11 May 2012
when you miss someone, there produces a slight gap in time, where one should have a heartbeat or a pause between beats, and when you miss someone there are non-moments when neither exist!
no one knows where these beats and non-beats go. some speculate that they seek the person their conductor misses, in order to give them an extra piece of life to help them
of course, if two people miss each other exactly the same, beats and non-beats, misser and missie sort of cancel each other out and then the whole phenomena feels less anxious and more comfortable - when a sense of balance in the heart area exists!
the end
Labels: poetry
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19 February 2012
hoarding hyperdetritus,
datamining dirty digital debris,
my sticky sockets soaked in sumptuous stimuli. indeed!
the peripheral versus the decentralised,
inspect inspiring ignored ignitions with
one extract, one reference and, one word;
anomalous visuals
proprioception
tenderpixel + squidsoup
phosphenes
the matrix
dreammachine
pie architecture
kodakclosure
Isidro Blasco
visualfield
seismanarrative
laura oldfield ford
savageredevelopment
Erik Desmazières
etch
olly moss
draw
words
virginia woolfmomentomomentum
francois morellet
neon
http://inbflat.net/
Darren Solomonconductor
Labels: conservation, descartes, dreams, history, light, london, oliversacks, periphery, photography, poetry, quote, vision
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10 January 2012
escape into purity, by wolfgang bauer
i am pursued by a horde of analogies
i want to escape
their sweet utility
on which i have gorged myself
for too long.
i know that the tree is a tree-of-life
that life is a dream
that the soul is as deep as the sea
and death a constant companion
i that the heavens are a tapestry
that the buzzing of bees a song
and that there are two sides to every coin
that woman is a goddess
reality an illusion...
the city a sea of houses
the night a mantle
the sun a ball
the moon a sickle.
out with you,
you cooing metaphors
i want to make poetry:
under the blue sky
in a green meadow
sits a beautiful woman
in her hand is a bunch of daisies
her dress is blue.
in a dark room a man
sits and eats his soup
he quickly empties the bowl
wipes his mouth and
goes down into the cellar.
the pretty woman comes home
the man is already sitting with his wine
she makes him a bite to eat
oh, how fine.
how beautiful and simple is the world
how joyous a life
without metaphors.
■
the art of fiction
INTERVIEWER
What made you decide to study Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse?
BORGES
I began by being very interested in metaphor. And then in some book or other—I think in Andrew Lang's History of English Literature—I read about the kennings, metaphors of Old English, and in a far more complex fashion of Old Norse poetry. Then I went in for the study of Old English. Nowadays, or rather today, after several years of study, I'm no longer interested in the metaphors because I think that they were rather a weariness of the flesh to the poets themselves—at least to the Old English poets.
INTERVIEWER
To repeat them, you mean?
BORGES
To repeat them, to use them over and over again and to keep on speaking of thehranrad[FLAT THINGIE OVER 2ND A], waelrad[FLAT THINGIE OVER 2ND A], or “road of the whale” instead of “the sea”—that kind of thing—and “the seawood,” “the stallion of the sea” instead of “the ship.” So I decided finally to stop using them, the metaphors, that is; but in the meanwhile I had begun studying the language, and I fell in love with it
...
I remember a joke of Oscar Wilde's: a friend of his had a tie with yellow, red, and so on in it, and Wilde said, Oh, my dear fellow, only a deaf man could wear a tie like that!
INTERVIEWER
He might have been talking about the yellow necktie I have on now.
BORGES
Ah, well. I remember telling that story to a lady who missed the whole point. She said, “Of course, it must be because being deaf he couldn't hear what people were saying about his necktie.” That might have amused Oscar Wilde, no?
INTERVIEWER
I'd like to have heard his reply to that.
BORGES
Yes, of course. I never heard of such a case of something being so perfectly misunderstood. The perfection of stupidity. Of course, Wilde's remark is a witty translation of an idea; in Spanish as well as English you speak of a “loud color.” A “loud color” is a common phrase, but then the things that are said in literature are always the same. What is important is the way they are said. Looking for metaphors, for example: When I was a young man I was always hunting for new metaphors. Then I found out that really good metaphors are always the same. I mean you compare time to a road, death to sleeping, life to dreaming, and those are the great metaphors in literature because they correspond to something essential. If you invent metaphors, they are apt to be surprising during the fraction of a second, but they strike no deep emotion whatever. If you think of life as a dream, that is a thought, a thought that is real, or at least that most men are bound to have, no? “What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.” I think that's better than the idea of shocking people, than finding connections between things that have never been connected before, because there is no real connection, so the whole thing is a kind of juggling.
INTERVIEWER
Juggling just words?
BORGES
Just words. I wouldn't even call them real metaphors because in a real metaphor both terms are really linked together. I have found one exception—a strange, new, and beautiful metaphor from Old Norse poetry. In Old English poetry a battle is spoken of as the “play of swords” or the “encounter of spears.” But in Old Norse, and I think, also, in Celtic poetry, a battle is called a “web of men.” That is strange, no? Because in a web you have a pattern, a weaving of men, un tejido. I suppose in medieval battle you got a kind of web because of having the swords and spears on opposite sides and so on. So there you have, I think, a new metaphor; and, of course, with a nightmare touch about it, no? The idea of a web made of living men, of living things, and still being a web, still being a pattern. It is a strange idea, no?
INTERVIEWER
It corresponds, in a general way, to the metaphor George Eliot uses in Middlemarch, that society is a web and one cannot disentangle a strand without touching all the others.
BORGES
[With great interest] Who said that?
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21 November 2011
pope is so sharply funny, satirically damning of the fleet, a pleasure to read this extract.
how concealed from daily notice the fleet river is these days,
and how apt an intersection, the holborn viaduct.
an intuition; there is something buried here worth digging for.
This labour past, by Bridewell all descend,
(As morning prayer, and flagellation end)
To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams
Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames,
The king of dikes! than whom no sluice of mud
With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
'Here strip, my children! here at once leap in,
Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin,
And who the most in love of dirt excel,
Or dark dexterity of groping well.
Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around
The stream, be his the weekly journals bound;
A pig of lead to him who dives the best;
A peck of coals a-piece shall glad the rest.
...
photograph - a brickwork collage of the south-west viaduct gatehouse, 2011
image - a drawing of the fleet river by 'mr crosby,' 1844
image - a drawing of the fleet river by 'mr crosby,' 1844
text - an extract from the dunciad, alexander pope, 1728
Labels: london, poetry, quote, satire
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29 October 2011
 |
“the seeking of new structures and patterns that may be used by writers in any way they enjoy.” Constraints are used to trigger new ideas and the Oulipo group is an ongoing source of novel techniques, often based on mathematical ideas — such as counting letters and syllables, substitution algorithms, permutations, palindromes, and even chess problems.”
as published on the matzine website
Labels: editorial, matzine, poetry, words
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22 August 2011
i return to you years later,
grey & lovely city
unchanging city
buried in the waters of the past
i'm not longer the student
of philosohpy, poetry & curiosity,
i'm not the young poet who wrote
too many lines
and wandered in the maze
of narrow streets and illusions
the sovereign of clocks and shadows
has touched my brow with his hand
but still i'm guided by a star
by brightness, and only brightness
can undo or save me
star by adam zagajewski. i read this on a wall in london's underground tube network, on my way home from leeds & birmingham [as part of project context]. i have a fit of goosebumps on every pass. i'd suggest scanning this interview with zagajewski, it takes my mind to far away places and spreads my eyes apart.
i've been blogging less than i use to because my time is spent elsewhere, in those hidden places for where only few keys exist; sketch books, conversations... but these two photographs above are my studies following josef albers' 'interaction of colour'. the top colour study is from chapter 9 entitled 'colour mixture in paper - illusion of transparence' and the bottom photograph is from chapter 14 'colour intervals and transformation'
the virtuous hunt
for ways of seeing
spears bounty abound;
a game no trap ensnares
Labels: albers, colour, drawing, illusion, poetry
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