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""There are knots, points of great condensation, places of high valuation, paths of decision or interpretation that are virtually unavoidable . . . which by an ominous and rigorous paradox confers on them an additionall authority, an influence, radiance or presence that leads their ghost to places where they are not and from which their ghost will never return.(The Deaths of Roland Barthes |The Work of Mourning | Jacques Derrida p. 56)
:: note :: . . . a new project takes shape . . . mask/music/place into images . . .
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"At the same time, these tragic and brooding pictures are not just apocalyptic visions hatched inside the artist's feverish mind. They gain much of their baleful conviction from Kiefer's close and incessant scrutiny of the countryside around his home in an isolated village south of Frankfurt. Here he is able to witness the annual buning of stubble after the straw has been cut, and all his landscapes gain immensely from Kiefer's firsthand observation of nature. This familiarity with the precise formation of a ploughed furrow or a havested crop enables him to root even the most harrowing and trubulent paintings in a credible down-to-earth reality. "(richard cork | new spirit, new culture, new money: art in the 1980s | p. 38)
:: note :: . . . have carried the images of anselm kiefer, just beneath consciousness, for a few days now . . . the above quote doesn't relate to the posted picture but more to other images i've been harbouring but the posted image does relate to the word/picture attraction i've developed . . . checked back a year to find on this day in the archive made similiar note of some images which seem connected to today's choice . . . life is rich in undetected rhythms & cycles of imagination . . .
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". . .we decided to work together as a globally dispersed cyberformance company in order to undertake practical research into the collision of theatre and the internet and to create live performances in cyberspace."( helen varley jamieson | comment in Avatar Theater and 'Time' | networked_performance)
:: note :: . . . blast theory, lag time, art mobs, avatar theater . . . oh yeah & godot arrives . . . the collision between theater and the internet . . .
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korean traditonal songs
learned in korea are from a cultural asset - that is what i mean when i say korean traditional song.
those songs, it doesn't matter who you are, there is no room for returning songs (or energy) to me. i just burn my energy to produce the voice, songs - cleaning up who i am
but the other songs, singing a song is not a finished act. i don't burn my energy to produce the song, the energy is returned to me by singing. singing reproduces my energy or echoes back so, i am not emptying out myself, because of reproducing something, i am refilled.
i am burning my old energy and reproducing new energy, so i am refreshed and better
just like a blood
blood in our bodies.
(im from nyu)
:: note :: . . . inner listening . . . songs to grow by . . . the teaching songs . . . the air songs . . . those neuron passses . . .
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Ross Bleckner Flowers 1994
:: note :: . . . the light returns to the temple . . . replaced all windows after a winter boarded up . . . it takes a summer break to restore what vandals do in seconds . . .
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time and time and time
be patient
let the way reveal itself
discover the warm spots
treasure each moment
let the movements wash slow and deep
(summer travels 9/18/01)
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a shooting star ejaculates across the clear sky
we dip in and out of the lake of dream-salt
moving over the face of the waters
(summer travels 9/17/01)
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Wading into the water
firm bottom & gentle cold
stirs the bone
a red striped insect sunning
stirs the imagination
the cascading distant rain streaks
stirs the spirit
& the wind, the wind
reaching, caressing, chopping, stroking
stirs the soul
your skin bronzes turning to gold
nature massages & transforms
is that love?
(summer travels 9/16/01)
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time again
the water snake rises into joy
wind travelling floatsom
tiny salt water spirits tumble across pebbles
as gulls soar into the setting sun
multifaceted hues the length and breadth of eternity
kiss the trembling aspens with lips of light
as the choke cherries ripen into deep purple
(summer travels 8/16/01)
:: note :: . . . the temple floods with sand memory . . . on the roof the pebbles baked into tar scratch the back into immobility . . . listen to the love poems scavenged by wood s lot . . . accepted the invite . . .
SAND
The sand is like acres of wet milk
Poured out under the moonlight;
It crawls up about your brown feet
Like wine trodden from white stars.
From the Arabic of John Duncan.
(via The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Garden of Bright Waters by Translated by Edward Powys Mathers )
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healing waters of manitou
the golden waters
hot & salty
buoyant
floating gently away
a hand guides us as the eyes sting
toopsy turvey head under over
turn everything
upside down
change the center
growth needs wisdom
wisdom needs youth
let the fire burn
(summer travels 2001)
:: note :: . . . a beacon from the past navigates the soulscape today. . . remember those healing waters the gentle days in the water, on the beach . . .
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. . . the summer heat comes . . .
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 "Self-awareness ... operates like a drug, stimulating one's sense of responsiblilty while weakening the will to express it."(Northrop Frye)
"...the effort to shut out anxiety is itself an anxiety and a very intense one, which keeps the conscious and critical part of the mind very near to the breaking point of hysteria."(Northrop Frye | The Modern Century)
(via the psychic wood s lot)
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"All places communicate instantly with all other places, a sense of isloation is delt only during the trip between one place and the other, that is, when you are in no place. I, in fact, find myself here without a here or an elsewhere, recognized as an outsider by the nonoutsiders and envy them. Yes, envy. I am looking from the outside at the life of an ordinary evening in an ordinary little city, and I realize I am cut off from ordinary evenings for god knows how long, and I think of thousands of little cities like this, of hundereds of thousands of lighted places where at this hour people allow the evening's darkness to descend and have none of the thoughts in their head that I have in mine; maybe they have other thoughts that aren't at all enviable, but at this moment I would be willing to trade with any of them. p. 17"(Calvino. On a Winter's Night a Traveller... p. 17)
(via bryan to haijan)
:: note :: . . . watch packing into boxes . . . summer clothes, spring clothes, winter . . . new phases into old seasons . . . the impossible becomes possible . . . to nyu with love . . .
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. . . Vanished under the Vaults . . .
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. . . mom came across a folder full of photos which my dad had taken in '53 while working in Fort Churchill, Manitoba . . . upper atmosphere research . . . remember the stories of his spending nights on the platform watching the aurora . . . people, in the years to come, would ask him: "Do the Northern Lights Sound?" . . . he would laugh and reply, "No." . . . his smile betrayed knowledge of the unexpected universe . . . of the collection of prints this was my son's favourite . . .
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floating on the silence of hidden tributaries
tired and in need of solitude
she whispered: i don't know what's in your heart
sleeping in the cleft of a dream
the earth had aged considerably
the eye could no longer pin down the ecstasy in colour
he sliced his finger cutting the onions
how is it that we've forgotten all that was promised at birth?
around the world looking for what we'll never find.
love knows nothing.
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Violins will emerge from
our tortured breasts,
The barbed wire will
become violin strings,
The broken bones will
become flutes,
There will be a wild dance.
(Mikis Theodorakis/Greek composer, conductor, poet, and political activist)
(from Journals of Resistance. 1971 English trans. by Hart-Davis MacGibbon Ltd. The lines are excerpted from "Our Sister Athina".)
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moxon movement
red wine flowed after the gig
and the chainti smiles collected the sounds
of what will be known henceforth as
the moxon movement
he said 'no intro thought i'd leave the chords just hanging'
oh they did - the chords hung in the air like kites without strings
and if tempo drives them crazy let madness reign in
the moxon movement
the truth but not the whole truth simply the sweet part he knew
and the hymns sung solemn and rich in the heart settling
in the territory of sublime v i b r a t i o n of
the moxon movement
move around but how could we when the spaces between the sphere
of you and i and thou and me and mom and dad & the mud hut
slippery sliding eyes shut awake listening to
the moxon movement
from a lost letter . . .
. . . the real challenge is the creation of art in life made all the more so beautiful because you recognize that the tragic moments to impose meaning, in this massively indifferent universe, are even more possible and cannot endure the vastness of eternity which we call
home
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Moxon Gig
Duane Dorgan, percussion
Ray Stephanson, keyboards
1. FujiVuYu (Stephanson)
2. Metatango (Dorgan)
3. Blue Jay (Stephanson)
4. Truth About Ruth (Dorgan)
5. Ryan's Mut Hut (Dorgan)
6. Brasil Boogie (Stephanson)
(With thanks to Stella Stephanson, Bjorn Vors, and Rosie Stephanson)
:: note :: . . . an exquisite house concert . . . music to open the soul . . . demanding the spirit to listen to the spaces between with such a gentle coaxing that the rhythmic dance surprises and conjures laughter . . . solemn hymns to walking baselines that never stop . . . cymbal brushes defying the rapture . . . wo mag(mus)icians, I'm honoured to call friends, extend an invitation into the sublime . . . and the foooood . . . Mediterranean garnishes, salt brined Norwegian or was it Danish meat, Saskatoon berry delights . . . god bless this place . . .
""Merely having an open mind is nothing; the object of opening the mind, as of opening the mouth, is to shut it again on something solid.""(Chesterton apologies to Terry Teachout)
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"an amputated soul - like an amputated limb, the body seeks out that which is not there and grasps hold of the emptiness. it's like a hole inside yourself that, when you seek it out, expands, pressing against your ribcage from within, reaching all the way up to your throat."
"sleep only comes with the warblers' waking."(nick | this is if.only.org)
:: note :: . . . the sleek eloquence of nick inspired Exile . . .
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:: note :: . . . looking at the kenderdine gallery show case windows inside the agriculture building reflecting the john mitchell building (drama building) with drama instructor shadow . . . time of reflections . . . knowing no immediate in[sight]s just trust the process . . . always trust the process it has it's own space and time . . . keep moving and find the times to pause . . . to look intently . . .
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"I have no respect for acting. Acting by and large is an expression of a neurotic impulse . . . I've never in my life met an actor who was not neurotic . . . I think the truth is that actors are actors because it gives them sustenance for their narcissism. Acting enables them to experience a false sense of love and attention, the same kind of attention given any exhibition . . . Acting is a bum's life in that it leads to perfect self-indulgence."(Marlon Brando in Portrait of the Rebel as an Artist by B. Thomas. p153)
"I've always tried to run acting down . . . I don't know why. It's not a bad thing to do in life after all. . . Everybody has had the experience of feeling: Christ the world is coming to an end. And you go watch John Wayne riding across the prairie, and you see grass blowing and the clouds, and he grabs the girl and they ride off into the sunset. You went in there feeling awful and you came out feeling good. He made you feel good. That's not bad. that's not a bad thing to do in life . ."(Marlon Brando in Brando: The Unauthorized Biography by Morella and Epstein. p 142-3)
(All quotes found in The Way of the Actor by Brian Bates)
:: note :: . . . Bates concluded writing: "The way of the actor keeps us in contact with the mystery which lies at the heart of life." . . . Brando on the screen communicated all of that mystery and all of that heart . . . the horror, the horror . . .
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" . . . be light, not weighted down by eighteenth-and-nineteenth century concepts of nationhood, theoretical grids and templates, the formal apparatus of a homogenizing economic system and legislation that attempt once and for all to resolve the disparate elements and paradoxes that make up this society. Leave it to its ambivalences, its frictions, its civility, its anonymity, its mystery, its slow unfolding; leave it to the debate, the haggling and wheedling and coaxing. Drop the need to find lasting solutions for what may not be a problem. Meaning may reside for us in the way that we address injustices, in the dialogues we support, in the messages we send, and in what we intuit about our secret selves."(A CANADA of LIGHT by B. W. Powe | Uni.ca)
(via wood s lot with many thanks and regards)
:: note :: . . . what an incredible meditation . . . be light . . .
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