"You will be identified as thin-skinned and moody; in reaction you will identify yourself as civilized and sensitive. You will barricade yourself in that preposterous condition known as self-respect."
Alphonso Lingis
Sunday, September 12, 2010
TRASH HUMPERS
http://www.trashhumpers.com
I decided to go with my main man-the delectable Mr Aporia-to a screening of "Trash Humpers" at the Factory in Marrickville as apart of the Underground film fest on Saturday 11th September, not exactly knowing what to expect, and certainly not prepared for the vomit-restraining throat-ache upon our thankful exit. I knew of Harmony Korine by reputation only, having seen a trailer or two of Kids and Gummo but never indulging my (possibly exterior) inner wanker enough to dedicate an afternoon to finding parts on youtube-so it is possible that I set myself up for a gross shock to my own sense of self-worth and understanding of the very fabric of my relationship with the meaning and purpose of cinematic horror from the beginning.
The initial (unrestrained and vocal) reaction from the audience as a single entity was shocked, but prepared snickers and then open laughter at the sight of three geriatric degenerates humping trashcans and causing general mayhem in a parking lot under an eerie street lamp. And so it begins-these three characters (not that they can be called 'characters' exactly) repeat these acts of performing blow-jobs on tree branches, jerking off leaves, eating dirt and defecating on houses. The initial reaction which I had to the experience of viewing such material in a cinema setting was an extreme and overwhelming disgust at my own laughter- a sentiment which could be felt in the almost instantaneous quelling of laughter from my fellow audience members. Korine seems to have created a physical reaction from his audience where a painful realisation of the tragedy of the material which we find so hilarious becomes self-disgust at the mere meaningless of it. This soon becomes the tool of the film (which is not ones) horror.
With a complete rejection of plot or character development, narration or any opportunities of recognition or empathy, the only thought which would occupy my mind during the 80 minute screening (apart from checking the time 10-15 times) was that there was not a chance that I would be exiting the theatre having gained anything at all from the experience. Two days later I'm certainly not ready to face the ringtone samples available on the Trash Humpers website. So apart from the obvious mocking of Korine at the desperate need for audiences to endure the merciless exercise of a film-makers ability to alienate and torture viewers in the quest to find meaning out of something so obviously meaningless and absurd- how did a film which appears to purposefully drain itself of the right to artist credibility become something I need to write out of my system? Any attempt towards a linear understanding of the film will definitely prove fruitless and frustrating.
The film evolves around three "characters" who have no discernible personalities, or identity, even the fact that they are elderly is questionable, as their costuming seems to purposefully reveal bodies which are almost youthful, in comparison to the heads which are clearly severely deteriorated with old age. The constant presence and interaction of the three "protagonists" with nostalgic symbols such as childrens play toys, nursery rhymes and push-bikes makes the most evident statement of the film-the decomposition of the human body in old age to its infantile state in the physic and mental sense. The "trash humpers" exist without connection or reliance on the presence of housing, societal structure, family, health, food or the restrictions of the law. They could easily be seen as a glimpse of a mere underclass suffering at the expense of the American Dream, however, Korine is concerned with the American Nightmare, and not with any counter-culture (organised or other) in any typical sense. The horror and tragedy of this focus is where "Trash Humpers" becomes something completely different.
The most haunting aspect of the film is prominent in the extent to which we are relentlessly immersed in this existence, with our reality beyond the space of the theatre diminishing rapidly as the film continues until it is dubious that a safe return to normality is possible. The activities of the trash humpers worlds are alienating and shocking, and if not for the roles of three other degenerates, it is possible that the film would be absolutely pointless. One maid-costume-wearing homeless poet who seems to possess some intelligible talent is murdered by the three primary subjects without purpose or consequence after reciting a poem which outlines the pleasures and purpose of humping trash as an anarchic act which ironically protests the commodity fetishism of consumer culture. A second character is shown entertaining the three subjects with crude racist and homophobic jokes which have an obvious of purposeful lack of meaning and tact, highlighting the senseless and feeble ignorance of both the value of the poets words and the stupidity of the mans jokes as equal in their effects on the three characters.
In the final ten minutes of the film, it seems Korine finally relents in offering the (exhausted and possibly hateful) audience a chance at feeling something possibly related to empathy or an identifiable "emotional understanding" of two characters amid this viscous and overwhelming mood which is so new to his audiences capacity. The female character, whilst drunk and alone, is heard making the desperate (but rarely legible) claim "I don't know what I'm doing, Lord. You're 'sposed to be guidin' me", before stealing a baby and playing with it like a doll in her desperation, to the horror of the audience. A second character driving a car waves at a neighbour before ranting about the dread of conforming to church, a job, children and the restrictions of family life.
As I exited the theatre and began to listen to the (almost entirely) just plain confused and cheated responses from my fellow audience members, I did feel as though I had just escaped a Clockwork Orange-esque torture-cinema, however, I couldn't get the last ranting man driving the car out of my head. "I'm free, and I bet you when they're dyin', I'll just be gettin' my second wind. I feel like a new man, like a young boy".
I decided to go with my main man-the delectable Mr Aporia-to a screening of "Trash Humpers" at the Factory in Marrickville as apart of the Underground film fest on Saturday 11th September, not exactly knowing what to expect, and certainly not prepared for the vomit-restraining throat-ache upon our thankful exit. I knew of Harmony Korine by reputation only, having seen a trailer or two of Kids and Gummo but never indulging my (possibly exterior) inner wanker enough to dedicate an afternoon to finding parts on youtube-so it is possible that I set myself up for a gross shock to my own sense of self-worth and understanding of the very fabric of my relationship with the meaning and purpose of cinematic horror from the beginning.
The initial (unrestrained and vocal) reaction from the audience as a single entity was shocked, but prepared snickers and then open laughter at the sight of three geriatric degenerates humping trashcans and causing general mayhem in a parking lot under an eerie street lamp. And so it begins-these three characters (not that they can be called 'characters' exactly) repeat these acts of performing blow-jobs on tree branches, jerking off leaves, eating dirt and defecating on houses. The initial reaction which I had to the experience of viewing such material in a cinema setting was an extreme and overwhelming disgust at my own laughter- a sentiment which could be felt in the almost instantaneous quelling of laughter from my fellow audience members. Korine seems to have created a physical reaction from his audience where a painful realisation of the tragedy of the material which we find so hilarious becomes self-disgust at the mere meaningless of it. This soon becomes the tool of the film (which is not ones) horror.
With a complete rejection of plot or character development, narration or any opportunities of recognition or empathy, the only thought which would occupy my mind during the 80 minute screening (apart from checking the time 10-15 times) was that there was not a chance that I would be exiting the theatre having gained anything at all from the experience. Two days later I'm certainly not ready to face the ringtone samples available on the Trash Humpers website. So apart from the obvious mocking of Korine at the desperate need for audiences to endure the merciless exercise of a film-makers ability to alienate and torture viewers in the quest to find meaning out of something so obviously meaningless and absurd- how did a film which appears to purposefully drain itself of the right to artist credibility become something I need to write out of my system? Any attempt towards a linear understanding of the film will definitely prove fruitless and frustrating.
The film evolves around three "characters" who have no discernible personalities, or identity, even the fact that they are elderly is questionable, as their costuming seems to purposefully reveal bodies which are almost youthful, in comparison to the heads which are clearly severely deteriorated with old age. The constant presence and interaction of the three "protagonists" with nostalgic symbols such as childrens play toys, nursery rhymes and push-bikes makes the most evident statement of the film-the decomposition of the human body in old age to its infantile state in the physic and mental sense. The "trash humpers" exist without connection or reliance on the presence of housing, societal structure, family, health, food or the restrictions of the law. They could easily be seen as a glimpse of a mere underclass suffering at the expense of the American Dream, however, Korine is concerned with the American Nightmare, and not with any counter-culture (organised or other) in any typical sense. The horror and tragedy of this focus is where "Trash Humpers" becomes something completely different.
The most haunting aspect of the film is prominent in the extent to which we are relentlessly immersed in this existence, with our reality beyond the space of the theatre diminishing rapidly as the film continues until it is dubious that a safe return to normality is possible. The activities of the trash humpers worlds are alienating and shocking, and if not for the roles of three other degenerates, it is possible that the film would be absolutely pointless. One maid-costume-wearing homeless poet who seems to possess some intelligible talent is murdered by the three primary subjects without purpose or consequence after reciting a poem which outlines the pleasures and purpose of humping trash as an anarchic act which ironically protests the commodity fetishism of consumer culture. A second character is shown entertaining the three subjects with crude racist and homophobic jokes which have an obvious of purposeful lack of meaning and tact, highlighting the senseless and feeble ignorance of both the value of the poets words and the stupidity of the mans jokes as equal in their effects on the three characters.
In the final ten minutes of the film, it seems Korine finally relents in offering the (exhausted and possibly hateful) audience a chance at feeling something possibly related to empathy or an identifiable "emotional understanding" of two characters amid this viscous and overwhelming mood which is so new to his audiences capacity. The female character, whilst drunk and alone, is heard making the desperate (but rarely legible) claim "I don't know what I'm doing, Lord. You're 'sposed to be guidin' me", before stealing a baby and playing with it like a doll in her desperation, to the horror of the audience. A second character driving a car waves at a neighbour before ranting about the dread of conforming to church, a job, children and the restrictions of family life.
As I exited the theatre and began to listen to the (almost entirely) just plain confused and cheated responses from my fellow audience members, I did feel as though I had just escaped a Clockwork Orange-esque torture-cinema, however, I couldn't get the last ranting man driving the car out of my head. "I'm free, and I bet you when they're dyin', I'll just be gettin' my second wind. I feel like a new man, like a young boy".
Friday, July 23, 2010
Simplicity
Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
Frank O'Hara
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
Frank O'Hara
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
that's the thing about charisma...
always find significance in the obscene. watching the sun rise over orange-tinged hyde park at 6.30 this morning was a timpani. removing the constraints of notions of routine and productivity are the most exquisite remedies to challange the physical and phychological interactions with the transient organism of society which evolves (if always and only in the abstract) around such imagined structure to justify it.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
fire in my bones
"In the depths of the winter I finally learned that there lay in me an unconquerable summer"
A.C. 1953.
A.C. 1953.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
a poem
work
corrupt arctic chills through warm putty,
wobbling to an oceanic swirl and temporal rhythm-
a grim polka in quarter-time.
Eight hours and, at dusk,
the most correct; most ultimate solution
falls on deaf ears of the mediocre.
witness the skeletal ghosts of
fishes on the walls, night humans in night vision-
topsy-turvy and jetlagged days.
Flurescent glare is nuclear,
daybreak marks a rewakening; return to the street
to seize but an hour of streaming halflight.
corrupt arctic chills through warm putty,
wobbling to an oceanic swirl and temporal rhythm-
a grim polka in quarter-time.
Eight hours and, at dusk,
the most correct; most ultimate solution
falls on deaf ears of the mediocre.
witness the skeletal ghosts of
fishes on the walls, night humans in night vision-
topsy-turvy and jetlagged days.
Flurescent glare is nuclear,
daybreak marks a rewakening; return to the street
to seize but an hour of streaming halflight.
plans
juan lifted the dusty cracked leather lid of his maroon and gold trimmed suitcase, replaced the items he had removed and slammed his palms down on the latch twice, waiting for snap of the latch to reassure him that all his earthly possesions were again safe. he heaved the box on the bus-stop storage stand and stepped back, flexing the cramps from his knuckles and catching a bead of sweat which gathered at his temple. he noticed only one other person on the platform this late on a monday evening. the dense argentinian humidity kept most indoors fighting for sleep on cardboard mattresses, relighting mosquito candles and rocking hysterical infants crazy with flies infesting their soft foreheads.
juan jerked his head in a stiff and unassuming acknowledgment of the filthy younger girl who sat on the electricity box at the far end of the platform, dangling her thongs off two dust-caked bigtoes. the one remaining lamp on the platform illuminated her hair a damp amber tinge. the light streaming above her was swarming with the frantic murmer of a thousand psychotic skeletal figures, each desperate to glow flurescent in the dull light which framed her head like a giant aztec crown.
her head was perfectly upright, staring with grim absence from her throne and across the bus depot to the parallell train tracks. the swing of her pathetic dangling thongs disrupted the harmony of her fixated stare and the above chaos which the light attracted frustrated juan until he could no longer observe the girl without feeling surges of frustration gather on his forehead.
with shoulders tensed in disgust at the dire magesty of the bewitched girl, juan stood impatiently before an ancient flaked royal green steam train which had snaked painfully to a halt and now sat like a giant mutant slug, heaving grotesquely-catching its breath with each scream of steam-oxygen seeping in and out of its soft warm pores. juans concentration was finally broken and he fell into a musty vinal seat, popping springs etching into his lower back. with his life packed carefully into the storage space above his head, juan allowed his eyes to slip helplessly into a desperate unconscious as perspiration from the seats previous occupant sipped into thin denim jeans. through flickering eyelids, the passing platofrm blurred into the past and a bitter farewell was uttered to the effegy on the electricity-box throne and the town which juan had been escaping since the day he was spat into the world.
juan jerked his head in a stiff and unassuming acknowledgment of the filthy younger girl who sat on the electricity box at the far end of the platform, dangling her thongs off two dust-caked bigtoes. the one remaining lamp on the platform illuminated her hair a damp amber tinge. the light streaming above her was swarming with the frantic murmer of a thousand psychotic skeletal figures, each desperate to glow flurescent in the dull light which framed her head like a giant aztec crown.
her head was perfectly upright, staring with grim absence from her throne and across the bus depot to the parallell train tracks. the swing of her pathetic dangling thongs disrupted the harmony of her fixated stare and the above chaos which the light attracted frustrated juan until he could no longer observe the girl without feeling surges of frustration gather on his forehead.
with shoulders tensed in disgust at the dire magesty of the bewitched girl, juan stood impatiently before an ancient flaked royal green steam train which had snaked painfully to a halt and now sat like a giant mutant slug, heaving grotesquely-catching its breath with each scream of steam-oxygen seeping in and out of its soft warm pores. juans concentration was finally broken and he fell into a musty vinal seat, popping springs etching into his lower back. with his life packed carefully into the storage space above his head, juan allowed his eyes to slip helplessly into a desperate unconscious as perspiration from the seats previous occupant sipped into thin denim jeans. through flickering eyelids, the passing platofrm blurred into the past and a bitter farewell was uttered to the effegy on the electricity-box throne and the town which juan had been escaping since the day he was spat into the world.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
something implacable
"If what we call a desert is a place without a soul in which the sky alone is king, then Oran awaits it's prophets. All around and above the town the brutal nature of Africa is, infact, resplendent in it's most burning glory. It splits open the ill-chosen decor which men have laid apon it, utters its violent cries between each house and over all the housetops. If you go up to one of te roads running up to the Santa Cruz, what you see first are all the scattered and brightly coloured blocks of Oran, but as soon as you go a little higher, the jagged cliffs surrounding the plateau seem to be crouching in the sea like red beasts. From higher still, great whirlpools of sun and wind swirl over the untidy town, blowing and battering through it as it lies scattered in confusion over all four corners of the rocky landscape. You see the clash between the magnificent anarchy of men and the permanence of an unchanging sea. This gives the road along the mountain-side an overwhelming scent of life."
Albert Camus.
Albert Camus.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Akron/ Family- River
And you are no longer a river to me
And you are no longer a river to me
Though your coursing remain eager to acquaint me
And you are no longer a docile stream
And you are no longer a docile stream
Though your patience proves you into ease
And once this spark met kindling
Forgets its gentle ambling
Becoming heat, becoming steam
Becoming luminescent glee
Atoms splinter, sparkling
Alive and nimble symmetry
And all along, this glistening
Blankets we and everything
Shadows dance triumphantly
A wordless whisper sighs and pleas
Little deaths envelope thee
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
And you are not glassy bay to me
And you are not glassy bay to me
Though my tired fleet abides in your gentle breeze
And you are now vast and open sea
And my mind travels you endlessly
And you beckon, toss and toss and swallow me
And once this spark met kindling
Forgets its gentle ambling
Becoming heat, becoming steam
Becoming luminescent glee
Atoms splinter, sparkling
Alive and nimble symmetry
And all along, this glistening
Blankets we and everything
Shadows dance triumphantly
A wordless whisper sighs and pleas
Little deaths envelope thee
You and I and a flame makes three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
Send "River" Ringtone to your Cell
And you are no longer a river to me
Though your coursing remain eager to acquaint me
And you are no longer a docile stream
And you are no longer a docile stream
Though your patience proves you into ease
And once this spark met kindling
Forgets its gentle ambling
Becoming heat, becoming steam
Becoming luminescent glee
Atoms splinter, sparkling
Alive and nimble symmetry
And all along, this glistening
Blankets we and everything
Shadows dance triumphantly
A wordless whisper sighs and pleas
Little deaths envelope thee
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
And you are not glassy bay to me
And you are not glassy bay to me
Though my tired fleet abides in your gentle breeze
And you are now vast and open sea
And my mind travels you endlessly
And you beckon, toss and toss and swallow me
And once this spark met kindling
Forgets its gentle ambling
Becoming heat, becoming steam
Becoming luminescent glee
Atoms splinter, sparkling
Alive and nimble symmetry
And all along, this glistening
Blankets we and everything
Shadows dance triumphantly
A wordless whisper sighs and pleas
Little deaths envelope thee
You and I and a flame makes three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
Send "River" Ringtone to your Cell
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Gunshot Glitter
JB (L)
Don't you wanna let go of your heart
Or you resist the beds of bliss
Fortune makes fools of us all
My dear materialista, silence was insane,
The parting was mutual.
Don't you want the rocket to rock out?
There's room for us both to fly.
Tell the man I'm never coming back again.
Tell the man I'm never coming back again.
Why should you notice at all?
Gone again beside you will fall
Down to the sea out of the skies
Of gold cards and casual tears
I have only come to see you shine
Feminine smiles the right side is wise, more than I.
I wanna be your lover,
Lipstick my name across your mirror.
Blood red with flaked gunshot glitter
And be one with all you disowned in your young life. You paranoia politician diva.
You paranoia politician diva.
Will you let go of your heart,
Left behind a hypnotizing swirl
The semi's left behind.
Don't you want to rocket to rock?
There's room for both of us to fly
Same show everyday, don't have to blow up in the sky.
So I just came from Hicks town,
Left my coins behind
Maybe some poor cloths pony will buy himself a life
Why should you care if I crash your affair?
Why should you notice me? I really wanna see you shine.
I wanna be your lover,
Lipstick my name across your mirror.
Now, be one with all you disown,
True love has come to us all.
Blinded by the flame, right side smiles,
Organized male, love, my silence was insane.
The parting was mutual the moment I became
A paranoia politician
diva
A paranoia politician diva
A paranoia politician diva
A paranoia politician diva
Diva, diva, diva
Don't you wanna let go of your heart
Or you resist the beds of bliss
Fortune makes fools of us all
My dear materialista, silence was insane,
The parting was mutual.
Don't you want the rocket to rock out?
There's room for us both to fly.
Tell the man I'm never coming back again.
Tell the man I'm never coming back again.
Why should you notice at all?
Gone again beside you will fall
Down to the sea out of the skies
Of gold cards and casual tears
I have only come to see you shine
Feminine smiles the right side is wise, more than I.
I wanna be your lover,
Lipstick my name across your mirror.
Blood red with flaked gunshot glitter
And be one with all you disowned in your young life. You paranoia politician diva.
You paranoia politician diva.
Will you let go of your heart,
Left behind a hypnotizing swirl
The semi's left behind.
Don't you want to rocket to rock?
There's room for both of us to fly
Same show everyday, don't have to blow up in the sky.
So I just came from Hicks town,
Left my coins behind
Maybe some poor cloths pony will buy himself a life
Why should you care if I crash your affair?
Why should you notice me? I really wanna see you shine.
I wanna be your lover,
Lipstick my name across your mirror.
Now, be one with all you disown,
True love has come to us all.
Blinded by the flame, right side smiles,
Organized male, love, my silence was insane.
The parting was mutual the moment I became
A paranoia politician
diva
A paranoia politician diva
A paranoia politician diva
A paranoia politician diva
Diva, diva, diva
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Suspiria (1977)- For Mr. Aporia
The colours in this film completely blew my mind. The traditional suspense-creating technique has become so common and bland to the horror genre but here is so effective and absurd.
AND
this sounds is timeless.
"Goblins". If I came with my own theme musc, this would undoubtedly be it.
next on the agenda:
Tune-Yards
I still can't stop watching this; it's love. Thank-you Brooklyn <3
it only gets better. whoa, merrill has some skillz <3
and just because it never gets old and I GOD DAMN LOVE IT. The Zombies- She's Not There.
and possibly one of my favourite songs, Time of The Season.
Friday, May 21, 2010
brother
You have the most amazing bald patch shining on your crown, like a mountain peak standing tall between arctic clouds, as if someone has squished your bald head into a stocking far too small and sqeezed that fatty tissue and soft pink skin out into a perfect circle- crop circles- unnaturally and pedantically spherical; tufts around the edges, scarce tubleweed at first, as the scalp curves downwards, grey wire that falls hysterically onto curved, shameful shoulders, ending like burnt-out fuses at the defined bulge of a symetrical pair of rogue breasts which were lost when searching for a chest to settle but opted for a back; your back, and here they sit, staring at me this moment with melancholy shame, arched skyward as you hunch, no lurch forward, eyes down at your keyboard, waiting for a life to save to save your own. Your brother is already watching his own scalp emerge sheepishly from its thicket, and waiting for his breasts to bud. Just like yours.
I wonder if you are close or if you have ever been people who enjoy each others company, laugh at subtlties which you point out to each other though winks and flashes of white but uneven teeth, wishing momentarily that a third party could have shared your silent glory (you wouldn't to it justice to recall later), or if he ever laughed at your t-shirt, at the midriff if exposes, the uncharacteristically bulging gut which is, for some reason, borrowed skin- until I observe you together. He beat you in an arguament, didn't he, because you (as you are so well known for) pouted and closed over- stoned down and humiliated, forever the insatiable defeatest.
I wonder if you are close or if you have ever been people who enjoy each others company, laugh at subtlties which you point out to each other though winks and flashes of white but uneven teeth, wishing momentarily that a third party could have shared your silent glory (you wouldn't to it justice to recall later), or if he ever laughed at your t-shirt, at the midriff if exposes, the uncharacteristically bulging gut which is, for some reason, borrowed skin- until I observe you together. He beat you in an arguament, didn't he, because you (as you are so well known for) pouted and closed over- stoned down and humiliated, forever the insatiable defeatest.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
To a lover
"But I stem from my parents, I am linked to them just as I am my sisters by blood. In everyday life, and becasue I devote myself to my own goals, I don't feel it, but fundamentally this bond has more value for me than I know. Sometimes, too, I pursue it with my hatred; the sight of the conjugal bed, of the rumpled sheets, the night clothes carefully spread out, makes me want to vomit; it pulls all my insides out. it's as if i were not definitively born, as if i were always coming into the world out of that obscure life, in that obscure room; it's as if i had always to to search there for confirmation of myself, and as if i were, at least to a certain extent, indissolubly linked to these repulsive things. this still impedes my feet, which want to run; my feet are still stuck in the formless original soup of the birth-home."
Franz Kafka.
Franz Kafka.
melancholia
I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me: no, nor woman neither.
From Hamlet, Shakespeare.
From Hamlet, Shakespeare.
misanthrope
“The residue of the human spirit smeared on inanimate objects was all he could withstand of humanity. To contemplate, for example,evidence of human footsteps on the mat—absorb the smell of thequilt and wallow in the sweet certainty that many bodies hadsweated, slept, dreamed, made love, been ill, and even died underit. Wherever he went, he took along his things, and was alwayssearching for others. This thirst for worn things led him to casualbut habitual examinatons of trash barrels in alleys andwastebaskets in public places. . .”
From 'The Bluest Eye' by Toni Morrison.
From 'The Bluest Eye' by Toni Morrison.
permanent awareness
"The puke swaddles down the pillow onto the sheet- green-grey, with flecks of orange. It moves like the insides of an uncooked egg. Stubbornly clinging to it's own mass, refusing to break up and be removed. How, I wonder, can it be so neat and so nasty at the same time?"
From "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison.
From "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison.
He Died With A Felafel In His Hand
Dirk: I'd just like to say that I've got a problem with you all accepting my homosexuality without question. No wonder my suppressed heterosexual side is in a spin all the time. You all thought I was gay even when I was fucking straight!
Danny: Dirk, we think it's great, man.
Dirk: What's so fucking great about being a poofter, Danny?
Danny: Nothing, Dirk. Just... finish the bathroom.
Dirk: That's just fucking typical, Daniel. I'd like to declare, I've got a problem with that, too. You want me to put on a fucking pink apron, Danny? You want me to put on the fucking pink washing-up gloves, and lick the boots of the hetero-fascist sterility conspiracy thing? Well, no fucking way, pal! I'm not some mincey fucking queen that'll lick the boots of you hetero fucks! Oh, give the fag some hetero foot massage routine when he comes in -- bullshit! Gay men are dying, Danny. And you want me to clean the bath.
Danny: Dirk, just forget it, mate.
Dirk: You don't mean that, do you, Danny? What you really mean is, "All you filthy little ass-bandits should be nailed to a tree!" Isn't that so, Danny?
Danny: Dirk, this newly installed, sophisticated gay radar of yours is picking up shit from the cosmos that just ain't fucking there. I've got my own shit to worry about. I've lived in 49 shared households in what seems like as many years. I've been ripped off, raided, threatened, burned out, shot at, cheated on, scabbed in every one of those years. My beds are foam slabs on the floor, my cupboards are stacks of stolen milk crates! I've lived with tent-dwelling bank clerks, albino moon tanners, nitrous suckers, psycho fucking drama queens, ACID EATERS, MUSHROOM FARMERS, FUCKING BROTHEL CRAWLERS, FRIDGE-PISSERS, HARDCORE SEPARATIST LESBIANS, AND AN OBSCURELY-TITLED JAPANESE GIRL! AND NOW THE BEST FRIEND I'VE EVER HAD IN THE FUCKING WORLD WON'T EVEN FUCKING TALK TO ME! I'M IN A PSYCHO FUCKING NIGHTMARE FROM HELL, AND I'M FUCKING FED UP WITH IT! So I suggest, pal, that you tune in, and chill fucking out.
Latest job offer:
I WILL PAY YOU $500 PER WEEK
Asian businessman does not have time for hassles of a housewife but desires the intimacy of a lover. Duties: You will perform all the duties around the directors modern city apartment which a housewife is expected to (including in the bedroom).
Duties include:
* Cleaning the house;
* Laundry duties including washing, drying, ironing and folding clothes;
* Massage;
* Meditation support.
I WILL PAY YOU $500 PER WEEK
Asian businessman does not have time for hassles of a housewife but desires the intimacy of a lover. Duties: You will perform all the duties around the directors modern city apartment which a housewife is expected to (including in the bedroom).
Duties include:
* Cleaning the house;
* Laundry duties including washing, drying, ironing and folding clothes;
* Massage;
* Meditation support.
It'll Be Morning Soon
"These girls were perfect, pretty, intelligent, they had direction, they were probably studying or learning, or bettering themselves in some way, they held gym memberships and video stores weren't waiting for the 'overnights' returns to take a week, they know how to tell how fresh fruit is, they ate breakfast, they drink water by choice, when thinking of the past they smiled, they kept abreast of current world issues and they would always have ways to solve world problems, they laughed at jokes and giggled at subtleties, they would read the paper in the morning and wear pygamas to go to bed, they would take time on their hair and would be genuinely interested in other peoples lives. This is why they intimidated me."
ah, poetry.
"The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface: and why not? Any love is natural that lies within a persons nature; only hypocrites would hold a man responsible for what he loves, emotional illiterates and those of righteous envy, who, in their agitated concern, mistake so frequently the arrow pointing to heaven for the one that leads to hell."
desposition: a testimony concerning a sickness
I awoke from The Sickness at age fourty-five, calm and sane, and in reasonably good health except for a weakened liver and the look of borrowed flesh common to all who survive The Sickness. I have no precise memory of writing the notes which have now been published under the title 'Naked Lunch'. The title was suggested by Jack Kerouac. I did not understand what the title meant until my recent recovery. The title means exactly what the words say: NAKED LUNCH - a frozen moment when everyone sees what is on the end of every fork.
pleasure
"Imagine someone ... who abolishes within himself all barriers, all classes, all exclusions, not by syncretism but by simple discard of that old specter: logical contradiction; who mixes every language, even those said to be incompatible; who silently accepts every charge of illogicality, of incongruity; who remains passive in the face of Socratic irony (leading the interlocutor to the supreme disgrace: self-contradiction) and legal terrorism (how much penal evidence is based on a psychology of consistency!). Such a man would be the mockery of our society: court, school, asylum, polite conversation would cast him out: who endures contradiction without shame? Now this anti-hero exists: he is the reader of the text at the moment he takes his pleasure."
for my first act
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/sport/afl/stay-in-the-closet-jason-akermanis-tells-homosexuals/story-e6frf9ix-1225868871934
the 'comment' function has got to be the most inspiring aspect of modern technogolgical advance.
"Wow, way to talk out of both sides of your mouth, Aker. You're totally fine with people being gay, as long as they don't have the audacity to enter the world of sport. If they do, then let them suffer and lie, just to make people like you more comfortable. Clearly, you don't spend your life worrying about how others feel about what you do or say, but you think these players should spend their entire playing careers in the closet because you all shower together and hug after goals?! Last time I checked, that many men in one shower is about the gayest thing in the world, even if they are all straight. Saying you're all for gay rights, as long as it doesn't get in the way of you feeling like a real man while naked with other men, is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Aker, I think it's time to take your own advice, and keep your ridiculous opinions where they belong, in the closet."
"I agree with you AKER! ..... Why is it anyones business anyway who is Gay or Straight ??.....pfft ....GO DOGGIES :)"
"It would be international news"? It wouldn't even be interstate news.?"
"Wouldn't this guy want to know who is gay so that he can protect himself against being secretly ogled? Otherwise, he's showering unwittingly with guys who are looking up up and down"
"To the Herald Sun, as a proud and out gay person, I am deeply offended by the egregiously homophobic nature of this article. How dare you allow the vilification of a suspect class of people by shaming them to stay in the closet no matter where they are. How dare you allow a message that straight people are superior to gay people in justifying their discomfort over gay people in the shower room. This article is blatant, rampant, destructive homophobia that will do nothing but demean and dehumanize gay people and especially the gay youth that do not need further hostility in their lives. Whoever authorized this appalling article should be very, very ashamed of him/herself."
"he is right!! i would be different after a football game if i knew a player was gay!!"
"We (footy fans) don't want to know anyway."
"Oh...My... God!!! You have got to be joking, right? Thank you Jason, for reminding us gays that we are too different from you, and we'll keep on hiding to make you feel better. "
AMAZING.
the 'comment' function has got to be the most inspiring aspect of modern technogolgical advance.
"Wow, way to talk out of both sides of your mouth, Aker. You're totally fine with people being gay, as long as they don't have the audacity to enter the world of sport. If they do, then let them suffer and lie, just to make people like you more comfortable. Clearly, you don't spend your life worrying about how others feel about what you do or say, but you think these players should spend their entire playing careers in the closet because you all shower together and hug after goals?! Last time I checked, that many men in one shower is about the gayest thing in the world, even if they are all straight. Saying you're all for gay rights, as long as it doesn't get in the way of you feeling like a real man while naked with other men, is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Aker, I think it's time to take your own advice, and keep your ridiculous opinions where they belong, in the closet."
"I agree with you AKER! ..... Why is it anyones business anyway who is Gay or Straight ??.....pfft ....GO DOGGIES :)"
"It would be international news"? It wouldn't even be interstate news.?"
"Wouldn't this guy want to know who is gay so that he can protect himself against being secretly ogled? Otherwise, he's showering unwittingly with guys who are looking up up and down"
"To the Herald Sun, as a proud and out gay person, I am deeply offended by the egregiously homophobic nature of this article. How dare you allow the vilification of a suspect class of people by shaming them to stay in the closet no matter where they are. How dare you allow a message that straight people are superior to gay people in justifying their discomfort over gay people in the shower room. This article is blatant, rampant, destructive homophobia that will do nothing but demean and dehumanize gay people and especially the gay youth that do not need further hostility in their lives. Whoever authorized this appalling article should be very, very ashamed of him/herself."
"he is right!! i would be different after a football game if i knew a player was gay!!"
"We (footy fans) don't want to know anyway."
"Oh...My... God!!! You have got to be joking, right? Thank you Jason, for reminding us gays that we are too different from you, and we'll keep on hiding to make you feel better. "
AMAZING.
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