Monday 29 September 2008
Friday 19 September 2008
posting cards
we were sitting where we often sat.we'd met today in the passing. i'd started seeing the colours again,see?i told him.
.
..
i tend to tilt the horizon upside down whenever i can't breathe.it usually has it's own colours.talking is easy that way.i can breathe.
i looked up at the sky,the trees.
a corpse.then there was another.
black,hooded,glazed eyes.
i found a stick. i climbed on the roof and tossed one down.the other then.string.the claws were stiff.contorted. still in negotiation.with the same string.we put them in a plastic bag.we walked to the garden.we dug a hole.
it was time the crows were buried.
where we'd often sat.
.
..
i tend to tilt the horizon upside down whenever i can't breathe.it usually has it's own colours.talking is easy that way.i can breathe.
i looked up at the sky,the trees.
a corpse.then there was another.
black,hooded,glazed eyes.
i found a stick. i climbed on the roof and tossed one down.the other then.string.the claws were stiff.contorted. still in negotiation.with the same string.we put them in a plastic bag.we walked to the garden.we dug a hole.
it was time the crows were buried.
where we'd often sat.
Tuesday 16 September 2008
i consider the following to be the highest task in the relation between two people:for one to stand guard over the other's solitude.if the essential nature of both indifference and the crowd consists in the non recognition of solitude,then love and friendship exist in order to continually furnish new opportunities for solitude.
and only those commonalities are true that rhythmically interrupt deep states of loneliness...
.
.
Rainer Maria Rilke.
and only those commonalities are true that rhythmically interrupt deep states of loneliness...
.
.
Rainer Maria Rilke.
cud for a chew?
it was just that the time was wrong
i don't do the talk like they talk on TV
mark knofler
even if i decide to be silent ,even if i decide to promise nothing,not to commit myself to saying something,that, would confirm once again the destination of speech,and the destination towards speech,this silence yet remains a modality of speech:a memory of promise and a promise of memory.
sartre
i don't do the talk like they talk on TV
mark knofler
even if i decide to be silent ,even if i decide to promise nothing,not to commit myself to saying something,that, would confirm once again the destination of speech,and the destination towards speech,this silence yet remains a modality of speech:a memory of promise and a promise of memory.
sartre
Tuesday,
1:24 pm
it's one of those tuesdays.lost it at 11:30 am...
information overload.faces,cities,words,films race past my head.purple spots.i can't be bothered with focussing.
detail Detail...i nod in recognition,familiar dear Detail,we've known each other..
magic Méliès..jumping spaces in the same frame,now at my feet,now at the ledge,rajasthan,the cold chill on the roof,trains passing by in the night,all lights ablaze...some of the windows are dark...like filled in staff paper.
we're moving to the music in our heads,i watch the tail lights of the bikes driving down the hill,you bring the cigarette to your lips in the dark,the lit end glows red...just like the tail lights,different co ordinates.just that.the poetry is in the timing the poetry is in the timing.
the question is about the point.maybe.one more shot at the answer,now?the fear of even articulating the question lest it mushrooms into this giant oak while i sit and stare at screens.
my brain is queer.i think it processes in my sleep better.
.
.
one of my films has almost reach space.
i metaphorically built mr. kabakov's catapult in my room.maybe i'll put up pictures of the rubble here...
the film has become a person. a self sufficient entity.editing felt like a completely dadaist exercise.i let loose the brain on the footage,it let out a string.8 days of juggling.after 4 months of it growing potato ears without a touch.i couldn't be bothered with focussing.
it's like a relationship,a break up,i could pick up the pieces only once i had stopped feeling the nausea.i could let you go,only after compulsively simulating the departure in my mind.again and again and again..
1:24 pm
it's one of those tuesdays.lost it at 11:30 am...
information overload.faces,cities,words,films race past my head.purple spots.i can't be bothered with focussing.
detail Detail...i nod in recognition,familiar dear Detail,we've known each other..
magic Méliès..jumping spaces in the same frame,now at my feet,now at the ledge,rajasthan,the cold chill on the roof,trains passing by in the night,all lights ablaze...some of the windows are dark...like filled in staff paper.
we're moving to the music in our heads,i watch the tail lights of the bikes driving down the hill,you bring the cigarette to your lips in the dark,the lit end glows red...just like the tail lights,different co ordinates.just that.the poetry is in the timing the poetry is in the timing.
the question is about the point.maybe.one more shot at the answer,now?the fear of even articulating the question lest it mushrooms into this giant oak while i sit and stare at screens.
my brain is queer.i think it processes in my sleep better.
.
.
one of my films has almost reach space.
i metaphorically built mr. kabakov's catapult in my room.maybe i'll put up pictures of the rubble here...
the film has become a person. a self sufficient entity.editing felt like a completely dadaist exercise.i let loose the brain on the footage,it let out a string.8 days of juggling.after 4 months of it growing potato ears without a touch.i couldn't be bothered with focussing.
it's like a relationship,a break up,i could pick up the pieces only once i had stopped feeling the nausea.i could let you go,only after compulsively simulating the departure in my mind.again and again and again..
Sunday 14 September 2008
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