Friday, June 19, 2009

Ambassadorial Fennel Seeds, and Wrap (in Cheesecloth Sachet)

Contingency Riffs Contrast Futurism’s Glum Present with Almost Deliriously Random Antecedents Looking Through the Window of a Cork-lined Room, one listening, as if for the first time, with a different ear.

Listen. A train is passing, clickety-clack and pocketa-pocketa, a moving garland of aural delight. Sunny D. What's a mother to do? Un chromatismeexpressionniste traduit ses impressions par rapport à ses deux notionsqui s’affrontent actuellement dans l’âme des birmans.

There is a tide in the motion of men. An art/ of noise.

The tracks, an endless realm of noise, drove that perpetually green, green fuse from here to eternity and back again, until now. One of the main reasons for choosing such a method of construction is that, once path and landscape are constructed, they could be described not only with music, but with any other artistic medium. Like, say, dance, jack-hammer and/or, or even, painstakingly, individually water-colored cell animation.

And justlikethat, that, that haunting lonesome whistle moan is now represented by hallucinatory concrete gestures, by a deliberate, yet moving (You got to move!) virtuosic solo cello, sixteen coaches long.

Clickety-clack, pocketa-pocketa pocketa. The arbitrary tones which comprise the atomic moment are filled with a cacophonous decay, decelerated rates of change become at once, a mirror and a necessity, summoning a technological narcissism which insists that the present is a taut salad of signature moments from the past-- from Bach, Beethoven and Flavor-Flav, refashioning each in a serial temper which deconstructs the original, shattering its melodic counterpoint and stretching it over the canvas of the present. Right now. Today. Stretched to the breaking point. As if, as if ripped from today’s headlines: Summer Gives No Relief From Swine Flu, Oy! Robert Pattinson renversé par un taxi,

Dodgers hand A's another narrow loss. Stanford Arrested by FBI Outside Girlfriend's Home, Passengers not told pilot of NJ-bound jet had died, Car bomb attack in Spanish city,

As Standoff Deepens, Iran's Leader Urges Return to Faith,
It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry.

Demandan a California por abuso de cura,
Cybercrime threat rising sharply.
Irish issue to dominate EU talks,
Supreme leader once a student revolutionary,

Mutinous Congo troops fire at UN,
Thousands gather for Lakers parade,
The time drift favors Buenos Aires.

Youssouf Fofona garde le silence. The Big
Red Letters Stand for/ the Jello Family.
So, whaddaya say? My, my,
hey, hey. A different drum? A-rum-
pum, rum-pum, brr-rum-pum...
Rama-lama futurama-two
Ta lang goe ta ka ta dhin ghi nha thom
ta-tay -tay ta-tam
ki-ta-ta-ka ta-tay -tay ta-tam
ki-ta-ta-ka tam dhé tham
tay ta thay
tam dhé tham
tay ta thay.


Friday, June 12, 2009

Rotação de Cumulous Torres

Looking Southward Near Bordai,
Tebesti-- Atoms in an Elemental Storm

Roaring. An undertone of trees,
even as soul and sound unite, flash vividly,
and morph into faint echoes
tastefully mocking the corrosion of iron.

Rocking the baser elements, dense with
seaweed, drowning in pools of green fir.

Tilted, lifting waves. Rotation of cumulous
towers, mewling, and reeking of instability.
Alluring, if dangerous, Will Robinson.

Wind shear, centrum of innocence and
enchanting sea breeze.

When metal corrodes
it forms catons, loses electrons and, often,
becomes listless and cruises antique shoppes
endlessly, searching for that ever elusive
and blunt light of early autumn.


樹低音,既使靈魂和聲音 生動地團

閃動,並且變體入微弱的回聲 雅致嘲笑鐵腐蝕。
密集與 海草,淹沒在綠色冷杉水池。 被掀動的,

自轉cumulous 塔, mewling和發臭氣不穩定。
將魯賓遜。 风切变,無罪的中心和 迷人海风。
當金屬腐蝕 它形成catons,

經常,成為 無精打采和巡航仿古不盡商店,
搜尋 為早期的秋天逃避的那和直言的光。


Tuesday, June 9, 2009

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The Market, the Telephone, the Dial. Chukovsky.

So, on Saturday I woke up sluggish and headed to the Market haus for some coffee. First, I stopped by a bin of free books & grabbed a coupla freebies that looked interesting. Stop, look, caffeinate.
That was my plan.

Kid's books. They were rilly good. One explained all about airplanes and ailerons, and how crop dusting is dangerous work. Another told bout an ebullient kid who did sound poetry. A child "who so relished the gift of life that is was almost impossible for Mother or the servants to get him to go to sleep." And, another, my fave, was about crocodiles and camels and galoshes and telephones & stuff.

My misspent youth has now led me to a state, or a striving, to minimalist behaviorism, which means I try not to take newspapers home with me, or anything I don’t absolutely need. My small apartment is decidedly not-so-minimally appointed.
So, I spend a lotta time trying to get rid of stuff & I find that it’s easier to part with things that I photograph. Christ, you know it ain't easy!

SoI took pix of the three books and left two of them there, at the market. I took “the Telephone,” by Kornei Chukovsky home. I liked it because ot the cover, and because it had a real phone dial in the book. Hunh! What’s a phone dial? Hey, what’s a television antenna?
Whither the Blaschka flowers? Where the Marianne Moore of yesteryear?

Everyday on tv they talk about antennas. Wtf? I think they’re like Emily Dickinsonian moors and waves. And converters. Government converters, the leading edge of the new socialism.

Turns out that Kornei, or Korney was “a complete man of letters” according to Yale Press. Wiki sez that “Chukovsky… published From Two to Five (1933), a popular guidebook to the language of children.” And “used his popularity to help the authors persecuted by the regime including Anna Akhmatova, Mikhail Zoshchenko, Alexander Galich, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. He was the only Soviet writer who officially congratulated Boris Pasternak on his having been awarded the Nobel Prize. His daughter, Lydia Chukovskaya, is remembered as a lifelong companion and secretary of the poet Anna Akhmatova."
Hot stuff, this Kornei. In the Wiki biz, they even have a caricature of Korney by Mayakovsky. And he was on a stamp too. Korney. Kornei. (Marianne Moore also. [not corny, on a stamp])

So, though my copy of the “Telephone” is old & beat-up, I took it home because most of numbers were worn away by happy capitalist kids dialing & re-dialing their little books to the bone . That’s cool. And it’s got a great cover. (by Peter Tempest) So now I got me some Chukovsky. (Albit, in translation.) And/or/but, I got an actual dial to play with. Dial, dial. Ring, ring. Sorry wrong number.

More to follow, later, about wrong numbers, and Franklin Rosemont.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

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...that's what I like about you.

What I like about you.

The Kinks.
Phil Harris.

Skop. Gu, moood in/di-go. &
that’s what I likes/ about
the South.

Elvis Costello’s new album graphics.
Gwen Stefani & Green Day’s new
live performances.

Kobe Bryant’s work ethic & focus.

Emily’s L.A. trippin’!

George’s 2d trip to Ankara.

Craig Ferguson's "Istanbul"

Jessica's back.

Shakespeare in Reservoir Park.
Chicago, Chicago, that toddle-in’ town!

Big Jawn.
Sal Maglie.
Minnie Pearl,
Dizzy Dean.

Nashville cats.
Skop. Gu,
moood in/di-go. That’s
what I likes-about
the South.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Retro thoughts. Seems like it was only



Today the wrappings came off the sculpture. And no one--
in the blue beginnings of this hazy November evening has any idea
where those wrappings may be. Maybe Tina knows, but
I’m sure Cher has absolutely no clue. Ditto, the arts guys in that little
house at the source of Second Street, even if they and/or their mercenaries are responsible. Nobody cares about wrappings.

Maybe my mom. She opens her presents very carefully, and I think
she just might save the wrapping. Sometimes. I wonder if they save the
gauze they wrapped Jesus in. When they laid him in the tomb, y’ know?
Or was that white linen? Was Jesus that cowboy they wrapped in
white linen? Just asking.

If anyone knows where the wrappings are, I’d like to have them.
Maybe, for another project. Or, a menu from the Colonnade-- I’d like
one o’ them too, not for a project-- just for auld lang syne.
On the front of the menu-- “Your Hosts: George & Vasilike
Kyriakopoulous, Your friends forever.” Hey, Eminem,
that’s a wrap! I am the word, the truth...
Cleveland Williams. In bronze,
Like this.
A very young
Yasir Arafat
about to have
his hopes &
dreams for a
free Palestine
snuffed out by
the forces of
capitalism &
industry as
Diana Ross,
piteously wails,
pleads, Stop!
Stop! Stop!
Stop! in the
name of love....

Monday, June 1, 2009