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mogadishu
Dedicated to Arizona
The desert gets cold at night! That’s a hard thing to remember in the afternoon when it’s 120 degrees, and brain mad and tongue slack from heat, you turn away from the sun’s fingers digging into your face. I get it, Arizona, I GET it already. Who of us hasn’t left our bodies lying in the middle of the road, in the middle of the hallway for someone to trip over? But. Every day! Every DAY you have to drag your teeth across the earth? Leave bone and husk in your wake? Leave us sweating in bed, feverish and babbling, seeing the face of christ in the stain on the ceiling, inventing a new religion! A new love that will rattle a warning before it attacks! A new language in which there’s no word that means to suffer! And that sunset oh wow that sunset!
strange relief
The story begins at the black mouth of a cave and ends with a strange dog at the door. With chaos. A hotel in Tucson. Yellow curtains on the window. A love letter written as a question: IF I KISS YOU, WILL YOU SUFFER? In the jaundiced light of early morning, Elvis is in the kitchen singing we can’t go on together, and Katie laughs in the porcelain tub, drops her head under bathwater and baptizes herself. Says: “Salvation is easy. You just have to die a little.” Same with love, mon amour. Same with anything dazzling and useless. The blackness beyond the reach of the lightbulb. The yellow flower patterned sheets. Our stunned faces, pale with strange relief when we witnessed the unraveling of all things beautifully brief: a love that slow dances. Holds hands when it crosses the street. Remembers to call home. A love killed every night. Resurrected every morning.
Seeing the light too late
So there’s a BANG, a something, a flicker of light. There’s a room in a house. And the house is on fire. And no one is afraid. Because it’s been burning for years. And now it’s more memory than actual “fire.” More dream than actual “danger.” Like a body remembering a nightmare in the daytime. Which is a little like what every place is to me after I leave it: with its blame, and its buildings like rows of dead faces. With its stains where my brain leaked its contents in the street, all cautionary tale-like. All Roman Empire and then the fall.
Return to Magenta, Marilyn Mugot
“i understand what you’re saying, and your comments are valuable, but i’m gonna ignore your advice.” | FANTASTIC MR. FOX (2009)
Jodie Foster in a promotional shoot for The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Essentials of Spontaneous Prose by Jack Kerouac
SET-UP The object is set before the mind, either in reality. as in sketching (before a landscape or teacup or old face) or is set in the memory wherein it becomes the sketching from memory of a definite image-object.
PROCEDURE Time being of the essence in the purity of speech, sketching language is undisturbed flow from the mind of personal secret idea-words, blowing (as per jazz musician) on subject of image.
METHOD No periods separating sentence-structures already arbitrarily riddled by false colons and timid usually needless commas-but the vigorous space dash separating rhetorical breathing (as jazz musician drawing breath between outblown phrases)–“measured pauses which are the essentials of our speech”–“divisions of the sounds we hear”-“time and how to note it down.” (William Carlos Williams)
SCOPING Not “selectivity’ of expression but following free deviation (association) of mind into limitless blow-on-subject seas of thought, swimming in sea of English with no discipline other than rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated statement, like a fist coming down on a table with each complete utterance, bang! (the space dash)-Blow as deep as you want-write as deeply, fish as far down as you want, satisfy yourself first, then reader cannot fail to receive telepathic shock and meaning-excitement by same laws operating in his own human mind.
LAG IN PROCEDURE No pause to think of proper word but the infantile pileup of scatological buildup words till satisfaction is gained, which will turn out to be a great appending rhythm to a thought and be in accordance with Great Law of timing.
TIMING Nothing is muddy that runs in time and to laws of time-Shakespearian stress of dramatic need to speak now in own unalterable way or forever hold tongue-no revisions (except obvious rational mistakes, such as names or calculated insertions in act of not writing but inserting).
CENTER OF INTEREST Begin not from preconceived idea of what to say about image but from jewel center of interest in subject of image at moment of writing, and write outwards swimming in sea of language to peripheral release and exhaustion-Do not afterthink except for poetic or P. S. reasons. Never afterthink to "improve” or defray impressions, as, the best writing is always the most painful personal wrung-out tossed from cradle warm protective mind-tap from yourself the song of yourself, blow!-now!-your way is your only way-“good”-or “bad”-always honest (“ludi- crous”), spontaneous, “confessionals’ interesting, because not "crafted.” Craft is craft.
STRUCTURE OF WORK Modern bizarre structures (science fiction, etc.) arise from language being dead, “different” themes give illusion of “new” life. Follow roughly outlines in outfanning movement over subject, as river rock, so mindflow over jewel-center need (run your mind over it, once) arriving at pivot, where what was dim-formed “beginning” becomes sharp-necessitating “ending” and language shortens in race to wire of time-race of work, following laws of Deep Form, to conclusion, last words, last trickle-Night is The End.
MENTAL STATE If possible write “without consciousness” in semi-trance (as Yeats’ later “trance writing”) allowing subconscious to admit in own uninhibited interesting necessary and so “modern” language what conscious art would censor, and write excitedly, swiftly, with writing-or-typing-cramps, in accordance (as from center to periphery) with laws of orgasm, Reich’s “beclouding of consciousness.” Come from within, out-to relaxed and said.
Greg Girard (Canadian, b. 1955, Vancouver, BC, Canada, based Shanghai) - Phantom Shanghai series. Phantom Shanghai is the record of the unique moment when the early 20th Century city was being demolished while the new Shanghai was being built in its rubble.
Anubis & Horus spotted having tea in Cairo, 2006.
Josan Glory
Txema Salvans
TWO TRAINS LEAVE THEIR STATIONS AT THE SAME TIME and maybe it doesn’t matter if they meet. maybe they both keep going and no one ever thinks anything of it. maybe they are both only trains and they both keep being only trains after their paths cross in some phenomenally unimportant eclipse of metal on metal and years later, with more miles between them than anyone can count, neither will remember where they were headed that night. but maybe, just maybe, they crash into one another, full speed. strangers build memorials to the wreckage. my grandmother slides the gory details of it all across phone lines to her church friend. maybe the gasoline blast takes out every tree in its radius and it is so grand, such a terrible disaster that the paper mill salvages them to print the newspaper. maybe it makes the front page- it makes every page; someone draws a comic strip, a frame by frame recreation of this terrible accident, complete with a speech bubble full of how it sounded when everyone’s mothers cried. strangers hang the clippings on their fridge until they turn to dust, crumbling with postcards and grocery lists under magnets from the grand canyon, disneyworld, AARP. either way, collision or no, i am trying to convince myself that it is not romantic. there is nothing about me or you that could be described as wreckage, or metal, or barreling towards or away from anything. we are just skin, just two people on different tracks and our relative proximity each other doesn’t change this. i am still trying to convince myself of it.
6/30 | cc (via watercvlours)
Jack Kerouac’s Beliefs and Techniques for Modern Prose
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy 2. Submissive to everything, open, listening 3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house 4. Be in love with yr life 5. Something that you feel will find its own form 6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind 7. Blow as deep as you want to blow 8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind 9. The unspeakable visions of the individual 10. No time for poetry but exactly what is 11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest 12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you 13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition 14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time 15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog 16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye 17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself 18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea 19. Accept loss forever 20. Believe in the holy contour of life 21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind 22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better 23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning 24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge 25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it 26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form 27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness 28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better 29. You’re a Genius all the time 30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
who cares, do better, move on
Taxi Driver (1976) directed by Martin Scorsese