riffing. His minions? Riffs.

But that's just a footnote. And besides, we hadn't even ordered our fucking food yet. Our waitress came up and spit some water in our cups, then started eyeing us up like we're ready to order. None of us had even looked at the menu– like we fucking needed to anyway. We knew the kind of place this was. Yanson ordered his usual: bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee. Black – like the color of his dyed black hair. Then Chris ordered. French toast. So fucking typical. Here's a guy who can't break himself away from himself. We were at a French toast place yesterday and all he could order was French toast. Zeke was a vegetarian. So fucking typical, but still, so goddamn beautiful. His decision to stay away from meat gave him his slim physique, and it reminded me of swans – a fucking million of them – swimming in a lake, doing ballet with their wings – made of steel.

"I'll have the broccoli omelette, please. Oh, hold the omelette, I'm a vegetarian." Zeke always did that, but we always laughed anyway, like clowns do when other clowns die. Joel ordered something I forget, and this was shaping up to be the saddest breakfast I had ever had, then I ordered, like a fucking champ.

"What do you want to eat?"

I stared that waitress down until she had to ask me that question again. I was trying to prove a point: how is anybody going to want to eat here unless you try and establish at least thirty seconds of serious heart-to-heart eye-to-eye eye contact? It ain't rocket science, toots– it's called love.

"I'll have a number two."

"Sir we don't do numbers – there is no number two on the menu."

"Yeah" I said like a man. "So surprise me."

And she did. She started writing something down furiously on her notepad, and I knew she was about to shit herself from all the E she was probably rolling in the kitchen. "Here" she said, handing me a note. "If you don't want to tell me, smart ass, draw it."

"Sure. I know how to draw." I took out my fucking ballpoint and drew my breakfast. Listen – I can’t rock it out on stage, but I can draw like a motherfucker. I’m the next Kandinsky. Shit, I'm the Kandinsky to Kandinsky– the big blue blob of piss to his big red blob of shit– and this girl was fucking in for it if she thought I wasn’t going to draw my breakfast and DESTROY ART right there in front of her.

"So pancakes." Right then, I knew this waitress was the art history type. I could see her bra.

"Yes."

"We're out of pancakes." So fucking impressionist. It took all my strength to keep from blowing up her spot and going Good Will Hunting on her ivy league face.

"A bagel's fine then."

"Great, I'll be right back."

Ten minutes, thirty Canadian power trio riffs and two Tom Sawyers later, Good Will Waitress comes back with our food. Now listen: I've been in this music business for six months, and I know Riff Central when I see it coming. But BAM here I was in Riff Central, wearing nothing but my necktie around my forehead. This is what happened: Jacques Saunier– my new name for our fuck-it-all of a waitress– gives everyone his plate, then gives Joel a bag of eggs and bacon. "Sorry, we're out of plates," she said. And guess the fuck what? We're officially in Riff Central, and it's only 8PM Riff Central Time.

"Out of plates? Right, and I'm out of expensive designer drugs!" riffs Joel.

Shit starts streaming down everyone pants – this is the funniest thing we've heard in moose years. Funnier than Jethro Tull beating out Metallica for the Rock Grammy in 1989. Funnier than MC Hammer buying an entire baseball stadium so he could practice pitching– and rapping– at the same time. Funnier than Rodney Dangerfield surrounding his LA mansion with a "danger field" (land mines).

"I don't get it. Are you saying you'd rather not eat eggs and bacon from a plastic bag?" The waitress tried to riff her way out of this one like usual, but couldn't, like a dog chasing its own tail, or a mannequin trying to breathe.

"The only thing I eat from a plastic bag is crack cocaine, lady!"

Silence, then applause. Then more silence. Then, shit. Everywhere. I just couldn't stop shitting. This is what rock and roll’s all about. The waitress flipped her shit and left our table carrying a bag of bacon and eggs back to the kitchen – like a bank robber at the general store. And there we were back in Riff Central, celebrating the only way we know how: spitting into our palms and rubbing our palms into our eyes until we start to cry.

12 September 2004, 9:36PM – Philadelphia, PA

Forget all that. In my pocket I have a list of every band that has ever existed. Animal Collective, Audioslave, Beck, Sneaker Pimps-- there are only four bands that have ever existed. Tonight I'm about to add one more: the fucking Heavyweights of Extreme Championship Rocking.

We finally get to the Theater for the Living Arts, and man are we living. We're living in America, like James Brown, an American hero. Living have we been, true-to-form Eddie Murphys, just spinning around like boomerangs– riffing– for another 48 hours. It's fucking Beverly Hills, and we're the cops. Which is maybe why I’m so fucking steamed: on the way over from the diner we got pulled over by some cops for making an illegal left.

But fuck it. Fuck it ALL. We had no time for pitty pouting pammering. I drove up on the curb like a harlequin baby, and the The Heavies jumped out, clammed up on stage and started rocking out. After some sweet jamming, Zeke started meta-jamming while Joel kept swinging the microphone like it's the fucking Rock And Roll Rodeo and he's Lenny Kravitz. The band just kept slamming out the hits one-by-one– they even did covers of their own songs. Which is when I realized something: The Heavyweights of Extreme Championship Rocking had found their shtick: no shtick. Because just when you thought the Heavies were going to do something shticky, like a disco beat, or underground hip-hop, there was Zeke drumming in the back, wearing a shirt with no sleeves or collar. It's like the Frankfurt School: the band was "commodifying" the masses, and passing them off like opium smokers who believe in the Just War theory. And that's exactly what was happening: The Heavies were waging a just war – on music – and we, the audience, were spared the weapons of mass destruction that the Catholic Church threatens to use against the Sacred Feminine.

And the crowd was going fucking apeshit. The Heavyweights jumped off stage after their last song, then came out for six different encores. By the fourth encore the entire place is fucked, and all the sudden Joel climbs out Zeke's bass drum and starts singing "Louis Louis", which sounds exactly like "Louie Louie", except all the words are replaced with sweet riffs. Suddenly it's encore five time, and the band puts on masks of our the Greatest American Presidents – Quincy Adams, Adams, Michaels – and plays the national anthems of EVERY COUNTRY IN THE WORLD. It's 8 in the morning, and the Heavies are just getting to Morocco when we realize we're all lying by ourselves in the middle of South Street wearing nothing but jean shorts.

Democratization of the Beat

2005-05-21T17:59:00.000-04:00

by L. Neyfakh

In the movie “24 Hour Party People,” Factory Records impresario Tony Wilson unveiled the Hacienda nightclub in Manchester with a momentous proclamation. “See?” he says to the audience, pointing out the teeming mass of dancing bodies behind him. “They're applauding the DJ. Not the music, not the musician, not the creator, but the medium.”

He was right, of course. It was a big moment—probably the most dramatic step in the formal evolution of music since record players were invented in the late 19th century. Still, Tony Wilson was getting a little ahead of himself—jumping the gun in his declaration by about 30 years. If the DJ was really the one getting applauded in the Hacienda, then it wasn’t just about the medium, but about the person manipulating the medium. That’s why some DJs got famous, developing unique styles, establishing their tastes, and experimenting with their equipment. Really, these guys were no different than any other musician with an instrument. They were still present, and they were still in control, and they were still people. Today, they’re gone. In their place all we have is the medium. We have iTunes shuffle, and downloading programs that let guests get any song they want in a matter of seconds. In one sense, the Party has been set free, but in another, it has been tragically enslaved by the forces of chance, computer automation, and the instant-gratification downloading culture

Whenever my friend Nigel and I went to dances at our middle school, we always bugged the DJs to play songs by Nirvana and Less Than Jake. Those were our favorite bands, and we wanted to hear them in front of everyone. Most of the time the DJs waved us away, either because they didn’t have what we wanted or they knew it wouldn’t make good dance music. But the few times they agreed, Nigel and I came alive, pouncing around the gymnasium singing the words, and thrashing in every direction while all the other kids waited. It was a triumph, every time, and I haven’t experienced a thrill to match it since I got to college.

Indeed, the DJ, that lifesaving, record-breaking, party pulse-taking prophet-- that don of disco, that shaman of shake—does not exist anymore. The beat has been democratized. Now, when you go to a party, there’s no driver at the wheel—no obstacle you have to go through before putting on your favorite song and forcing the whole room to dance to it. The nerve center is always right there, in plain view, and if you feel strongly enough about a certain song, you can walk right over to the laptop and put it on. No one would ever stop you.

The new freedom is a mixed blessing: although the power is dissolved and distributed, we inevitably forfeit something that is essential to the rave culture of Tony Wilson’s time. It takes mastery, after all, to keep a party going—not just the right collection of old favorites (sometimes people want to sing along) and fresh booty jams (sometimes people just want to jam booty) but the ability to gauge the mood on the floor, to choose the right songs at the right times, and to pace your crowd so they can go on all night. Losing that means losing your direction. The party is thrown to the dogs, handed over and mauled by a thousand different hands with competing visions and no coherent plan. Or, worse, somebody will just put the iPod on “random” and let it play whatever comes up.

In this scenario, the music starts and stops with no provocation, the automated engine of the stereo choosing the setlist arbitrarily. The DJ is a machine now, and it has no idea what it’s doing. Because a machine couldn’t possibly size up a crowd or play to the natural pace of a party. A machine can’t feel the vibe!

And so the burden to perform has been shifted onto the crowd, because we all know that the music will go on whether we like it or not. In fact, it will probably keep playing for a while after the party ends, because it’s happening completely by itself, separate from us and independent. The dance is no longer a collaboration, and the pathways of communication between DJ and dancer have sadly been cemented over with so much white plastic and shiny cables.. The iPod chooses and we follow its lead. We can hear it, of course, but we know it’s not playing for us. It’s just playing.

This is a troubling state of affairs indeed, and if we’re going to have any more parties, we should make sure to put a real person in charge. Just get a friend, that’s all, or a bunch of them, to pool their record collections and take control! They can make up names for themselves, and play songs no one has heard of but everyone would like. Every party would be different then. We could trade mixtapes every Sunday morning from the night before.

One thing though—the DJs have to be nice, and observant, and for all their creative authority, they have to believe in democracy.

And they should always play Nirvana and Less Than Jake if someone asks them to, because whoever it is probably has a pretty good reason.

GREEN: a comic

2005-05-19T17:12:00.000-04:00

from Rothman's friend Nathan Leamy:

http://www.oberlin.edu/student/nleamy/power.html

King's Death

2005-05-10T22:02:00.000-04:00

by Paloma Yannakakis


King lets his robe fall to the side of his hands.

In his mind turns a view—
A road sloping down and trees at the end of the road.

King remembers picking flowers by himself
in the silent forest. He could never recall their names.
There was a sound outside—calling for him?               
                          If not, the wind;
if not someone humming at a stone’s throw
away from him in the bright wind.

He searches for the body of his breath
           on the shore that bears the final trades of time
as a bee will forge a path
           when the last spring rains have had their fill.

Never to lift an eye to the lowest
           heights of the mind again.

The untried persevering, overflows the air
climbing against further ruin
                             on that depthless shore.

baby strollers used by icelandic mothers

2005-05-04T22:32:00.000-04:00

by jonathan leong

1.) techno
2.) suv
3.) vintage
4.) any combination of two or three of the above
5.) hot wheels
6.) glow in the dark
7.) 5.) and 6.) combined (seriously)
8.) chic (cannot be combined with 9.))
9.) tricycle (cannot be combined with 8.))
10.) moonroof
11.) geothermally powered (just kidding)

on finding a lost notebook

2005-05-04T21:41:00.000-04:00

By Ben Scheuer

all these melted idea like some unseen coincidental ice sculpture
in god's garden.
funny, then i wanted to call someone and say that
my book is gone! my book is gone!
god bless disaster.
step, my foot steps on
higher pitches than i'd expect
step, hell-toe, then rainbow soft round
they who pass look at me funny
becuase my jacket, my scarf, my
shoes, all bright red.
and i write this stnading in the middle of the road
a car just turned a big
question mark around me.
hah. there, up up , it is fixed.
burn this when you've read it.

A Primer for the Future!

2005-04-26T19:57:00.000-04:00

Tyler Coburn // for Present! // 25â€¦4â€¦2005â€¦

Hello

There are many things that are older than the seven things Iâ€™m about to list. Some might even say that the things that are older than the seven things Iâ€™m about to list influenced the seven things Iâ€™m about to list, but this is just nonsense. The seven things Iâ€™m about to list influenced the seven things Iâ€™m about to list and will in turn influence the seven things Iâ€™m about to list, for they are the constitutive forces of the next and penultimate epistemological epoch.

Anxiety

What does one need for the next and penultimate epistemological epoch? One thing to do is make sure you have the seven things Iâ€™m about to list. You can hoard them if you want, because we really donâ€™t know how much of them weâ€™ll need and because itâ€™s really too early to tell whether the next and penultimate epistemological epoch will condemn avarice. You can also start throwing away the things that are older than the seven things Iâ€™m about to list, including: metonymy, gamecube, pastiche, simulacrum, deterritorializan, xbox.

Projective Altruism

We know: what part can you play in the coming of things? Itâ€™s tough to tell whether the next and penultimate epistemological epoch will be one for the ascetics, the barbarous, the post-humans or the Luddites. Perhaps it will be Jesus writ large across the world, in which case you meek people can start feeling validated. Itâ€™s tough to tell, so itâ€™s tough to tell you people what you can do to prepare.

Death Drive

You can stop worrying about being smited in the next and penultimate epistemological epoch, because penultimate is penultimate. We donâ€™t know who came up with the title, which supports our belief that thereâ€™s a greater design behind the next and penultimate epistemological epoch.

Poop

Yeah, penultimate takes out the suspense in things, doesnâ€™t it? But just because we can guarantee that the human race will survive the next and penultimate epistemological epoch doesnâ€™t mean we can guarantee youâ€™ll be surviving happily. Our studies show that there is an over 36% chance that, during the next and penultimate epistemological epoch, the majority of the human race will be reduced to BiV, which could really suck or be really greatâ€¦guess youâ€™ll just have to stick around and see!

The End of the Era of the Hyphen

Itâ€™s true. Weâ€™re really becoming a hyphen-nation, so maybe the name of the next and penultimate epistemological epoch should be without a hyphen. Or maybe it should be with a hyphen. We canâ€™t safely say whether the next and penultimate epistemological epoch will endorse synchronic or diachronic modes of being and thinking, so safest would be to choose a word that could go either way - bat for both teams, if you get our drift.

Words Words Words

Yes, you can cast your two cents into the piggy bank about what should be the endorsed title for the next and penultimate epistemological epoch, which in itself is truly a fine title, but itâ€™s the pizzazz factor they go for these days, and we would be nothing if not for our verve, swagger, panache and, of course, pizzazz.

Anyone is welcome to play the game but people who experience disgust in the face of theoretical language are advised to exercise extreme caution or abstain entirely.

Rules: Connect a prefix to a root and a root to a suffix. Be careful! Some of the roots already have derivational affixes attached, but donâ€™t let that worry you. Just keep playing!

Penalties: Any players who attempt to make an infix, circumfix, simulfix or suprafix from any part or parts of either a root or root with derivational affix or prefix or suffix will be disqualified and, in the event that the next and penultimate epistemological epoch endorses karmic retribution, severely punished.

A(b)

Anti

Pro

Proto

Post

Post-Post

Postal

Poâ€™

Poo(p)

Oomlat

Xeno

Ono

Inter

Intra

Robo

Sober

Supra

Super

Cyber

Yper

Simul

Dis

Dys

Dee(s/z)

Modern

Postmodern

Futur(e)

Functional

Crayon

Existential

Human

Postal

Animal

Abrupt

Pedant

Ornitholog

Meal

Dand(y)

Argument

Altercation

Bushel

Abjection

Colonial

Ornamental

Log Cabin

Inspiration

Nylon

Rumination

Beef

Fun

Tri-lingual

Languor

ism

Mail your two cents to: The Center for the Establishment of the Next and Penultimate Epistemological Epoch, 116 E. 68^th St, NY NY 10021

Prehistory

2005-04-19T21:36:00.000-04:00

by Sarah Burke

The days are so full their seams burst Sucked
to the edges even the traffic cones are inverted
down into the mud So many rocketships
buzz I can barely hear the sun I can barely
hear the puddles Everything feels so European
Everything feels so 1970s I throw a brick at
the sun and the sun shouts a little heart at me
which is so 1920s Every rocket and every
star has an angel They sing a song in Marxist
symbol language They are Byzantine colored
Everything goes somewhere That
â€œholy, glowing heartâ€� pole-dances
down the God-axis and lands in my lap
thumping like a baby The tonsured scholars
walk by whispering about their scholar-
shaped God who has as many angles as a triangle
tied in a knot The rockets send reports about
fuel crises on other planets They cover
plagues from their airtight wonder-boxes
Angels, flickering, wipe sweat from our brows
and put so many little presents, so many gemstones +
kittens + shells + matchbooks, at our feet
We almost notice All this now feels like
prehistory I can almost read the future in the curtain
of water the truck erects and destroys, oblivious,
as it passes

The boxâ€™s friends

2005-04-19T21:28:00.000-04:00

A little bird
who is dangerous
sits atop the box
and tells
the boxâ€™s secret fears
the boxâ€™s strange sexual history

The box has a perpetual egg
rolling corner to corner
asking about
her plans, the egg says: is this it?
The box canâ€™t break the egg

The glass of water is
a small box in the box
It sits on a dusty ledge
and makes a lens

The cherries in the box
browner each year ask
the box: is there anything you
need? If you are cold
we can roll our flesh against
your side
If youâ€™ve forgotten
The sky tastes like wine

The field is a yellow longing

[the bird]

2005-04-19T09:26:00.000-04:00

The bird does not eat the cherries
The bird does not drink the water
The bird did not lay the egg
The box made them all by a complicated magic

In the bathroom stall I undress for the women

In the bathroom stall I undress for the women
outside I undress for hours
This is the inside of my shirt
Tonight my body is covered in stars

In the big room a woman walks thinly half the
length of the stage Stopping: Fabric grows
from her like a cloud machine operated
from her hips

I build a costume of film footage from different
cities The snow in Montreal jumps
like ghost snakes around my neck Rome
makes small wrist-shadows Tokyo: postcard-
sized I stretch across my belly

My clothes refuse to cover me Skin snakes through
things My body is a city and
clothes the snow railing against my angles
splitting and fraying and growing old like
wool people used to work in

two friends who have been quite more

2005-04-14T16:50:00.000-04:00

.

2
I feel like the laughing cavalier
sitting in a museum, wearing some smart blazer
looking smugly like the past, like usefulness
watching myself like watching others smirking
before art, works,
in colors in a bright projection.

1
Smiling, not laughing really
because there is no room for the tragic here or the down,
only smiling or motionless crying,
vibrating leaves, the emotion from
camping out in the world
with only a scarf and my stuff.

2
Still Iâ€™m afraid about what that means,
to be known by a smile, to smugly stare or

3
Over the phone:
You both look so absurd
standing in the old time cake light.
Please come inside, come here now, you.

1
Iâ€™m invited places mostly.
At last that is where I will go
(without reason)
replacing the blue scarf
with a blue alarm clock
(show of reason).

2
O you look like are sound like just like. . .
Enough of repeating

Think of all the long long trees that fell in an attempt to make it past
the electric wires swirling with conversations like these unneccessarily
swirling around and around humorless for dusky houses chattering
millions at once quietly in the patchwork suburb states good behavior
and chats and kisses that have never left home and the lights going off
in some logic that we could figure out if we wanted to and sat here long
enough talking but this place its silence is too large this time and enough
of talking.

1
Okay.

This is now, the present,
no repeating.

A pause.

This is what they now call the
present.

3
I'm hanging up now, that's it.

2
Let's open it
and open it.

For a Friend Going to War

2005-04-12T16:41:00.000-04:00

By Amy Klein

Each tile shudders
In rhythm

Whenever I stop speaking
I hear himâ€”

The carpenter
Hammering on the roof

Today he beats the meter into slate

Driving hillocks
Of sound into valleys
Into a thin, hard skin of sound

He pauses, and the poem
He laborsâ€”in becoming
Cries out, â€œWho am I?
What can I count as mine?â€�

The first time
My mother
Let me
Out of eyeâ€™s grip
I was that cry
Released

Now it moves over the rooftops
In a surging field

Swirling farther and farther
Towards the hollow
Of the first ear

My mother said
This is the ear
Of the carpenter

She said he is building
A house for God

Now I can hear
How he worships

Driving the nail
Into the empty slot

bestiary

2005-04-10T15:19:00.000-04:00

By Chris Van Buren

[accompanying audio--click here]

the Snake is a
question mark,
that in its biblical
unproportionsâ€” lisps
calls even this into doubt?

*

â€œhow original!â€� sin
sneaks into our conversation
which (one might add
[from O.Fr. then L. conversationem
â€œstate of living togetherâ€� lit. â€œturn about with,â€�

versus is verus with a snake in the middle

synon,imical for â€œsexual intercourseâ€� from at least 1511
clothed itself in â€œtalkâ€� around 1580.
was ashamed, was ashamedâ€¦

henceâ€”criminal conversation,

*

and this has been a time,ly arabesque
that does not exit off stage left,
a never ending entrâ€™acteâ€¦

*

an apple
punctuates
its arc?

PANOPTISME, SPECTACLE ET TOTALITARISME

2005-04-07T01:14:00.000-04:00

Lorsque Foucault dÃ©crit le panoptique comme modÃ¨le possible de lâ€™Ã©mergence de la modernitÃ©, il affirme dans le mÃªme temps le rapport fondamental que cette derniÃ¨re entretien avec la perception visuelle. Le panoptique figure le symbole de ce que lâ€™on pourrait nommer Ã©puisement visuel (Gilles Deleuze) : formant une Ã©tendue parfaitement quadrillÃ©e par la perception, il est un lieu Ã la fois autonome et autarcique, espace parfaitement circulaire et clos dans sa configuration architecturale comme dans sa logique de fonctionnement. Il me semble que Foucault se mÃ©prenait lorsque, dÃ©sirant Ã tout prix Ã©viter lâ€™amalgame de sa pensÃ©e et du situationnisme soixante-huitard, il Ã©vacuait explicitement la notion de spectacle en lâ€™opposant Ã celle de surveillance. Jonathan Crary notait dÃ©jÃ que, parallÃ¨lement aux rÃ©seaux de surveillance, existaient au dix-neuviÃ¨me siÃ¨cle des procÃ©dures Â« qui codifiaient et normalisaient le spectateur au sein de systÃ¨mes de consommation visuels rigides Â» (18). MatÃ©rialisations dâ€™un pouvoir qui regarde et dicte comment regarder, le panoptique et la sociÃ©tÃ© du spectacle se rejoignent en ce tous deux fonctionnent comme des appareils totalitaires au sein desquels Â« la visibilitÃ© est un piÃ¨ge Â» (Foucault 202).

Point de mire du schÃ©ma panoptique, lâ€™annihilation de la rÃ©ciprocitÃ© au sein du schÃ©ma de communication visuel contribue significativement Ã fonder lâ€™assise totalitaire de la sociÃ©tÃ© du spectacle en rÃ©duisant lâ€™individu Ã Â« une solitude sÃ©questrÃ©e et regardÃ©e Â» (202). Dans le schÃ©ma panoptique, lâ€™individu se trouve isolÃ© Ã deux niveaux : il ne peut entrer en contact visuel ni avec ses Â« compagnons Â» ni avec les Â« surveillants Â». Le spectacle met en Å“uvre un mÃ©canisme similaire, quoique plus subtile puisque la sÃ©questration physique nâ€™y est plus indispensable. Lâ€™introduction du cinÃ©ma parlant fonde ainsi ce que lâ€™on peut dÃ©crire comme une expÃ©rience sensorielle totale : le degrÃ© dâ€™attention requis y est tel que le spectateur, dans un rapport direct et possessif avec le spectacle, sâ€™isole des autres spectateurs. Le rÃ©sultat escomptÃ© est donc identique Ã celui de lâ€™appareil panoptique, avec une diffÃ©rence toutefois notable : le point dâ€™application des mÃ©thodes totalitaires nâ€™est plus lâ€™individu dans sa condition dâ€™observÃ© mais dâ€™observateur, de sujet et non dâ€™objet de lâ€™effort visuel. La sociÃ©tÃ© du spectacle, en vertu notamment de moyens techniques supÃ©rieurs, fonde un pouvoir totalitaire devenu subreptice qui peut sâ€™Ã©tendre au delÃ des prisons, des Ã©coles ou des ateliers.

Le cloisonnement constitue un second point de convergence des machines spectaculaires et panoptiques. La figure du cercle concrÃ©tise un principe de contrÃ´le (tous les points sont Ã©quidistants du centre) mais aussi et surtout de clÃ´ture qui structurent le fonctionnement du pouvoir totalitaire. DÃ©clinÃ©e au niveau proprement architectural chez Bentham, la gÃ©omÃ©trie du pouvoir prend une forme moins explicite chez Debord. Câ€™est chez Baudrillard (et notamment dans lâ€™article Â« ModernitÃ© Â» quâ€™il rÃ©dige pour lâ€™Encyclopaedia Universalis) quâ€™il faut chercher les modalitÃ©s de sa matÃ©rialisation dans la sociÃ©tÃ© spectaculaire : celui-ci parle dans un premier temps de Â« travelling continuel Â» puis de Â« changement cyclique oÃ¹ ressurgissent dâ€™ailleurs toutes les formes du passÃ© Â» (553). Si la structure panoptique parvient â€“ grÃ¢ce Ã un rÃ©seau subtil de fenÃªtres, couloirs et galeries organisÃ© en un rÃ©seau circulaire idÃ©al â€“ Ã assurer un cloisonnement parfait de lâ€™espace, la sociÃ©tÃ© du spectacle se sert des cultures de masse et des objets de consommation pour enfermer les productions, nouvelles ou anciennes, dans un rÃ©seau apparemment libre dâ€™objets dÃ©filant au grÃ© des modes. Le modÃ¨le carcÃ©ral de Bentham est ici perfectionnÃ©, mais les fins demeurent identiques: assurer la continuitÃ© dâ€™un paradigme dont Â« les moyens sont en mÃªme temps [le] but Â» (Debord 21). La puissance du modÃ¨le spectaculaire â€“ et ce qui en fait le meilleur garant de la pÃ©rennitÃ© du modÃ¨le totalitaire â€“ câ€™est dâ€™empÃªcher lâ€™Ã©vasion en rendant impossible la rupture au sein de la superstructure cyclique. Dâ€™abord la Â« prÃ©sence permanente Â» (17) du spectacle, durant lâ€™activitÃ© de production (temps de travail) et sa corollaire la consommation (temps de loisir), capte en permanence lâ€™attention et empÃªche la rÃ©-flection. Ensuite, toute activitÃ© dissidente est condamnÃ©e Ã Ãªtre digÃ©rÃ©e par le systÃ¨me de consommation, perdant toute substance au cours de sa dÃ©formation (câ€™est Ã dire de son ajustement) par ce que Baudrillard nomme Â« les effets de mode et dâ€™aspiration dirigÃ©e Â» (554).

Lâ€™aboutissement du totalitarisme spectaculaire â€“ qui Ã©tend par lÃ les ambitions et le potentiel du schÃ©ma panoptique Ã lâ€™Ã©chelle dâ€™une sociÃ©tÃ© toute entiÃ¨re â€“ est de se montrer Ã mÃªme de TOUT rÃ©cupÃ©rer, y compris les contre-spectacles. Cette Â« esthÃ©tique du changement pour le changement Â» comme la nomme Baudrillard dÃ©possÃ¨de les productions de leurs substances, les rÃ©duisant Ã de purs signes devenus interchangeables. Le panoptisme Ã©puise lâ€™espace clos et artificiel de la prison, mais le spectacle fait mieux puisquâ€™il parvient Ã Ã©puiser lâ€™espace ouvert des possibles. Dans un monde ou tout devient gadget et accessoire comme dans une prison dans laquelle chaque millimÃ¨tre dâ€™espace se trouve quadrillÃ©, la part de libertÃ© est nulle et le changement impossible car impensable, non-visualisable : le triomphe du totalitarisme y est, dans les deux cas, Ã©crasant et irrÃ©versible.

Sources :

Baudrillard, Jean. Â« ModernitÃ©. Â» Encyclopaedia Universalis. Paris :

Encyclopaedia Universalis France, 1980

Crary, Jonathan. Â« Modernity and the Problem of the Observer. Â» Techniques of the

Observer : on Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century. Cambridge, MA :

MIT press, 1990.

Debord, Guy. La sociÃ©tÃ© du spectacle. Paris : Gallimard, 1992.

Deleuze, Gilles. Â« Lâ€™Ã©puisÃ©. Â» in S.Beckett Quad. Paris : Minuit, 1992.

Foucault, Michel. Â« Le Panoptisme. Â» Surveiller et Punir. Paris : Gallimard, 1975

epigraph

2005-04-02T03:51:00.000-05:00

By Henry Cowles

a telegraph, phone lines,
cellular device, cellulite, old people,
ladies, hags, paper or plastic: bags
under your eyes, tired, lies, i hate
politics, think fast, mice, rats, laboratories,
frightening, ensign morituri, mortuary,
take me to the morgue -i'm bored with life,
your board, yer a thing of the past, psst,
overdone, gray meat, red meet, dead beets,
steady beats overhead, hampstead, rocksteady, think
tanks, wankers, pelicans, bird-feeders, the ocean,
movers and shakers, businessmen, powersuits, powerful women,
mulligans, i suck at golf, i can go off,
ralph ellison, rolfing, ralfing in your backyard,
vomit on par, girth, you're fatter, you're a fire,
fir trees, fodder, up in flames, christmas's bloodstains,
ecological masterminds, michael crichton, state of fear,
new years, egg nog, punch, everclear, final clubs, final tales
over. ladies,
gentlemen, be gentle, be friends of the animals, be PETA,
fight insignifance, fake caring, lake staring blue pupils,
rotted shin bones, study me, beasts, cornel west, best of the-
try me. trimesters, triathlon, try spelling greek, i'm a geek, too,
i can't do math, i can tie my shoes, i can't row crew, i'm not new,
i'm centuries old, i've been told before in books, you think
about me every other minute, every nine seconds for men, every
time you look around i'm at it, i'm bent over a fence staring
fields, field's medals, metal of honor, aluminum, coat
me up, lacquer, lack her, alone, solo, hans and the stargate,
starfire lounge. think twice,
what rhymes with orange, what rhymes with dead, done for?
no. you don't, you can't know, emerson knew, i grew an inch
before i knew you, i'm nine feet tall, i am paris, fool of troy,
hector-brother, breaker of horses, faker of orgasms, i can
defeat anything, i lay siege to belief, believe me
grieve for me gilgamesh, mesopatamia, syria, writing,
problems, letters, races, elders, betters? things, older, wiser,
wider, greater than, lessons, ledgers, chalk, books, balk,
the umpire looks at me, eye to eye, i for an i we stand, you and he,
look its me, im fading away, im a jungle, racing fast,
lush over blue hills, running west, gunning from you,
sprinter, life-support, running from games, running from
ecology and names, and classes, tube this or that, you can't beaker
me in a week, you're weak at the knees, i'm a thousand years old,
i'm older, i stretch, my branches, my bones, my brains cells
are finite, you're a diet coke, you're an 8-track, you're never
coming back, i'm here. you can't hear what hasn't been sold,
you go to tower, you live in the now, or what you mistake,
take classes, read, think, eat food, drink and forget and
lose your dinner, excuses, you lose it, life, bash your brains
out, you're two hundred thousand dollar brains, you wouldn't
wear a helmet, happiness, sunshine, alive for nine minutes
of braintime, a life time, stolen ideas, a millenia dream,
dream it and it's yours, read quotes, sail boats on rivers,
brown with mud, purple with blood, row out on nothing,
grow from the bed, rise from the dead, remind us,
cry aloud, be poetry, be words, be leaves,
been there, shunned that, tried nothing, eat, sleep, be honest.
bed and board and beads, beets, the earth, the sky,
he made the heavens, no i did, i tried, build me up
skyscrapers, a backscratcher, chicago is a massage chair,
he has a beard, he laughs a great laugh, he cries sometimes,
he is alone, and bigger than other things, people, diamond rings
bind me, gold, nectar, crete, islands, archipelagos, forgotten,
remember me. try me.

BEE + AT + IF + EYE

2005-03-21T18:28:00.000-05:00

Beatification: the act of making something blessed. Anastacia, in Brazil, for example, wears a muzzle and is dragged in the dirt by horses because she is blessed. She also has blue eyes. Mother Teresa is not a saint, but has been beatified and therefore is called Blessed Teresa. Blessed Anastacia, Blessed Teresa, Blessed Edmund Rice, these are just some of the names of people who are sure to be in Heaven.

Thatâ€™s the basic idea. When someone says that a dead person is beatified, itâ€™s just a declaration that they are holy enough to reach paradise and that they are capable of performing miracles from the grave. Anyone can beatify anyone (as long as theyâ€™re dead). Thatâ€™s the beauty of the thingâ€”you donâ€™t need the Pope to approve of a beatification or even a priest. A daughter can declare her dead mother blessed and Catholics everywhere would have to shrug their shoulders and send a quick prayer to a dead mother.

To gain sure entrance to heaven, you have to follow the Beatitudes (Bee + Attitudes). Jesus said something about them in the Bible. Or was it St. Paul? No, no, it was actually St. Matthew. In any case, theyâ€™ve been made into a famous hymn that even Prods like Anglicans or Episcopalians listen to:

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall posses the land.
Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

So, I guess being dragged around in the dirt and wearing a muzzle makes you meek and sufferingâ€”thatâ€™s why Anastaciaâ€™s Brazilian pals are all behind her getting sainted. I donâ€™t know what her blue eyes have to do with it.

Once at Mass this guy came in to get people to pray for his Blessed person. He held in his hands this gold metal star that held a relicâ€”or, not an official relic, because the Vatican hasnâ€™t yet approved, but a relic according to this cult of people. (A relic is something that is made holy simply by its tactile association with a holy personaâ€”the Sacred Cross on which Christ was crucified, for example.) Then he blessed us with the sacred sun metal thing and told us to inform him of any miracles that happened because of itâ€”then they could bring the record to the Vatican to work on getting the beatified person sainted. My stomach virus may have been cured, but I canâ€™t be sure it was the relic.

Beatification allows for freedom within the Catholic Churchâ€”think about it: you take control over who you pray to. You can make up your own saints. If you say someone is beatified, you can start carving little icons and making up symbols and bringing relics to Mass to bless people with them. No longer are you dependent on the priest to make holy water, you can just use the relic of your personal saint to bless the kitchen tap. Itâ€™s the greatest spiritual loophole ever. There used to be a lot more beatified people in the Middle Agesâ€”somewhere in the Eastern Orthodox Churches, there are saints that have tails, which just goes to show you things were a lot more fluid between the lay people and clergy. Can you imagine?

Russian Village Farmer: Hey, did you hear the crazy son of the butcher died? He was practically a saint. Letâ€™s beatify him.

Priest: But didnâ€™t he have a tail?

Russian Village Farmer: Shut up. I say he should be beatified and thatâ€™s what I say. Look, I saved his thumb and it cured my daughterâ€™s histrionics.

Priest: Well, if you say so. Iâ€™ll tell the Pope and weâ€™ll make it official.

Of course, making it official isnâ€™t exactly easyâ€”you need to prove that the Beatified person has been dead for a number of years and has performed three miracles on Catholic people (performing miracles for non-Catholic is just sort of a nice thing to do and doesnâ€™t count towards canonization, which is when a Pope says someone is a saint). In the Middle Ages it was easier, but nowadays things are much more bureaucraticâ€”that is, unless people knew what sort of power they held. Everyone should beatify someone at least once a year. That would be nice.

Nonsanguinity

2005-03-21T03:40:00.001-05:00

By Robert Schaefer

I am perpetually angry at you and I never seem to know why.

You hate the fact that my key is orange and my post-it notes

are not yellow.

I am a flaming dagger and you are an alcohol-soaked sponge --

if it wasnâ€™t for your fearful eyes, this would have ended sooner.

Keys, mostly white and ephemeral, are the only things that we

share â€“ I wish I loved you more, I wish my hate consumed me.

I wish that things right in front of my eyes were carved from

truth and pewter - with hard, white edges and brass-cornered

ends and leathery, beaten faces.

You dump red paint on my forehead - and wonder why I donâ€™t

ask for the brush.

Perhaps it would be different if youâ€™d learned to swim, or could

have thrown a football.

Only a yellow substance, excreted as a component of bile, can

explain this expanse between us, can drag you out from inside

your cave of bleak, passionless mornings that keep you out of

your life.

Even without the autopsy I would have known the truth.

Yours is too thin to exult in our victories, and mine is too thick

not to dance.

Conversations with Vegetables

2005-03-21T03:40:00.000-05:00

By Robert Schaefer

A disdainful remark about the quality

of the produce produced a chorus of dissent

from the incensed denizens of that

semi-refrigerated, sub-tropical region.

One particularly distinguished looking cauliflower

(with especially abundant and firm lobes) turned his head

and upbraided me for my lack of manners.

He said that he was the 9^th reincarnation

of Einsteinâ€™s brain -- having previously revisited

this world as a jumbo-shrimp, a rat-infested

disease, a pregnant mule and an amusement

ride train-car conductor with a broken watch.

He said it had not always been so,

at first heâ€™d been lonely, but

eventually he followed his own advice

and invented himself as a god. After which, he

and Vishnu went careening through the universe

(breaking his own laws and exceeding the speeding

limits) swilling plum brandy on flame-spouting

Harleys -- creating and destroying worlds at will.

He still stood strong upon

a relatively sound foundation,

but knobby knees were bruised and black

from the beating. The bluish-gray fuzz at his temples

had already begun to traverse those

snow-covered bushes, imparting a sense

of disheveled gravity.

He asked me to drop him off in the bakery aisle,

he said that one of his old flames had ended up

there as a cinnamon-raisin bagel and he was

anxious to see her while she was still fresh, and

there was still time.

Sacred Geometry

2005-03-21T03:38:00.000-05:00

by robert schaefer

I once knew a man who wanted to solve all of the problems of the world through numbers, he told me that St. Bernard defined God as â€œlength, width, height and depth,â€� he believed that if he could just find the right equation, that his simple code could be applied to all things and it would all just fall into place and harmony would prevail.

It was based on the theory that all things were created equal and so, at their cores, everything would respond to the same stimuli in roughly the same way and therefore if he could just figure out that golden equation, he would be able to broadcast it from the airwaves and we would all turn into happy airline attendants with cheek chunk chirpy smiles and a pockets full of dry roasted peanuts in individually packaged foil bags. And then we would all walk around with little silver trays and politely offer cocktails to each other to make the long flight more comfortable. I think that guy is dead now - poisoned by his own enthusiasm; he drank it straight from the bottle. Me, Iâ€™ve always looked for truth in the hand-rubbed surfaces of beaten gold.

My face always seems distorted when I peer into its depths and then I see myself looking back from inside and I look trapped in there, but well-tanned and with a ruddy glow to my complexion. I wave to myself and try to be polite, and from inside I wave back, but itâ€™s hard to see if Iâ€™m smiling, especially with the green halo over my head, which looks to be made of heavy glass and threatens to come crashing down at any moment.

Green glass halos always leave a nasty mark when they come crashing down, unlike the ones you get from Bloomingdales on 5^th Avenue â€“ those are much better quality -- and come with a money-back guarantee -- but what a difference in price! I asked the saleslady about it when I bought my first one and you could tell she was new, she didnâ€™t really know much about them: I suspect she got her job because she was quite a looker and so guys like me would simply nod their heads a lot and plaster stupid smiles on our faces no matter what answer she gave us. Anyway, I asked her about the difference between a halo bought in a fancy department store and the ones you can get at the Super Wal-Mart and she said that theirs were not produced in huge sweatshops overseas and were 100% genuine, American made. So I asked her what would happen if I wore a Chinese version, would it make me more like the Buddha? And she said she would have to ask her manager and then she disappeared and she never came back, which was a shame because I would have liked to have asked her out, but then the salesgirls never want to go out with the customers unless they have already worked out the question of green glass halos and golden reflections on their own.

Two Whites (a translation; original below)

2005-03-20T15:52:00.000-05:00

Two whites
The immaculate and aggressive wall,
The dull and sallow skin.

Obviously, death was imminent.

Her pale body wrapped in a virgin-white sheet would join the others under
the basement's fluorescent lights. On a visit there, the lights blinded
her. The corpses captivated her as she waited, and she came over and over
to see them in their silent temple.

Calming,
The morgue, with its white body-clothes:
The center piece of the hospital's minimalist aesthetics.
None of the wards' clutter,
But pure monochrome geometry.
Stark shapes, shades of color carefully absent:
The secret joy of winning coldness.

Let place be an object:
Starched, rectangular, light beams, aseptic.
The hospital's most perfect room:
The final vision of its logic

Nothing human,
Too much of this world here where time is not.
Bodies soiled by life's breath cannot rest here:
Inertness obligatory.
The shroud uniforms the erosion away.
Life alone could disrupt the balance and the alchemy.

Her heartbeat,
The caterwaul of revolt in this corpse archive:
Its logic refused.
Tomorrow, she would be here for her first show:
- Post mortem -
She thought until sublime, then remembered doleful,
And shook, and whispered:
"Hold onto life, show our imperfection."

About to return to her patient cell,
A silhouette in the bright light.
Pale and morbid,
A face of symmetry.

Harmony,
Reassurance, then fear.
Absent coloring:
No whisper of life,
Neither in the ears, nor in the cheeks.

Concretely,
A monochord worry
Lacking intonation:
"Hello, ma'am", said the metronome,
Meaning nothing.

Inutterable terror.
An abyss: "Hello,doctor."
Said her voice, other from his,
Tired - Stammering-alive.

"Have you lost someone?"
Without feeling, mere rhetorical,
No answer needed:
Dialogue made impossible.
A soliloquy.

Hostility stood there, the murmur of revolt could now not be heard. All of a
sudden, she felt desperately alone: fine tears roped silently under red
eyes, she looked away, turned her wheelchair and rolled back to her
anonymous room.

Obviously, death was imminent.

--------------------------------
[original]

HÃ´pital

Le blanc immaculÃ© et agressif des murs, contrastant avec la blancheur terne et livide de son teint, lui rappelait Ã chaque instant lâ€™inavouable : bientÃ´t, elle allait mourir.

Son corps blafard, enveloppÃ© dans un drap diaphane, irait en rejoindre tant dâ€™autres sous les nÃ©ons Ã©tincelants qui tapissaient le sous-sol du bÃ¢timent principal. Plusieurs fois, sous des prÃ©textes quelconques, elle sâ€™Ã©tait risquÃ©e Ã pÃ©nÃ©trer dans ce lieu dont la blancheur cristalline, plus Ã©blouissante encore que celle de la chambre, aveuglait son regard. EnvoÃ»tÃ©e par ces cadavres dans lâ€™attente (et, Ã cet effet, soigneusement disposÃ©s en rangÃ©es horizontales et verticales), elle revenait rÃ©guliÃ¨rement, comme mue par une incontrÃ´lable pulsion, vers le temple oÃ¹ ceux-ci reposaient dans un silence de circonstance. Un inexplicable sentiment de bien-Ãªtre, presque dâ€™apaisement la saisissait alors. Parce quâ€™elle allait jusquâ€™Ã recouvrir les corps imparfaits dâ€™une Ã©toffe Ã la blancheur irrÃ©prochable, la morgue sâ€™Ã©rigeait en piÃ¨ce maÃ®tresse de la grande Å“uvre minimaliste que figurait lâ€™hÃ´pital. Contrairement aux cellules des patients, oÃ¹ mille objets inutiles venaient polluer lâ€™intention architecturale premiÃ¨re, la morgue Ã©tait rÃ©duite Ã sa plus authentique expression artistique : configurations gÃ©omÃ©triques simples, formulÃ©es dans une monochromie puissante et imperturbable. La limpiditÃ© des formes, lâ€™harmonieux dÃ©gradÃ© de couleurs absentes trahissaient la joie secrÃ¨te dâ€™une froideur suprÃªme et conquÃ©rante. Lâ€™endroit, lui semblait-elle, affirmait avec suffisance son autonomie dâ€™objet. Tout semblait concourir Ã cette revendication : les draps blancs amidonnÃ©s, les tables rectangulaires et incolores, les faisceaux de lumiÃ¨re homogÃ¨nes, le carrelage aseptique. La morgue, en somme, Ã©tait infiniment supÃ©rieure Ã nâ€™importe quelle autre piÃ¨ce de lâ€™hÃ´pital, parce quâ€™elle seule parachevait la vision dÃ©finitive qui en commandait la logique. Elle avait su exclure lâ€™Ã©lÃ©ment humain, trop sÃ©culier pour mÃ©riter sa place dans une fresque immobile et Ã©ternelle dont la vocation consistait Ã dÃ©fier lâ€™imperturbable Ã©coulement du temps. Ceux dont le corps Ã©tait souillÃ© dâ€™un incommode souffle de vie ne pouvaient obtenir de reposer en ce lieu : ce nâ€™est quâ€™une fois rÃ©duis Ã lâ€™Ã©tat de matiÃ¨re inerte quâ€™il leur appartenait dâ€™y prendre ancrage. Afin de couvrir les stigmates de lâ€™Ã©rosion, les ravages du temps que pouvaient trahir ces corps flÃ©tris, il Ã©tait nÃ©cessaire dâ€™avoir recours au linceul, habit parfait car uniforme, Ã©gal et lisse. Seule la prÃ©sence dâ€™une vie aurait pu troubler cet Ã©quilibre, en dÃ©truire par sa prÃ©sence lâ€™alchimie Ã la fois complexe et subtile.

Son cÅ“ur qui battait, au milieu de ces cadavres numÃ©rotÃ©s, cataloguÃ©s, et sur le point dâ€™Ãªtre archivÃ©s, constituait pour elle comme un timide miaulement de rÃ©volte, le refus hÃ©sitant dâ€™une logique catÃ©gorique, implacable, intransigeante â€“ mais pourtant si sÃ©duisante, tellement belle ! Demain, elle serait allongÃ©e lÃ , deviendrait partie intÃ©grante de ce spectacle et jouerait sa premiÃ¨re et derniÃ¨re reprÃ©sentation. Post mortem. Contemplative, elle ne manquait dâ€™Ãªtre sÃ©duite par le sublime du tableau ; mais elle ne pouvait nÃ©anmoins sâ€™empÃªcher dâ€™y voir quelque chose de lugubrement prÃ©monitoire. Un frÃ©missement sâ€™emparait alors de son Ãªtre frÃªle et, dâ€™une faible voix porteuse dâ€™amertume et dâ€™espoir, elle susurrait alors : Â« Se cramponner Ã la vie, lâ€™affirmation de notre imperfectionâ€¦ Â»
Tandis quâ€™elle sâ€™apprÃªtait Ã retourner vers sa loge de malade, elle tressaillit en apercevant Ã ses cÃ´tÃ©s une silhouette silencieuse et immobile. MalgrÃ© la lumiÃ¨re aveuglante, elle parvint Ã distinguer que lâ€™individu Ã©tait de sexe masculin. Celui-ci portait, sur un Ã©piderme Ã la pÃ¢leur uniforme et morbide, une blouse dâ€™une Ã©clatante propretÃ©. Ses traits reflÃ©taient une symÃ©trie impeccable : les composantes de son visage (yeux, sourcils, oreilles et narines) Ã©taient exactement Ã©quidistantes par rapport Ã un axe central, lui-mÃªme strictement rectiligne. Lâ€™harmonie de ce faciÃ¨s pouvait dâ€™abord paraÃ®tre rassurante, mais sa froide et absolue indiffÃ©rence le rendait trÃ¨s vite inquiÃ©tant. Aucune coloration, au niveau des oreilles comme des joues, ne venait suggÃ©rer la prÃ©sence dâ€™une quelconque Ã©tincelle de vie. Ce corps et ce visage amorphes lui apparurent comme lâ€™expression concrÃ¨te dâ€™un souci formel : ils nâ€™avaient rien dâ€™humain, pensa-t-elle.
- Bonjour, madame.
PrononcÃ©es sur un ton monocorde, sans intonation aucune, ces paroles avaient Ã©tÃ© articulÃ©es lentement, avec une prÃ©cision mÃ©tronomique. NÃ©gligeables, elles confirmaient nÃ©anmoins le sombre Ã©chafaudage dÃ©ductif auquel lâ€™homme sâ€™Ã©tait livrÃ© et, pour cette raison, lui inspirÃ¨rent une terreur indicible. Le fossÃ© qui la sÃ©parait de cet individu Ã©tait immense, infranchissable.
- Bonjour docteur
Sa voix nâ€™avait rien de semblable Ã la mÃ©canique vocale de son interlocuteur. Un lÃ©ger dÃ©faut de prononciation trahissait une gorge fatiguÃ©e, un bÃ©gaiement laissait paraÃ®tre sa dÃ©tresse. Oui, elle vivait encore.
- Avez-vous perdu quelquâ€™un ?
A la maniÃ¨re dont lâ€™interrogation avait Ã©tÃ© formulÃ©e, la moindre bribe de sensibilitÃ© â€“ dont le contenu linguistique suggÃ©rait pourtant lâ€™existence â€“ avait disparu: celle-ci Ã©tait devenue une simple question rhÃ©torique, Ã laquelle toute rÃ©ponse aurait inÃ©vitablement parue superflue, insignifiante, presque dÃ©placÃ©e. Son silence fut donc la meilleure maniÃ¨re dâ€™entretenir ce dialogue impromptu, qui nâ€™avait depuis le dÃ©but Ã©tÃ© quâ€™un long et douloureux soliloque. Tout lui Ã©tait cependant devenu hostile. La simple prÃ©sence de cet homme avait ajoutÃ© un poids insupportable Ã lâ€™impÃ©nÃ©trable Ã©difice qui Ã©crasait maintenant son murmure dâ€™insurrection, au point dâ€™en rendre le chuchotement parfaitement inaudible. La solitude lâ€™avait gagnÃ© dâ€™un coup, et son Ã©motivitÃ© repris le dessus avec force : un lÃ©ger filin de larmes coula sans bruit de ses yeux rougis et gonflÃ©s. Elle dÃ©tourna le regard, fit pivoter son fauteuil, et roula de nouveau vers sa chambre anonyme.

BientÃ´t, elle allait mourir.

Beatified

2005-03-20T15:44:00.000-05:00

In honor of Pope John Paul II, whose penchant for beatifying is truly remarkable, here is thus assembled a list of his beatifications from the beginning of his papacy through 2000:

1979: Margarret Ebner (Feb. 24); Francis Coll, O.P., Jacques Laval, S.S.Sp. (Apr. 29); Enrique de OssÃ³ y CervellÃ³ (Oct. 14).

1980: JosÃ© de Anchieta, Peter of St. Joseph Betancur, Francois de Montmorency Laval, Kateri Tekakwitha, Marie Guyart of the Incarnation (June 22); Don Luigi Orione, Bartolomea Longo, Maria Anna Sala (Oct. 26).

1981: Sixteen Martyrs of Japan (Lorenzo Ruiz and Companions) (Feb 18; canonized Oct. 18, 1987); Maria Repetto, Alan de Solminihac, Richard Pampuri, Claudine Thevenet, Aloysius (Luigi) Scrosoppi (Oct. 4).

1982: Peter Donders, C.SS.R., Marie Rose Durocher, Andre Bessette, C.S.C., Maria Angela Astorch, Marie Rivier (May 23); Fra Angelico (equivalent beatification) (July); Jeanne Jugan, Salvatore Lilli and 7 Armenian Companions (Oct. 3); Sr. Angela of the Cross (Nov. 5).

1983: Maria Gabriella Sagheddu (Jan. 25); Luigi Versiglia, Callisto Caravario (May 15); Ursula Ledochowska (June 20); Raphael (Jozef) Kalinowski, Bro. Albert (Adam Chmielowski), T.O.R. (June 22); Giacomo Cusmano, Jeremiah of Valachia, Domingo Iturrate Zubero (Oct. 30); Marie of Jesus Crucified (Marie Bouardy) (Nov. 13).

1984: Fr. William Repin and 98 Companions (Martyrs of Angers during French Revolution), Giovanni Mazzucconi (Feb. 19); Marie Leonie Paradis (Sept. 11); Federico Albert, Clemente Marchisio, Isidore of St. Joseph (Isidore de Loor), Rafaela Ybarra de Villalongo (Sept. 30); JosÃ© Manyanet y Vives, Daniel Brottier, C.S.Sp., Sr. Elizabeth of the Trinity (Elizabeth Catez) (Nov. 25).

1985: Mercedes of Jesus (Feb. 1); Ana de los Angeles Monteagudo (Feb. 2); Pauline von Mallinckrodt, Catherine Troiani (Apr. 14); Benedict Menni, Peter Friedhofen (June 23); Anwarite Nangapeta (Aug. 15); Virginae Centurione Bracelli (Sept. 22); Diego Luis de San Vitores, S.J., Jose M. Rubio y Peralta, S.J., Francisco Garate, S.J. (Oct. 6); Titus Brandsma, O.Carm. (Nov. 3); Pio Campidelli, C.P., Marie Teresa of Jesus Gerhardinger, Rafqa Ar-Rayes (Nov. 17).

1986: Alphonsa Mattathupandatu of the Immaculate Conception, Kuriakose Elias Chavara (Feb. 8); Antoine Chevrier (Oct. 4); Teresa Maria of the Cross Manetti (Oct. 19).

1987: Maria Pilar of St. Francis Borgia, Teresa of the Infant Jesus, Maria Angeles of St. Joseph, Cardinal Marcellis Spinola y Maestre, Emmanuel Domingo y Sol (Mar. 29); Teresa of Jesus â€œde los Andesâ€� (Apr. 3); Edith Stein (Teresa Benedicta of the Cross) (May 1); Rupert Meyer, S.J. (May 3); Pierre-Francois Jamet, Cardinal Andrea Carlo Ferrari, Benedicta Cambiagio Frassinello, Louis Moreau (May 10); Carolina Kozka, Michal Kozal (June 10); George Matulaitis (Matulewicz) (June 28); Marcel Callo, Pierino Morosini, Antonia Mesina (Oct. 4); Blandina Marten, Ulricke Nische, Jules Reche (Bro. Arnold) (Nov. 1); 85 Martyrs (d. between 1584-1689) of England, Scotland and Wales (Nov. 22).

1988: John Calabria, Joseph Nascimbeni (Apr. 17); Pietro Bonilli, Kaspar Stangassinger, Francisco Palau y Quer, Savina Petrilli (Apr. 24), Laura Vicuna (Sept. 3); Joseph Gerard (Sept. 11); Miguel Pro, Giuseppe Benedetto Dusmet, Francisco Faa di Bruno, Junipero Serra, Frederick Jansoone, Josefa Naval Girbes (Sept. 25); Bernardo Maria Silvestrelli, Charles Houben, Honoratus Kozminski (Oct. 16); Niels Stensen (Nicolaus Steno) (Oct. 23); Katharine Drexel, 3 Missionary Martyrs of Ethiopia (Liberato Weiss, Samuel Marzorati, Michele Pio Fasoli) (Nov. 20).

1989: Martin of Saint Nicholas, Melchior of St. Aug.ine, Mary of Jesus of the Good Shepherd, Maria Margaret Caiani, Maria of Jesus Siedliska, Maria Catherine of St. Aug.ine (Apr. 23); Victoria Rasoamanarivo (Apr. 30); Bro. Scubilionis (John Bernard Rousseau) (May 2); Elizabeth Renzi, Antonio Lucci (June 17); Niceforo de Jesus y Maria (Vicente Diez Tejerina and 25 Companions (martyred in Spain), Lorenzo Salvi, Gertrude Caterina Comensoli, Francisca Ana Cirer Carbonell (Oct. 1); 7 Martyrs from Thailand (Philip Sipong, Sr. Agnes Phila, Sr. Lucia Khambang, Agatha Phutta, Cecilia Butsi, Bibiana Khampai, Maria Phon), Timothy Giaccardo, Mother Maria of Jesus Deluil-Martiny (Oct. 22); Giuseppe Baldo (Oct. 31).

1990: 9 Martyrs of Astoria during Spanish Civil War (De la Salle Brothers Cyrill Bertran, Marciano Jose, Julian Alfredo, Victoriano Pio, Benjamin Julian, Aug.o Andres, Benito de Jesus, Aniceto Adolfo; and Passionist priest Innocencio Inmaculada), Mercedes Prat, Manuel Barbal Cosan (Brother Jaime), Philip Rinaldi (Apr. 29); Juan Diego (confirmation of Apr. 9 decree), 3 Child Martyrs (Cristobal, Antonio and Juan), Fr. Jose Maria de Yermo y Parres (May 6); Pierre Giorgio Frassati (May 20); Hanibal Maria Di Francia, Joseph Allamano (Oct. 7); Marthe Aimee LeBouteiller, Louise Therese de Montaignac de Chauvance, Maria Schinina, Elisabeth Vendramini (Nov. 4).

1991: Annunciata Cocchetti, Marie Therese Haze, Clara Bosatta (Apr. 21); Jozef Sebastian Pelczar (June 2); Boleslava Lament (June 5); Rafael Chylinski (June 9); Angela Salawa (Aug. 13); Edoardo Giuseppe Rosaz (July 14, Susa, Italy); Pauline of the Heart of Jesus in Agony Visentainer (Oct. 18, Brazil); Adolph Kolping (Oct. 27).

1992: Josephine Bakhita, Josemaria Escriva de Balaguer (May 17); Francesco Spinelli (June 21, Caravaggio, Italy); 17 Irish Martyrs, Rafael ArnÃ¡iz BarÃ³n, Nazaria Ignacia March Mesa, LÃ©onie FranÃ§oise de Sales Aviat, and Maria Josefa Sancho de Guerra (Sept. 27); 122 Martyrs of Spanish Civil War, Narcisa Martillo MorÃ¡n (Oct. 25); CristÃ³bal Magellanes and 24 companions, Mexican martyrs, and Maria de JesÃºs Sacramentado Venegas (Nov. 22).

1993: Dina Belanger (Mar. 20); John Duns Scotus (Mar. 20, cult solemnly recognized); Mary Angela Truszkowska, Ludovico of Casoria, Faustina Kowalska, Paula Montal FornÃ©s (Apr. 18); Stanislaus Kazimierczyk (Apr. 18, cult solemnly recognized); Maurice Tornay, Marie-Louise Trichet, Columba Gabriel and Florida Cevoli (May 16); Giuseppe Marello (Sept. 26); Eleven martyrs of Almeria, Spain, during Spanish Civil War (2 bishops, 7 brothers, l priest, l lay person); Victoria Diez y Bustos de Molina, Maria Francesca (Anna Maria) Rubatto; Pedro Castroverde, Maria Crucified (Elisabetta Maria) Satellico (Oct. 10).

1994: Isidore Bakanja, Elizabeth Canori Mora; Dr. Gianna Beretta Molla (Apr. 24); Nicolas Roland, Alberto Hurtado Cruchaga, Maria Rafols, Petra of St. Joseph Perez Florida, Josephine Vannini (Oct. 16); Magdalena Caterina Morano (Nov. 5); Hyacinthe Marie Cormier, Marie Poussepin, Agnes de Jesus Galand, Eugenia Joubert, Claudio Granzotto (Nov. 20).

1995: Peter ToRot (Jan. 17); Mother Mary of the Cross MacKillop (Jan. 19); Joseph Vaz (Jan. 21); Rafael Guizar Valencia, Modestino of Jesus and Mary, Genoveva Torres Morales, Grimoaldo of the Purification (Jan. 29); Johann Nepomuk von Tschiderer (Apr. 30); Maria Helena Stollenwerk, Maria Alvarado Cordozo, Giuseppina Bonino, Maria Domenica Brun Barbantini, Agostino Roscelli (May 7); Damien de Veuster (June 4); 109 Martyrs (64 from French Revolution â€“ Martyrs of La Rochelle â€“ and 45 from Spanish Civil War), Anselm Polanco Fontecha, Felipe Ripoll Morata, and Pietro Casini (Oct. 1); Mary Theresa Scherer, Maria Bernarda Butler and Marguerite Bays (Oct. 29).

1996: Daniel Comboni and Guido Maria Conforti (Mar. 17); Cardinal Alfredo Ildefonso Schuster, O.S.B., Filippo Smaldone and Gennaro Sarnelli (priests) and Candida Maria de Jesus Cipitria y Barriola, Maria Raffaella Cimatti, Maria Antonia Bandres (religious) (May 12), Bernhard Lichtenberg and Karl Leisner (June 23), Wincenty Lewoniuk and 12 companions, Edmund Rice, Maria Ana Mogas Fontcuberta and Marcelina Darowska (Oct 6); Otto Neururer, Jakob Gapp and Catherine Jarrige (Nov. 24).

1997: Bishop Florentino Asensio Barroso, Sr. Maria Encarnacion Rosal of the Sacred Heart, Fr. Gaetano Catanoso, Fr. Enrico Rebuschini and Ceferino Gimenez Malla, first gypsy beatified (May 4); Bernardina Maria Jablonska, Maria Karlowska (June 6); FrÃ©dÃ©ric Ozanam (Aug. 22); Bartholomew Mary Dal Monte (Sep. 27); ElÃas del Socorro Nieves, Domenico Lentini, Giovanni Piamarta, Emilie dâ€™Hooghvorst, Maria Teresa Fasce (Oct. 12); John Baptist Scalabrini, Vilmos Apor, MarÃa Vicenta of St. Dorothy ChÃ¡vez Orozco (Nov. 9).

1998: Bishop Vincent Bossilkov, MarÃa SallÃ©s, Brigida of Jesus (Mar. 15); Fr. Cyprian Tansi (Mar. 22); Nimatullah al-Hardini, 11 Spanish nuns (May 10); Secondo Polla (May 23); Giovanni Maria Boccardo, Teresa Grillo Chavez, Teresa Bracco (May 24); Jakob Kern, Maria Restituta Kafka, and Anton Schwartz (June 21); Giuseppe Tovini (Sept. 20); Cardinal Alojzije Stepinac (Oct. 3); AntÃ´nio de Santâ€™Anna GalvÃ£o, Faustino Miguez, Zeferino Agostini, Mother Theodore GuÃ©rin (Oct. 25).

1999: Vicente Soler, and six Augustinian Recollect Companions, Manuel Martin Sierra, Nicolas Barre, Anna Schaeffer (Mar. 7); Padre Pio (May 2); Fr. Stefan Wincenty Frelichowski (June 7); 108 Polish Martyrs, Regina Protmann, Edmund Bojanowski (June 13); Bishop Anton Slomsek (Sept. 19); Ferdinando Maria Baccilieri, Edward Maria Joannes Poppe, Arcangelo Tadini, Mariano da Roccacasale, Diego Oddi, Nicola da Gesturi (Oct. 3).

2000: AndrÃ© de Soveral, AmbrÃ³sio Francisco Ferro and 28 Companions, Nicolas Bunkerd Kitbamrung, Maria Stella Mardosewicz and 10 Companions, PedroCalungsod and Andrew of PhÃº YÃªn (March 5); Mariano de Jesus Euse Hoyos, Francis Xavier Seelos, Anna Rosa Gattorno, Maria Elisabetta Hesselblad, Mariam Thresia Chiramel Mankidiyan (April 9); Jacinta and Francisco Marto of Fatima (May 13); Pope Pius IX, Pope John XXIII, Tommaso Reggio, Guillaume-Joseph Chaminade, Columba Marmion (September 3).

2001: JosÃ© Aparicio Sanz and 232 Companions of the Spanish Civil War (March 11); Manuel Gonzalez Garcia, Marie-Anne Blondin, Caterina Volpicelli, Caterina Cittadini, Carlos Manuel Cecilio Rodriguez Santiago (April 29); George Preca, Ignatius Falzon, Maria Adeodata Pisani (May 9); Abp. JÃ³sef Bilczewski and Fr. Sygmunt Gorazdowski, Ukrainian martyrs (June 27).

Courtesy of the official website of the Holy See.

What Should We Call Our Entirely Theoretical Band

2005-03-19T17:01:00.000-05:00

By Stephen Guy Flower Spackman

-Zones of Estrangment
-Frisky Matrons
-Relentless Existentialists
-My Dad's Lesbians
-Nihilist Playboys
-Mobile Hips
-The Erotic Neurotics
-Morphology of the Diaper (album)
-Melodrama Comes With Gayness (instrumental track)
-Sneaky Dykes (punk song)
-T-Rex in a Dress
-Gay KKK
-Invisible Midgets
-Insidious Cunt
-Improbably Bisexual

Practical uses for an OUROBOROS:

2005-03-19T17:00:00.000-05:00

By Jim Fingal

* Symbol for the cyclic Nature of the Universe: creation flowing from
destruction, Life arising from Death, a serpent devouring its tail in
order to sustain life, in a never-ending cycle of renewal and rebirth.
* Medallion of invulnerability
* Ineffectual Sweatband
* Inner tube for the rapids of Acheron, the River of Woe
* Napkin holder of the Gods
* Living Jewelry (for a goth)
* Ring for a very small planet
* Pet for a infant
* Logo for hit TV show "Millennium," created by Chris Carter
* Awesome tattoo
* Paper-weight on the polished marble coffee table of a self-described
"Post-poststructuralist"
* Clever present for Larry Niven
* A prop for the best heavy metal show ever
* A troubled boomerang
* Blunt object to strike Jung with from behind when he's not looking
* Biting his own tail while residing in the sea that surrounds the
earth, Jormungand ensnares all of mankind in his coils. One of the three
children of Loki and the giantess Angrboda, Jormungand was cast down
from the heavens by Odin. During Ragnarok, the earth will be rent with
earthquakes, and as the wolf Fenrir is freed, the sea will overflow
because Jormungand will writhe in fury as he makes his way toward the
land, his poisonous slime leaving the land fallow in his wake. In the
final battle, Jormungand and Thor will kill each other.
* Hula Hoop

Unified Beat Theory...

2005-03-18T21:12:00.000-05:00

clicky title.

By Tim Hwang

A Choir of Millions

2005-03-18T21:01:00.000-05:00

By Rivers Cuomo

I went to the World Cup in Korea in 2002 and got a taste of what real patriotism is like. Iâ€™m talking about millionsâ€”literally, millionsâ€”of people, all in red shirts, all drunk off their rear-ends, and all singing songs about how their country is the best country in the world. Iâ€™m talking about fireworks being shot off in every direction, vomit being spewed forth onto every street corner, and boys and girls, men and women, old and young, holding hands, dancing and jumping in the streets. Iâ€™m talking about confetti. And everyoneâ€”everyoneâ€”had black hair, white skin, Korean eyes, and Korean bodies. They were all Korean. Except for me. And my three friends.

Even though this was soccer, we were never afraid for our lives. There was no hint of violence in the air. There was only joy, exuberance, and pride, and, although we were foreigners, the Koreans showed us immaculate hospitality, genuine fascination, or, at worst, feigned indifference. I would rate the experience up there with some of the most transcendent experiences of my life.

Thatâ€™s why I was so disappointed to see, a few months later, back in the Olâ€™ U-S-of-A, on the front page of the L.A. Times, as I happened to be walking down Sunset Boulevard, passing a newspaper dispenser, a full-color picture of a similar scene: God-knows how many Koreans, in red shirts all, storming the streets of Seoul, not in celebration, but in protest, vehement protest, and not against someone or something else, but against me, I mean, against America, and, I imagine, all that it stands for. I stared at the newspaper, through the little plastic window, and thought to myself, â€œWhat happened? What did I do?â€�

There are a lot of people out there, apparently, who donâ€™t like America. They want to kill Americans. This makes me sad.

I tried to blow off the issue, but kept thinking, â€œMillions of people want to kill me and I donâ€™t know why.â€� I decided to conduct a serious inquiry into myself, my life, my actions, my motives, and my habits, and find out why, exactly, I am hated.

The first thing I had to admit to myself, with shame, as I examined, is that I do not floss regularly. I know this doesnâ€™t warrant killing me, in and of itself, but I think it points to a deeper flaw in my character: Iâ€™m stubbornly reluctant to expend energy on any activity that doesnâ€™t bring me immediate material or social rewards. Indeed, that sounds very American and perhaps that is one reason I am hated.

Second of all, I have listened to a lot of Heavy Metal in my life, decadent music by some cultureâ€™s standards. I had the Ozzy Ozbourne album where he had the jelly-like substance dripping from his mouth and I thrilled at the thought of him biting a head off a dead bat. I played electric guitar, loudly, through my teens, regardless of othersâ€™ ears and peace of mind, and grew up to be a rock star and continue the legacy of decadence that is rock music. I admit this.

I also watched a fair amount of TV growing up. In eighth grade, I would come home every day from school and watch Guiding Light. One of the only times Iâ€™ve ever been star-struckâ€”like totally pulling-on-the-sleeve-of-the-friend-next-to-me-saying-â€œlook whoâ€™s here!â€�-star-struckâ€”was after my band played on Saturday Night Live in 2001, and at the after party, in the plaza in front of Rockefeller Center, the actor who played Phillip Spauldingâ€”lover of the mysterious Nola Ryanâ€”walked by. Some cultures might find this shallowness hateful in me, and I can understand why.

I practically flunked out of high-school, completely taking the opportunity, and my own talents, for granted. I even cheated on my English final exam, senior year. I got caught, though, so I donâ€™t feel as bad as if I had gotten away with it. Ultimately, I didnâ€™t give a darn about classes. I just wanted to play floor hockey and look at girls. Now that Iâ€™m an adult, I still pretty much just want to play floor hockey and look at girls. What culture would look up to such a base creature?

I donâ€™t really have any faith in any sort of a God. Iâ€™m â€œagnosticâ€�, which means, â€œI have no idea whatâ€™s going on.â€� Iâ€™m pretty comfortable with that term. It also means, however, that I donâ€™t practice religion. I donâ€™t go to Church. Iâ€™ve never read the Bible or the Torah. I donâ€™t think I even heard the word â€œIslamâ€� until I was in my twenties. That would make me hateful in the eyes of many.

I donâ€™t take much responsibilityâ€”actually, any responsibilityâ€”for my government, or what they do. I often donâ€™t know who our vice president is. Iâ€™ve never voted. I know that this sort of apathy, though it may once have been fashionable in America, is now just loathsome.

I donâ€™t read the newspaper (except as Iâ€™m walking by dispensers on the street), I donâ€™t watch the news, I donâ€™t know whoâ€™s on the ten dollar bill (or the five or the twenty unless I think really hard.) I basically have no idea whatâ€™s going on outside of the one square mile area in which I live. I have made millions of dollars and yet almost all of it sits in banks, who-knows-where, while millions of people starve to death every year. (Is it really millions that starve? I have no idea, because, apparently, I do not care enough to check. Shameful!) I have had girlfriends, who loved me with all of their hearts, who thought the world of me, who did anything I asked, who bought me groceries, gave me rides, gave me a place to live, gave me faith in myself and my manhoodâ€”who I used for all they were worth. I ran away, once, when my brother was being beaten up, and I pretended like I didnâ€™t know it was happening. Worst of all, when I try to make sense of myself, the world, and my desire to be a better person, I get overwhelmed and give up. I crawl back into my little shell and just hope that things will be okay. Thatâ€™s pretty bad.

Therefore, I can understand why the world hates me. I really can. But that doesnâ€™t make it any easier to accept the fact that Iâ€™ll never be able to join the crowd in Korea, to join them in singing, dancing, shooting off fireworks, and knowing that my voice is but one in a choir of millions.

verba volent

2005-03-18T20:36:00.000-05:00

By Michael Sanchez

swallow it down â€“ verba volent

as they say

over the glade, on some

unsuspecting farmerâ€™s head

our meteor, bottles in the bombshelter

â€¦

enough to make you spit

dim the lights, turn off the radio,

peel back wrappers covering jars

the night before the apocalypse

itâ€™ll just be us â€“

two under the blanket, thatâ€™s it.

smelling our way through a maze

you follow the pipes, their pulse beating

as I try to block the heat.

â€¦

enough of high-pitched divisions

take my bic, and swear by it

not to write me off

sacrosanctly (!)

I expect your reply

before tomorrow morning.

"our beat generation"

2005-03-18T20:33:00.000-05:00

By Cameron Lock

.

You are as invaluable to me

as Neal Cassady to Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Ken Kesey.

Back when i used to believe that

our tiny ensemble would reach a similar level of fame

i would drive you around Washington, D.C.

at two in the morning.

You would look out the window and say

your life was all action and no reflection.

That the rest of this city created,

and all you did was ride its metro lines,

drink its metaphorical coffee grinds.

You said we were the rock stars and gloomy poets

and you were our number one fan,

unable to see it the other way around.

You had decided to become nocturnal in the month of july,

to discover the secret dawns that the rest of us,

asleep in our shoeboxes,

would never know.

Infomercials,

pancake specials at greasy diners,

where it is that the homeless sleep and which stoplights are the

first to blink yellow.

They weren't secrets worth knowing but they were yours to know,

and when you told us about your nighttime mini-adventures, we took notes.

Everyone thought it a true literary accomplishment,

a perfect embellishment of your character,

until, you said, your midnight lunches,

diary politics and careful study of fireflies

got lonely.

There are more songs about you than anyone i know,

and i am confident in telling you that

now there is a poem.

You are writing my novels for me,

and you are composing our three-minute symphonies

for all of us.

You are the drum beat to

our small, local generation.

Interview with Dario Robleto

2005-03-18T20:28:00.000-05:00

By Bea Camacho

Q: Your work is grounded in actual historical events but tends to have a fictive quality which seems linked to your interest in magic. What is the relationship between truth and fiction in your work?

A: I believe in a magic that’s possible. I think there’s something much more encompassing for everyone if they believe in a magic that is attainable rather than the form of magic that we grow up with as children. I’m interested in magic in relation to alchemy. The alchemist believed they were going to succeed in what they were doing and that’s the key to what I’m doing too. My works often fall in this area between truth and fiction because the materials or what I have done with them seem so unbelievable at first glance. I like working in this inbetween region because the viewer has to take a stance. Either you believe me, you come with me, or you don’t and either way is valid. To raise the issue of truth in artwork is such a valid thing to do right now, especially in 2004, with the whole issue of faith and how it’s manipulating politics all over the world. Truth gets muddied. I’m aware of that and trying to force it out, but I also acknowledge the viewer’s participation and the fact that they can fill in the blanks. But bottom line, in my work I would NEVER say or do something I didn’t really do. I find lying completely boring and part of a postmodern, ironic, cynical, apolitical stance I adamantly oppose. To really do and mean what you say is where it gets interesting. I stated this once before but what does it say of a culture where to be sincere has become the radical gesture?

Q: Many of your pieces address specific, personal histories which become collective through your use of materials, for example, with the bullet that is made from pieces of bullets from each American war. Can you discuss the importance of this universality?

A: I don’t think enough artists think about their viewer anymore. Even in the past decade, there has been this confrontation with the viewer. There is this new gothic sensibility. To me, working like that is confrontational in a negative way. It doesn’t allow the viewer to have a door in and I always want a door in for my viewer, although some people have mentioned that there is so much information in my work sometimes that it becomes an impediment. The way I see it, “It’s there if you want it.” If you spend the time digging through these layers I promise to make it an interesting endeavor. I leave a lot up to the viewer at that point. I am assuming my viewers are smart and actually want to engage. This not a stance I think most art takes to its viewers.The idea of universality is in my work in that I’m super- conscious of the viewer’s participation and that everyone can in a sense be a walking jukebox. I hope my artworks put a coin in everyone and ignites some personal soundtrack whether through a song reference or a material we can all identify with. The works are not about me but about all our histories and how they find their way into objects.

Q: Do you find that your ideas change according to the materials you are able to acquire?

A: So far to date, amazingly, there’s never been a material that I haven’t somehow been able to track down. It’s a really strange process because - swamp root, cramp bark, white willow - it just has to sound right. It has to work on the page first. The chain of reasoning will often lead me to find things I hadn’t thought of before like the trinitite glass led me to other forms of really strange glass. Certain meteorites have led me to extraterrestrial lava. Some asteroids are large enough that they produce some internal heat which produces an active lava system. If they’re not big enough to form a legitimate atmosphere, when those volcanoes erupt, it just spews out into space, there’s nothing to hold it back and it can eventually find its way onto earth. It’s lava from another world! I couldn’t even imagine that such a thing existed until I had done the research on other things. “Extraterrestrial lava”, the way those syllables work next to each other has to satisfy me as much as the material itself. That’s where it just becomes poetry. I’m choosing the next material based on language, totally on language. I think about what I would write next at this point and not about whether I can get the material.

I get worried when I start these pieces because some of the materials I use need to be dealt with so delicately. I hate shock factors in art or gross kinds of work. So far, no one’s come up to me and been insulted by the materials, so I think that’s a good sign that I’ve handled them well. But it moves you, because as I mentioned, turning to dust in poetry is one thing, but really turning to dust in front of you is another thing. It moves me because I have to earn the respect of the material.

Q: Where does your interest in DJ culture stem from?

A: Music has always been a constant in my life; the DJ thing specifically. I know exactly when that happened. In 1996, I realized that I could start to investigate this sculpturally. There was so little intellectual or conceptual literature being written about the burgeoning DJ culture. It was an open field. The only things that were out at the time were interviews with the DJs themselves in ‘zines or specialty DJ magazines. I would eat up anything I could find because I was so eager to read about the culture in a more critical way. Now the vacuum has been filled. There’s tons of critical discourse out there. Drum-n-bass was the thing that I was most into; this really dark hardcore drum-n-bass. I remember that every DJ would talk about their work in architectural or sculptural terms. I was so curious why that was what they were using to describe their sounds. Goldie, who had no musical training would walk into the studio and say ‘I need a drum beat that sounds like a rattlesnake moving through a tin coil pipe.’ Or others talking about a drum beat mimicking modernist architecture, housing projects, repetition and the brutality of these brick buildings over and over. Across the board everyone was talking like that and it started to hit me that there’s something about this musical form that really has a material dimension. There’s another DJ who I’m fascinated with called Dillinja. He would refer to himself as a bassologist. I really love this idea of the science of bass frequencies. He was always trying to make bass frequencies that would be rupturing inside your body. He understood his music-making habit’s influence on the body. Everywhere I looked there was some relationship between sound and material. I realized I would never be a good DJ, but there was a lot of potential to explore its material possibilities and how music and materials mutate back and forth. In 1996, I made that shift and my first vinyl works occur shortly after that.

Q: Do you consider your sculptures as having musical parallels?

A: I would definitely argue that I am making music. A musician or someone really grounded in music may not think so, but that‘s what DJ culture and the avant-garde tradition, with Cage and Stockhausen, opened the door to. The techniques of a DJ - spinning, splicing, scratching song selection and sequencing – are things that make you a good DJ technically. I simply transfer them over to materials. That’s part of why I would argue that I’m making music. I don’t expect music to be only an audible experience, and there’s a tradition of that in music. I think I’m in that trajectory of music making. For example, in Our Sin Was In Our Hips, my mother’s and father’s hips are igniting some kind of music in the room. Even with the pieces that have specific references, like Patsy Cline, I like to believe that if ten people are in the room, they’re all playing the song in their heads and there are ten different songs playing at different moments, which is how a DJ would overlap things. But it’s all personalized. There’s an empty room in a sense, but it’s booming with music if you consider the internalized soundtracks that the viewers are playing in their heads. I would argue that I’m making music in that way.

Q: How do you make your decision about whether to use actual sounds or to refer to sounds using physical objects?

A: I think to date there are three works that have an actual soundtrack, and one of them was in the Whitney Biennial; Vatican Radio. That sound was so important. It’s a piece by piece decision because some things are more powerful in your imagination. For example, I did a piece with an EVP recording (Electronic Voice Phenomena: voices and sounds of the dead or past, detected through magnetic audio tape) of a ghost humming a lullaby in Gettysburg on a reenactment date. Why would a ghost, a female ghost, be humming a lullaby on Gettysburg on a day when modern man is playing war? Knowing the tradition of black and white women during the civil war, the role of a lullaby in black oral tradition, the men that were lost and the women left with the children at home, the sound could have one meaning through a white perspective and a totally different one through a black perspective. To me the decision was to just leave it wide open for interpretation. However, the Vatican radio piece is so much more directed to a point. That sound was the Secretary of Defense calling out the first draft lottery numbers of World War II. It was this amazing moment in American radio history. The whole country was tuned in that night because everyone wanted to hear if their son or husband or brother was going to be called that night. Hearing it today, with what’s going on, has so much more impact than leaving that up to the imagination. So that piece called for a different strategy. It could be so many different criteria that make me decide, but to date, the majority of my pieces have been leaving it up to the imagination of the viewer.

Q: In your pieces, you have referred to sounds that are outside our personal memories. What is the relationship between sound and memory, or created memory, in your work?

A: The EVP thing is so interesting to me because it opens the door to sounds before recording technology was developed. My philosophy of sampling and how it relates to history are so wrapped up in this question. I am interested in collective memories through sound, like with the Gettysburg ghost. American history, to me, is all wrapped up in that one lullaby because of the variety of interpretations. That I could pluck it out of that ether and put it here today and let us meditate on it now is one of the beauties of sampling to me. One of the most beautiful and radical things about sampling is its’ open door policy to cultural memory. That conversations can take place through time. That history doesn’t have to be a dead weight, always written by others, weighing on our backs. Stirring these memories with sound is one of the most powerful associations we can experience.

Q: Can you talk about the role of music as a political vehicle?

A: It’s been great that in the past year we’ve actually seen some resurgence of that tradition, of the singer-songwriter protesting. I’ve always been envious of another generation’s relationship to music, where so much could be riding on your musical decisions. I want my decisions to matter like that. I want to buy so-and-so’s record because it’s some kind of remark against something. But times change and ideas change, and one of the big criticisms towards this generation is that we’re apolitical, ahistorical, we have no real sense of history, and the danger is that we’re going to be dismissed wholeheartedly one day, if we haven’t been already, as being an active generation that didn’t change anything. That’s why another huge point about sampling is that it offers a way out of that. As I’ve remarked in another essay, there’s no such thing as a good DJ who’s historically ignorant. If you don’t know what the politics were of the moment that produced that sound, and so, politics transforming into certain sounds, then why would you take that sound and put it next to this sound. If you don’t know the history, you’re just making a jumbled mess. So sampling actually offers a way out of the criticism of this generation because sampling insists that you know your history. That you actually engage with it. That’s why I’m so compelled to know my history.

Q: You talked about sampling as a healing gesture. How does this play out in your work and how do you see it affecting the world-at-large?

A: I definitely want to contribute to these ideas of healing, sampling, and people reinvestigating its political and critical possibilities. Sampling allows us to go back in time. I’m mesmerized by these recordings, like Natalie Cole singing a duet with her dead father or the remaining Beatles filling in the blanks of John’s voice since he’s long gone. Sampling allows these weird things to happen, that are real and that count now. They are real new creations, but the past is loaded in them. The technology is so accurate that it sounds like Nat King Cole, Natalie’s father, is singing in the same room with her and a contemporary listener who doesn’t know that history would not know otherwise, so it’s real in a sense. The healing thing is where I merge this knowledge of history. Like when I pluck those bullets through time, they’re such a precious object that I better know what I’m talking about or else it’s a huge disrespect, in my opinion, to its history. But in 2004, with what we know now and with the benefit of the hindsight of history, can I pluck something up to this moment and contribute to its healing today? I want to heal back through time and this is still the metaphor I’m trying to push out. Can I heal through time? Does art have the power to fix something that never got fixed, to correct a wrong that’s never been resolved? “What can art do anymore?” is what I ponder everyday. What can it really do? So as artists, what if you walk into your studio everyday and say “today I’m going to make something that works,” what if you just make that little shift in your head when you walk in the studio. These are the problems that I’m setting up right now.

Q: Although you try to close chapters and resolve events in the past, your work also seems so hopeful for the future.

A: To be hopeful is always a forward looking activity. I just truly believe that by looking to the past we can get to the future on better terms. I’m glad you get it because the work I showed yesterday definitely had dark undertones, but that was only one fragment of my work. Hope is everywhere in my belief and I hope that comes through because I’m not a pessimistic person. I want to stress the point that my work is ultimately about hope. It’s about acknowledging the horror of the past and the present but suggesting that we’re not powerless against it. We can be proactive about changing things, and that’s where the hope comes in. The fact that you would even think that you could change something is a hopeful act.

An essay by Dario is available at
http://www.yerbabuenaarts.org/archive/hiphop/robleto_deep.htm

Beat the World and Advance to Level 2

2005-03-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

By Ronen Mukamel

syncopation is an occupation
occupation is an occupation
our occupation is liberation

liberation by a liberal nation
is liberation for a liberal nation
is liberation of a liberal nation

the liberation will be televised. CNN, Wednesdays at 2.

[present manifesto] beat version

2005-03-18T13:33:00.000-05:00

By Daniel Luxemburg

WHO IS RIGHT, WHO CAN TELL, AND WHO GIVES A DAMN RIGHT NOW? (1)

"And tonight something equally epoch-making is taking place.

See?

They're applauding the DJ.

Not the music,
not the musician,
not the creator,
but the medium.

This is it.

The birth of rave culture.
The beatification of the beat.
The dance age.
This is the moment when even the white man starts dancing.

Welcome to Manchester." (2)

And today, nothing as epoch-making ever takes place.

See?

We applaud the copy.

Not the present,
not the presenter
not the presenting
but the re-presented

This is it.
The death of aged culture.
The excommunication of the Beats,
The silent age,
This is the moment when everyone starts quoting.

Welcome to the present.

â€œThat's not the way the world really works anymore. We're an empire now, and
when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that
reality--”judiciously, as you will--”we'll act again, creating other new realities,
which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's
actors ... and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do. (3)

That's not the way the words really work anymore. We're presenting now, and when we do, we play our own beat. And while you listen to that beat--”enthusiastically, as you might--”we'll do something again, creating other new beats, which you can hear or read too, and that's how things will sort out. We're the present's composers ... and you, all of you, obviously are as well.

(1) Disorder by Joy Division
(2) 24 Hour Party People
(3) Senior Bush Aide

I'm with you

2005-03-17T14:16:00.000-05:00

By Zeke Reich

Well, I'm really into Burroughs,
I know this guy who says he's like the father of collage.
Trippy shit. I'm gonna go through Kerouac,
Ferlinghetti, all those guys.
I was on this Ginsberg kick, have you read Howl?
Remember at camp, that day on the porch,
that kid Michael D. was playing the drums,
hitting the side of the post,
and Justin the counselor started to chant?
He was just talking, saying whatever,
it sounded so good. I think you were there.
Or it might have been the day when you were feeling sick.
It was pretty sunny but you said your stomach hurt
and you didn't leave the bunk that afternoon.
It was the day I bent some of your Magic cards.
You had an awesome deck, you won all summer but I didn't mind.
But in the air that day there was a smell,
like fresh electric drops of cloud,
and I guess I didn't feel like playing.
When your cards got bent you sort of spazzed
and I went out to smell the air.
And most of our bunkmates were out on the porch,
that kid Michael D. was playing the drums,
hitting the side of the post,
and Justin the counselor started to chant.
It sounded so good, it sounded like Ginsberg.
That guy is a god. You have to read that poem.
Anyway, I gotta go to class.
See you soon, my friend--

beat associating

2005-03-17T14:13:00.000-05:00

By Dave Rochelson

1.Chad Gadya (revised)
...who beat the calf who ate the dog
who fucked the bull
who hit the flea
who tickled the goat
my father bought for two zuzim

2.
beets are the source of borscht
and slices are sometimes placed on burgers before engorged
beats are the basis of every rappersÂ¹ yapping,
every redwood rapper that once was a young sapling
learns that saying it too trippingly on the tongue can be
entrapping
beats are poets with something to say, man

3.
to be at ease
to be a tease
to be ortiz
go sox!

4.
i beat my meat
i be at my meet
i beat my feet at my meet
i complete a feat at my meet
my opponent i defeat!

5.
Bobo gets beaten and bounces back
Bo begets Bea and then Owen says, Â³Back!Â²
Bo begins beating the Now with no knack
While brow-beating bunnies make laps Â¹round the track

6.
oh to be Attila (drop trou' like a prowlaÂ¹)
to be at the till, uh, of a second-class trowlaÂ¹
then in to the hilt, uh, like a cig with no filtaÂ¹,
bleeding with guilt, uh.
good thing iÂ¹m built, huh?

beat poem in search of a subject

2005-03-17T02:33:00.000-05:00

By Mike GW

1.

someone told me it was two in the morning
but children of the night were still beating drunken rhythms in the park
they've been louder than ever since the night they first heard their own music

2.

this night she haunts my thoughts
like the presence of the past haunts these streets with analogies
and for a moment all is reclaimed

3.

i am kissed into existence
where else would the breath of life get its inspiration for breathing?
surely not from god, god dies daily and yet we don't die with him

4.

the spirits i know have made their homes far from heaven
they inhabit life like homeless men on park benches
invisible if you don't pay attention

5.

i've been meaning to find the means to translate days into manifestos
of the kind that resembles the writings of subway walls
otherwise i might as well sleep in

6.

one morning we will forget the reason we wake up and tie our shoes
and invent a better reason
and we'll do it again the morning after that

7.

a humble request: come and howl humanity with me
we will echo through the night as loud as a thousand city lights
and maybe one day they'll be proud of how we loved in time of war

8.

this was a poem in search of a subject that got lost along the way
meaning in a world we're not supposed to get lost in
i've found what i was trying to say.

(Sweet Jane Blows Her Fags) Looking the Other Way

2005-03-17T01:16:00.000-05:00

By Julian E. Stanton â€˜08 (this is not a real person I checked)

She deeply inhaled her cigarette, but without any form of elegance â€“ no slow, soothing inhalations nor sharp jawline traced with delicate fingers. Frankly, she smoked in total decadence, defying the one of the primary reasons to smoke in the first place, he thought to himself. To make someone seem to operate with greater finesse than without.
She, on the other hand, gripped her cigarette like a joint; a precious joint made with the remains of last weekâ€™s purchase. It was embarrassing for him to watch, almost as though he were witnessing some lewd act but couldnâ€™t turn away. Not with those hard eyes of hers. Her eyes gripped him like the hold on her cigarette. Why couldnâ€™t she blow that fag the way Grace Kelly did? he asked himself. But the answer was quite simple: this woman before him was no Grace Kelly.
His eyes followed the seductive trail of smoke at the end, how it mixed with the formless disaster trailing from her mouth and spreading like a plague through the rest of the room. Her lips defiantly curled out as they reached for that cigarette giving a demonic smile or a deformed pout. He couldnâ€™t discern the difference.
Eventually she noticed him.
At first, his gaze made her feel naked, but eventually this initial reaction precipitated to unbridled (and coincidentally, unfounded) hatred towards him, before dissipating to vague apathy or melancholy. It was difficult to tell the difference anymore.
Even though she could breathe hard while having sex, it was the cigarette that taught her how to really breathe â€“ to suck in that air as though it were her final breath and exhaling like it would rid her of the toxins in her lungs that she had so diligently procured.
The smoke billowed in her lungs like the faded ocean wave drawn violently back to the sea. She remembered her eight-year-old self unsuccessfully chasing a toy that she dropped at the shore. The ocean stole it from her before she could retrieve it; she remembered seeing it float off in the distance. How she hated the oceanâ€™s muted laughter. And with that thought, she deeply exhaled. The wave crashed against the shore once again.
She glanced over at him again, sitting so pathetically on that couch with that foolish gaze. Did she want to kiss him or slap him? She knew that she loved him but wasnâ€™t quite sure if she liked him. She would give until the rest of the cigarette to decide.
Sometimes she liked to see how much ash could accumulate on the cigarette before gravity got the best of her. Sensibility usually won out and she would haphazardly extend her arm â€“ and at times she might extend the effort to use her torso â€“ to that pithy little tin on the coffee table before her. She was weary of ashes on the lap. The ashes were stupidly metaphorical to her, the cliched acknowledgment of life passing her by and left in a tray to be disposed in the rubbish bin. She clung to that analogy, though, because it made the ignition of the next cigarette more rewarding. Her personal catharsis for $3.99 a pack or whatever they were going for those days.
He desperately wanted teach her how to properly smoke a cigarette, but feared that he would seem too patronizing. He hated following her demented social code yet loved her too much to deny it. If she asked, he gladly would have been her ashtray. She could use his palm, his forearm, his face. It didnâ€™t matter. What he really wished he could be was her cigarette â€“ that she would evade as many social situations and obligations to be with him as she does for her precious fag: when she wakes up, waits for her bus, takes breaks from her work. Always. That she would save her breath as she did with her smoke and how she smoked it like it was her last breath. Then cling to him like he was her only lover, the way she did with that goddamn object.
Not that he really knew how to smoke cigarettes anyway. He simply knew how ought not to smoke them. He sighed. Sometimes it hurt him how much he loved her. And her cold, blank stare froze him until his body cracked. All he could do was turn away and forget. Mesmerize himself with the trail of smoke silhouetted by the penetrating sunlight.
Her cigarette was at its withering end. She reluctantly snubbed it out and sorrowfully watched its final embers linger. Pretending to rub her nose, she casually â€“ though tactically â€“ raised her left hand. But who was she kidding? She wanted one final whiff of that repulsive scent. Like the lingering smell on a pillow of a lost lover. Then she remembered that her lover was sitting seven feet away, defeated. Was it I who defeated him? she wondered to herself. There was a time when she would have taken a great pleasure in such an accomplishment. To call this an accomplishment, though, would be calling a shit after lunch an accomplishment as well. Thoughtless, inevitable, and predictable in its methodology and outcome. Because taking a shit really requires a method. Crushing his ego was even easier.
No, he had it all wrong. She did look at him like her cigarettes, especially the one lying in the tray. With a pang of regret and soft nostalgia.
What more can be said? She lit another to avoid the questions that continued to haunt her. Or maybe to start another one of her silly metaphorical existences. And he looked out the window, trying to capture the seemingly recent memory of what it is like to be loved. The smoke trailed out and was swallowed by the wind.

Before anything else

2005-03-17T00:58:00.000-05:00

By Claire [NEASA's FRIEND]

Before anything else I learned to count to eight.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. one set of pliÃ©'s at the bar in first position. eight sautÃ©s. eight skips in a circle, four claps, rest four-two sets of eight. a room filled with pink leotarded girls, all of us pointing our toes, lifting our heads, stretching our knees, and counting to eight.

The goal, between the ages of six and eleven, beyond mastering the basic steps of ballet, was to master the art of dancing 'on the music'. Nobody ever questioned the wisdom-would it not be better to strive to dance with the music, instead of bashing it to death under our still underdeveloped feet?-so, on the music we were. Step by step, beat by beat.

One of the older ballet mistress' had a cane, which she used to tap out the rhythm of the music on the floor. The movement would be slight at first, a mere absent affirmation of the tempo of the pianist. As we slid further and further off the music, Madame's tapping on the floor would become more pronounced. Hammering the beat of the music into the floor she would simultaneously count out loud wondering with increasing frequency if we were all afflicted with pre-mature deafness.

Beats were slippery things. A simple exercise could move from comprehensible to impossible if a particularly sneaky pianist decided to 'up the tempo' or in a flight of fancy, play in three/four time. (Three/four or waltz time, uses a count of six for each phrase, thus completely confusing our octo-indoctrinated brains).

In time we learned to harness beats and create our own dances out of them, we were tested on our "musicality" by being asked to perform the same choreography to completely different music. We pushed the boundaries by experimenting with syncopation, half beats, triple time. Like the rebellious teen-agers we were, my posse of bunheads and I took jazz lessons, modern dance, flamenco and belly dancing in an effort to escape the rigidity of classical ballet. Disappointingly, everything was counted in eight beat phrases.

Even though we sought to escape the eights, they were and are essential structures. Without the count of eight (or six for the waltzers) beats were just random musical components-seemingly arbitrary accents that underpinned any melody. But each beat is paired with a movement, each movement leads to the next, and suddenly: dancing. No matter how badly I screwed up a particular set of steps, I knew that would be able to find the beginning beat of a new eight and resume my attempts at grace. The eights are safety nets.

I stopped dancing seriously about five years ago. It's taken me a while to stop counting the radio music in eights.

play

2005-03-17T00:21:00.000-05:00

By Nina Catalano

You child
in your bigadult shirt,
its creases and its form.
I see your earlobes, you know.
I see the area on the back of your neck
where the Panda Room lady cut your hair.
Your hands poke through those shirtsleeves now,
yellow fabric stretches to cover your back and shoulders.
But your skin is still Johnson and Johnson
and your hair is still Baby Donâ€™t Cry.

I have an idea for us,
Us children playing grownup:
Letâ€™s go
To the beach
On a warm day.
And I can carry the blowup ball,
And you can carry the picnic basket
(but of course weâ€™ll switch)
And legs intertwined,
we can sit in the sand and forget about the grownups.

We children can play childhood.

Because I can see the pink, soft babyflesh of your cheeks
And I want to kiss those cheeks,
And hold your hand
(even though we still believe in cooties).
Because this is good.
Because this is intimacy before we know what intimacy means.
Because this is who we are supposed to be.

A Robot is Attacking the Capitol of the European Union, But I Donâ€™t Care

2005-03-16T20:55:00.000-05:00

At one p.m. Greenwich Mean Time, a giant mechanical fiend
with tank treads and three hydraulic claws and a laser started
to fry politicians leaving the Capitol Building of the EU for lunch.
Though the robot is fifty feet high, it caught security unprepared.
Belgian and EU authorities are now investigating, quietly.
They say no possibilities are currently being discounted outright.

H.G. Wells suggested in a sÃ©ance today that the outright
fiction of TVs, the extinction at the hands of oil company fiends
of many species of frogs, the Communists waiting in jungles quietly
for their chance, and the bodies of people that died last week and have started
to decay in their soft red velvet were all entirely unprepared
for this robot attack. He went on to say that there are no free lunches.

On a recent morning, an airplane stewardess was passing out lunch.
She had observed that her safety lecture was ignored outright:
a million distracting seatback screens glowed blue and unprepared
the passengers in case of certain disaster. Seat 2A was an al-Qaeda fiend
who planned to bomb the fuck out of that plane. He started
to but felt bad: they had bumped him up to first class so he napped quietly.

An army is being formed to combat the robot which has quietly
continued to fry EU politicians, hurting Belgian national pride. Lunch
has been postponed, but hungry politicos continue to die as theyâ€™ve started
to try sneaking out just before or after lunch time. The robot fries â€˜em outright
like crispy, golden chicken: despite official hopes to the contrary, the fiend
was not unprepared.

The core of the army is composed of feudal ravens, who are unprepared
to fight but they like shiny things and so it is hoped that they will quietly
make nests out of the robot. Authorities also recruited to fight like fiends:
three sightless mice, the stewardess who served that packaged lunch,
and the extinction of frogs, which was a no-show. An outright
breach of contract was claimed by EU gurus, but still the war started.

The robot won. After all, it had three claws and a laser. The army started
out with three sightless mice, and ended up with one. Unprepared
for defeat, the laser-shocked stewardess blubbered out right
in front of everyone: â€œThis is the apocalypse gone horribly, quietly
wrong. A robot? Where are the horsemen?â€� She then distributed lunch.
The robot paused by a small fountain in a courtyard, carved in a fiendishly

realistic likeness of a naked woman quietly eating lunch while spraying out
righteous water from her fingertips. The fiend was unprepared for this
marble apparition. It started to rust. Ravens used the wiring in their nests.

googlism beat

2005-03-16T20:53:00.000-05:00

beat is a b3 fansite for b3 fans from a b3 fan
beat is a nervous grind
beat is irrelevant
beat is technotronic

beat is pumping
beat is mad different
beat is pornosonic

beat is for freaks
beat is elite
beat is the caribbean's leading glossy magazine

beat is flow '99
beat is on
beat is military
beat is mine

beat is slow and laid back and the chorus uses another old line
'pass me that swisher

chulitna

2005-03-16T20:52:00.001-05:00

By Jenny Davis

beaver, porcupine, and flour,
all i ate my first winter out here.

got radio, though,
dateless and desperate in the bush,
every friday night at eight.

naw, never called in,
didn't have a phone.

use a twopenny nail for that, just
shim it up and git after it.
don't teach you that do they
back at barnes and noble or
wherever it is you go to school.

he he
harvard, barnes and noble

what's the goddam difference.

free association

2005-03-16T20:52:00.000-05:00

Free Association, 5:24 AM

Volvo
dobro
HoCo
HoNo
dojo
mojo
Flo-Jo
Velcro
day-glo
pogo
Sur-Flo
po-po
five-o
Ho-Ho
logo
go-go
no-no
Ono
uh-oh, Peggy-O
Yoko
Okra
HoCo
HoNo
dojo
mojo
Flo-Jo
Velcro

microphonic interview

2005-03-16T20:50:00.000-05:00

Phil Elverum interviewed by Alex Pasternack

>Where are you now?

I am in my parents' house in Anacortes, Wash.
>
>Our issue's theme is Beat, beet, beat. You seem obsessed with it. What are
>your thoughts?
>
I am obsessed with what?

>(And what is the significance of the percussion in a song? In a
>microphones song? Are there particular songs that you are proud of from a
>percussive point of view?)

I think I hear everything in terms of percussion. It is everything to me.
I think the song of King Dark Death on the Mt. Eerie album has some cool
drums. I didn't use a computer or anything for that, (or anything ever,
besides this email) and I am a little proud of making "electronica" type of
beats with my hands.
>
>Do you have a favorite instrument?

I suppose my hands.
>
>When did you start to sing, and how did you find your voice?

I think we sung in Montessori school. I can't remember. There were a few
dinosaur songs.
>
>Who are your major influences and/or heroes?

I don't want to start listing people.
>
>Did you ever study music?

I took one piano lesson and I played tuba in the school band for 3 years. I
don't count any of that though. I didn't know what was going on. I was
just pushing the right keys.
>
>How big a part of your life is the making of visual art?

These days it is small because I have been travelling too much, but soon it
will be huge. I need to make big paintings.
>
>The music scene in Washington has been your soil, I take it: how important
>is the community to art making for you?

Sometimes it's very important, though it's not always in a direct way. I
usually prefer to be creative in a solitary way but I always need the
foundation of friends and family to be able to do that. It is good to have
a bunch of friends in the same building all working on their own thing and
not speaking.
>
>How/where do you find new music?

I have a very hard time getting into new things, and the world is cramming
it down my throat. I have taken up a defensive position and now I try not
to listen to anything.
>
>Is there someone you really want to make music with?

I have many friends who I wish I could make more music with. They are
people who also want to make music with me but it doesn't happen because
everybody is always thrown all over the globe, busy trying to feed their
children. Karl Blau, Eddy Blau, Genevieve Elverum, Mirah Zeitlyn, Julie
Doiron, Jason Anderson, Mike Feuerstack, Adam Forkner, Nikaidoh Kazumi, etc.
>
>How do you record these days? Do you use computers at all?

No. I don't record at all. I am trying to start again. I have been
collecting enough equpment to do it. I have an 8 track.
>
>When I listen, I can sense a space, and a type of weather, and sometimes
>think of stories just from listening to the music; it can be very
>inspirational when making my own stuff, whatever it is. What inspires you,
>and what conditions do you like to have, when you write?

Songs come out when I don't expect it. There is no one circumstance. They
come at weird times.
>
>Do you write with an audience in mind, or is it much more personal?

Sometimes I write directly TO an audience but I am trying not to because
that just sounds preachy.
>
>Many of your sounds are irreproducible, even for you I imagine, except
>through recording. (This seemed a disappointment to some people in the
>audience in Cambridge who have attached their heads to The Glow for many
>hours on end.) How much comfort do you take in the recorded medium vs. the
>live one, and is it ever a problem for you?

I always just think of it as 2 seperate things. The live show has
completely new and different "songs". It would be shitty if I got a big
band together with 8 musicians and toured in a big white van with a uhaul
trailer and had the keyboard dude who cued up the sample of the wind and I
had the 3 guitar players with all their pedals and the tight drummer playing
the exact beats from the CD, even learning the flaws. People do that. I
hate that kind of thing. The CD is made so people can listen to that kind
of thing in their home. When they come to the show I want people to see a
real live person doing something in front of them. I let myself make
mistakes and make up new songs at shows. Maybe some people would be
disappointed to not hear their favorite songs but I still think it's better
than being too scared to put myself out on a limb.
>
>Alicia Keys is now writing a travel column for the Boston Globe from her
>tour, which will include a show on the Great Wall I'm told. You are a
>something of a tireless traveler, and to often exotic places and unlikely
>stages, so how do you digest all of it, process it? Ie, will you have a
>travel column?
I used to keep detailed journals but after the 3rd time of visiting the same
places and not being able to tell St. Paul from Pittsburgh from Atlanta from
Kansas City from Denver I stopped. Not that I think all places are the
same. I just started paying attention to more subtle charms. (eating,
bathing, sleeping) Also, I stopped taking pictures. I think it is a
better way to live.
>
>Do you have an i-pod? And what is his/her name?

I don't. I won't.
>
>What do you think about mp3s? Is that the future then?

I don't know anything about it. My head is in the sand.
>
>What has been the most surprising part of all of this for you?

People with Microphones tattoos.
>
>Who's Woelvy? She is amazing. Are you married?

Its' "Woelv". She is named Genevieve. We are married.
>
>Is there a particular direction you're headed in these days, as far as
>music goes? Or as far as life goes? (I heard you were recently
>married...is this true?)

I am going to try to make some records. I don't know what will be on them
yet. I am starting right now. I will look for a home now too.
>
>
Thanks,
seeyou
Phil

Calvin Johnson Interview

2005-03-16T18:34:00.000-05:00

Calvin Johnson, from Beat Happening.

By Alex Pasternack

Calvin Johnsonâ€™s short-cropped coif and placidly detached face, with the most ironic monotone to match, make him look and sound like the drill sergeant for some hipster army, circa 1983. Well thatâ€™s basically what he is. It is a complete coincidence that that the year I was born was the year he birthed Beat Happening, one of the most influential bands of the so-called post-punk era and perhaps the best do it yourself band since the Tuvan throat singers, easily courting pop, rock and punk styles with often nothing more than a guitar, drum and microphone. This was likely why Nirvana and Beck and Modest Mouse and [insert really good band here] requested his musical and psychic accompaniment during their early starts on his label, K Records. Based in Olympia, WA, the label not only produces and releases underground luminaries like the Microphones, Mirah, and the Blow, but serves as a kind of safe house for twee-folk and hippiester artists in the area, who write, make and listen to music while wearing t-shirts made with the studio's print and silkscreen materiel. Calvin is currently working on INSERT STUFF and his present project, Dub Narcotic Sound System, which is louder and more abstract than Beat Happening--but just as beaty. And beety.

{still waiting to get sound clip of him talking about beets}

You mentioned the vegetable. What is the significance of percussion to you?

I think percussion is an important and often overlooked aspect of a musical endeavor. Itâ€™s difficult to find a good percussionist, you know. Every drummer thinks they can play percussion, but they canâ€™t.

What does that mean?

It means they might be able to play drums, but percussion is a totally different intstrument. Itâ€™s like if youâ€™re the clarinetist and you pick up a saxaphone: there may be some similarities, but just because youâ€™re a good clarinet player doesnâ€™t mean youâ€™re going to be a good saxaphone player. And I think its similar with percussion, you can make an analogy between drums and percussion. It is a rhythmic instrument but it has completely different characteristics.

Weâ€™re talking about all sorts of percussion instruments...

Yes, mostly hand percussion. Maracas, castanets, vibraslap, tamborine.

Do you have a favorite among those?

I do like the vibraslap a lot.

What is that?

Its the thing that sounds like a rattle snake.

Why do you like that?

It sounds like a rattle snake.

That makes sense. What are you doing now, in a day-to-day way, at K records?

Iâ€™m working on lots of records. Weâ€™re working with Beth Ditto right now on her new record. Recording it. Recording a new Calvin album. Iâ€™ll be recording Woelv when she gets back to town.

Are you doing the same things you were doing 15 years ago?

Iâ€™m doing a lot more of recording of the artists now than I did 15 years ago. I did some of it then. But. We didnâ€™t have our own studio at that time. Itâ€™s easier now to do the recording, because we have access to our own equipment.

What is the studio like?

Dub Narcotic studio. We have a 2 inch 16 track and a half-inch 8 track.

Is this a place where artists hang out?

Phil or Mirah, they just have their own keys. Kayla from the Blow. A lot of things happen there. Silk screening and things like that. Itâ€™s a space big enough to accomodate multiple tasks at once.

What do you think about the community aspect in an affair like a record companyâ€”is that lacking in the music industry in general?

Well, I donâ€™t know. Thatâ€™s certainly something weâ€™ve cultivated. Itâ€™s important to me. Many of the labels that I admire have some aspect of that in their history...

Such as...

Sun Records, Staxx, Studio One. Lots of different soul labels. Motown, definitely had that. Lots of labels had that in the past. I think itâ€™s. Itâ€™s. It seems less usual for a label to have their own studio in which things are based aroundâ€”Parker is everything ok?

Holding up a pile of cash. Do you have any more singles?

Can you talk to Staci?

Yeah.

Ok.

Is there a distinction for you between producing an album, recording it, and participating in its music?

A lot of times Iâ€™m just there. As with the last Jason Anderson album. I wasnâ€™t really involved in the production of that record but I was certainly around a lot, so he would be like hey, sing on this, so I would. Same thing with the Microphones, when he was making his albums, I wasnâ€™t involved in the production but he would say, Calvin, could you play guitar on this song?
But with people who Iâ€™m more involvled in recording, itâ€™s up to them.

Is there an aspect of this entire endeavor that you like more than anything else?

I just like the ability to spend time with creative people. Itâ€™s very rewarding.

How does the touring fit into the whole industry for you?

The artists taht we work with, touring is how they earn their living, pretty much. They donâ€™t make it from their record sales. Not directly from their record sales. Phil is going to sell quite a few records at this show, and heâ€™ll make a lot of money from that. But just in general, if he was never to play shows and never sell his own records, he wouldnâ€™t make enough money off his records to live off of. But he can go out and play shows, and he makes more money off the performances than he does off the records.

Do you consider yourself to be a celebrity?

No. I donâ€™t think that I am celebrated in any way.

Do you want to be?

I am quite comfortable not being.

You have had some interaction with some bands that have become household names. Pause. Wonders how he will phrase this question. What do you think about that? Great, just great, he thinks.

Iâ€™m glad for them. It seems like its working out pretty good for them.

Thatâ€™s not something you would ever want?

I think Iâ€™m doing okay.

Thatâ€™s good. Um. Well, I guess thatâ€™s it. Wait, what are you doing these days?

Iâ€™m DJing. Itâ€™s fun to do. I love to play records. But itâ€™s ultimately not very satisfying.

Why?

Just because youâ€™re playing records. This is much more...fun.

Whatâ€™s going to happen with Beat Happening? Any future plans?

We donâ€™t have any plans. Issac Brock just called us to ask if we would play All Tomorrowâ€™s Parties, because theyâ€™re curating it this year. But itâ€™s just not really comfortable for us to do things like that, soâ€”

Why?

We havenâ€™t played shows for a long time. So if the first show we played was something ridiculous like that, it might just be a little much.

But itâ€™s not out of the question?

No. Lord knows. And Heâ€™s not telling.

The Lord.

Iâ€™ll have to interview him.

Yes.

Thank you very much.

Youâ€™re welcome.

"beat ruebeliev er"

2005-03-16T18:08:00.000-05:00

By Justine Nagourney

beat ruebeliev er. beatruth. bea sTatement abouthonesty. BEAbouT something.anything.BEAliveandliveandwatchTrainspotting reruns. BE cool. singsinanddrinkgin. steal prose. And Tv screens. avoid pcpmtvstd. words that(have)Become too stale to eat. Bloodless And The like. br eat h(e)

distributing type...

2005-03-16T18:05:00.000-05:00

this whole bracketed bit is kind of useless:

[[where to begin? the first time in the press? first book? (certainly gummed rather than read, too long ago to remember)

maybe that since then, whenever that beginning was, things have changed, printing does change the way you look at books. You will say, oh lanaguage, yes, the impossibilities of communication. but isnâ€™t this only one aspect? What about these letters? Each of which has been used countless times before, in so many words, meaning something (else) each time. The binaries of word & image, time & space, break down into a page made of lead & steel & wood:

â€œThe physical manipulation of lead and wood blocks, the laws of increment and tension that governs letterpress as a medium, have shaped both the ultimate look of individual texts and my understanding of typography in general: design has no abstract phase in my work. With letterforms treated as players with attributes, as marked and weighted units introduced into the force field of the page, visual relationships established by variation, juxtaposition, substitution, reiteration and obscuration are literally constructed to carry out the optional paths and conflicts inherent in a textâ€¦ Once meaning has been (shown to be) bound to material substance and form, closureâ€”Freudâ€™s goal of a solution to the rebus a dream presentsâ€”proves elusive.â€� Emily McVarish. from Poetry Plastique.]]

hereâ€™s the real beginning:

so I was distributing type listening to an old mix and the noise in the pipes and --

distributing type: in letterpress printing, after you have printed and cleaned, the last thing to do is to distribute: to take your text letter by letter and put each tiny lead letter back in its place in the case of type.

is that closure? is closure what shuts out the reader? what reader? wasnâ€™t this my secret language? or was it more like a letter?

but, then, alone, it seemed to me that this half-distributed pile of little lead letters was the form this poem had always sought I would pick up pieces of lines and amidst the backwards letters I could not help recognizing words. picking up meaning, startling myself with words which seem sacred for having survived by chance, with the whole worlds that clutched at fragments. the world of the poem, but mostly my associations with where it came from.

-- and every so often the noises in the pipes sounded like another person coming into the press, and this always shook me.

Where the poem came from: in the miseries and confusion of freshman year, in the spring, in a copy of DoubleTake in the Fine Arts Library, I chanced across a poem by James Galvin, called â€˜Leap Yearâ€™. I photocopied it and tucked it into an envelope in my notebook. It contained the line â€˜Oh Persephone, homeâ€™s not where I / thought it was.â€� I started writing poems to Persephone. Hereâ€™s the last one, from about a year later, in Helsinki:

persephone, did you even wake up
maybe too early in the morning
and not know the season, under from
over, or maybe find yourself in
a place that is always cold and light
where the sky loses its blue, looks
like paper, and did you want
to write across it,
hades, I miss you?

persephone, does it occur to you
that I am talking to myself here?
iâ€™ve lost my stars and muses
in the sun that wonâ€™t set

it was even more melodramatic than the preceding persephone poems, and i knew that should be the end. I began writing real letters to real people.

but when i returned to the states the following fall i thought maybe the last thing i would do for persephone was to print a book, called â€œsong for persephone,â€� and a palinode. it would be small and modest, with little words on each little page, and it would look old, look like it was disintegrating, or had already. it would be hard to read but maybe there would be someone who would turn each little page and try to piece it together.

it wanted to be small and modest but it took a fucking long time to make. mock-ups, typesetting, printing, proofing, printing some more, assembling, binding. and just when it seemed long over, after critiques and openings and daily dramas, then there was distributing.

I donâ€™t know which is harder, begining a project or ending. You distribute type, and there are these words, their different associations and lengths and weights in your hand. But you take them apart, and thereâ€™s just the simplest heartbeat tempo of single letters: e, h, t, space. I stood there, in between my poem (my freshman year, my neuroses and myths) and the world of afterwards, the one coming into being as the book was distributed.

Writing this now, I didnâ€™t remember that line from James Galvin correctly. I found the poem to check itâ€”itâ€™s in his book, Xâ€”and I noticed another line, that seems more important now: â€œForgetting about the future makes the moment / you live in slouch. / Excuse me while I digest this small galaxy.â€� It makes me think of a sci fi movie, one where the space-time continuum becomes visible, glows & undulates. We gaze out at together through the window of our spaceship, knowing that we are here & now, a small place, everything else bearing down around us.

[lollipop poem]

2005-03-11T17:57:00.000-05:00

By Nina Catalano

Oh please more â€“
You promised me a lollipop
And Iâ€™d like to get it now.
You said you had a bag
A paper bag of red lollipops
I told you red was my favorite color.
I know, you said.

And I said wow a bag of red lollipops
What more could I want?
Here you are offering
Me a bag of red lollipops
Nothing but tasty
Sweet
Scrumptious
Red
Lolli
Pops.

Oh please more â€“
I know at the time,
The time when you offered,
I said I didnâ€™t think I should
(maybe I said could)
And you told me you would be here
Holding that paper bag filled with red lollipops
For when the time might come.

But now the bag with the red lollipops
Cannot be found.

You say you never had a bag
Filled with lollipops.

List

2004-03-19T19:28:00.000-05:00

Prose (lyric essay, interview, story, list, manifesto)

PANOPTISME, SPECTACLE ET TOTALITARISME

Beatified

before anything else

(Sweet Jane Blows Her Fags) Looking the Other Way

WHO IS RIGHT, WHO CAN TELL, AND WHO GIVES A DAMN RIGHT NOW? (1)

[distributing type]

Calvin Johnson interview

Mt. Eerie interview

The Unified Beat Theory of the Universe

A Choir of Millions

untitled

Getting Beaten by the (library) system

Practical uses for an OUROBOROS:

What Should We Call Our Entirely Theoretical Band?

Sacred Geometry

Poem

Prehistory

Syllogisms

The Box's Friends

The Two Friends Who Have Been Quite More Than That...

For a Friend Going to War

epigraph

[lollipop poem]

â€œbeat ruebelievâ€�

chulitna

play

free association

Nonsanguinity

Conversation with Vegetables

Beat Poem in Search of a Subject

beat associating

Iâ€™m with you

Beat the World and Advance to Level 2

"our beat generation"

Googlism beat

Cestina: A Robot is Attacking the Capitalâ€¦

Verba Volent

Two Whites

Image

glove project

Drummer with Stars

Foetea

old man

Present 2 and 3.jpg

Jim / others - Cube photo gallery from web
? - photos from the dance conspiracy (we need more if you have them)
? - folded paper
PRESENT! - three yearbook photos
Dave Mah. - ice ghosts
abigail - pears
liz green - ultrasounds
various note cards
unsendable cards from letter writing campaign
claire - my suburban childhood
claire - scan: what to do with your hands
? random picture that looks like it's from inside the lampoon
? - picture of alex and neasa with rockstar looking people
canada's food rules
Tim - 4 inaguration photos
glove project - Bea
Drummer with Stars
Foetea Michelle - Dellatore
old man Michelle - Dellatore
jack kerouac.bmp
knife men
bea's pictures of lightning bolt
jonah kanin weird stuff
kasia sketch page
present poster
latchkey bears
lucy "admonished" card
neasa monsters drawing
Sasha and Lucy and Jim and Neasa - Letter writing sketch page
Verba letter
random picture of seamus heaney

Comics

Crack Duck
jim - The Cube Comic!
jim - so alone
? - It's a reference!
alex - present 1 and 2
? - Topiary man 1 and 2 (3 to be scanned)!
Crack Duck Ronen
abigail sketch 1
neasa abigail big arms guy
Neil's gross comic
Brian Park's korean raptor, elephant, and sketches
dave Mah. - Options, your teeth whiter
Gustavo Turner - the smiling cat

Video and animation (we need more!)

Sound

Beatless Beat

A Simple Beat

Beat Rap

Radio DIY television
Beatless Beat
A Simple Beat
Beat Rap - Neil Ellingson and Max
Jim's bevy of cube talking sounds
jim - andromeda.mp3
jim - klang.mp3
jim - war an allosaurus vs a dogwith a mouse for the judge.mp3
jim - pi.mp3

Orioles and Tanagers

Beats from Jan. 20, 2005
(these beats were recorded on january twentieth, two
thousand and five at the second quadannual
demonstration opposing the inauguration of george w. bush.)