square white world

It is about the cost of food and petrol, of basic alimentation and transport. It is about not being able to pay bills, rent, mortgage, housing costs, the costs of habitation, shelter. It is about not being able to afford to pay for education, whether for children or oneself. It is about not being able to afford to support those who depend on us, aging parents, sick relations, friends in need. It is about having no money. It is also about high prices, about taxes set punitively high. And it is about the contrast visible everywhere around between people with enough to pay high prices, usually the people who impose high prices, and the people with less, less to the degree that they are victims.

A line has been crossed: the spectacle of wealth is no longer sufficient reason to keep our seats. We are at war with those on the stage, on the other side of the line, across the carefully regulated, policed and legislated for wealth divide. A line has been crossed in so far as we have been betrayed: we no longer believe in enjoying ourselves to death; we are no longer complacent about watching since we have discovered we can no longer attain to the sort of lives or gain access to the sort of world we see represented before us, everywhere around. Life in the real world has become too expensive. The line is real cost, actual price.

The war is about a threshold we have not crossed but been forced over and now life is insupportable; it is beyond our means. We wage war neither on the images of lives we cannot possess, nor with needs fed on these illusions, but on the injustice concentrating wealth in fewer and fewer hands. The compensation for this decrease is found in the multiplication of images of excess, to excess. Here also a threshold: forced to consume advertising, we declare ourselves at war with the authority who gives us to be force-fed, the power that regulates for, not against, the advertiser.

Here again a divide: between greed and fear. We overcome our fear of information, of the fetishes advertising holds up to mesmerise us; we overthrow this combination of the greedy using fear, this combine. We don’t assert a right to what we need, we take it. The war is about the overthrow of every government that allows injustice to be perpetuated as good business.

With entry to deregulated markets (that is markets in whose favour states regulate), with access to docile populations strangled, sociopathic corporations turn to autism, the affliction symptomatic of their affect on individuals in victim societies.

The power of the state lies both in an advertising jingle, a matter of representation, and the permission it gives for us to be made victims, a matter of authority. The war is about rejecting the illusion and claiming the right of authority. It is about representing our wishes to the greedy. It is for an open and egalitarian society.

It is happening everywhere because conditions are similar everywhere, even where histories differ. It is happening in the Middle East. It is happening in Europe and in England. Why isn’t it happening yet in the US?

The war is about rejecting both economics and politics as reasons for victimisation. It is about claiming adequate representation in the overthrow of authority.

AND

What are you going to do in the war,
Mummy?

- from here, advertising a shop in Istanbul

The jolt was felt as far away as Tauranga, which is an hour south of Auckland, and all over the South Island. But it was shallower and more localised than the last quake in Christchurch. The last measured 7.1, its epicentre 50 km out to sea and 10 km down, this one, 6.3, 10 km out and 5km down into the earth. Which representational coordinates register in experience, if you’ve lived in an earthquake-prone area for long enough.

Bodies have been shown being pulled out wreckage, officially numbering 75, expected to rise. A massive disaster for NZ. Another. And, as has become a familiar complaint from me, it is an event that has been responded to in terms of reflection … too soon. Footage set into tightly edited circular vignettes. Highlights revisited at increasing frequency. A stasis in the way media present and the way then the event comes to be represented in conversation.

We are already ‘pausing’ to consider the effects. Rather than suffering them, as affects, and communicating them, as affects. Among which effects number, naturally, those relating to economics, to the well-being of businesses, and business per se as an abstract entity, the business of the nation, and GDP. So an aspect, not the main one, but a notable element in our ‘thoughts and prayers’ is concern for the economics of the disaster. The business section of the paper talks about the old one, two. And he’s down! I am indicating a constructed, pointed characteristic to this soup of mediated reflections, cycling on pause. That in effect it has been spiked. Cost is being counted as we watch pain and destruction occurring.

A friend wrote that the footage showed more urgency among reporters than among rescue workers, comparing this to Haiti, where within 6 or so hours, bodies were being pulled from wreckage by the score. Contributing to this circumspection, there is also the regulated nature of our society’s understanding of itself, and self-regulation, stopping people who might from rushing in, to the extent that one man who tried to help was arrested. Obviously for endangering others.

I don’t think this pertained in Haiti’s case, since looting was a major problem, and given the impoverishment of the people. Here, we see traumatised office workers, the middle-classes prevailing, and men wearing hardhats and fluoro vests. All with that harried look of the firefighters in NY on September 11. But I have to admit to being perturbed to see what looks like a public service attitude despite the harriedness of its officials, rescue-workers in throngs, standing around, as if leaning on spades, over photocopiers, around the water-cooler, you might say, while one guy wields a hammer.

We are a careful nation it seems. Not wanting to be disturbed or disturb each other. This earthquake is called an ‘aftershock,’ despite being more devastating than the preceding quake. TV news precedes cycles of footage with warnings about its ‘graphic’ nature that ‘may disturb some viewers.’ Another acquaintance was told by someone he knew to ‘tone down’ his language on facebook. To which he responded, I will not fucking tone it down. Sometimes an aftershock is not a toned down version of an earthquake.

What fascinates me most is actually the fact of ongoing aftershocks. Over several thousand from the quake in September last year. But watching the responses of reporters and by-standers in live coverage to the hourly-or-so shocks and rumbles and jolts. How doubt in the solidity of the ground affects people at the moment the ground moves. They don’t necessarily all reach for something onto which to hold. More frequently the talking face of the journo or the background faces will withdraw into itself, into themselves. A far-away look – not just wishful thinking – moves across the face. One guy could not concentrate on the question coming from his earpiece while in every physical respect he responded with nonchalance to the aftershock. It made him listen to his inner ear. Perhaps to find balance.

Another under-reported aspect to the quake is the smell coming from the ground. It’s not simply shaking like jelly, it’s smelling like shit. ‘Liquefaction’ is the word, if not the fact, on everybody’s lips. The oscillations in the ground having reorganised the strata underneath, sorting them so that lighter particles rise, liquefying to the extent that rock and sand begins to act like liquid and percolate up to and through and onto the surface. Along with broken liquid flows already underground. In Christchurch’s case, acquifers, multiple subterranean rivers – the city is built on a vast alluvial plane – and sewage and water mains.

- this and all subsequent Commemorative Plaques by Dane Mitchell, here

- one of the Little Savages, compelling forms, or Patu-paiarehe, by Rachel Walters, here

- a Memory Windmill by Leon van den Eijkel, here

- Whare by Neil Dawson, here

- Plot, a beautiful piece, the country’s catafalque, by Brett Graham, here

- an engaging word in Meteorol by Mary-Louise Browne, here

- Nest (Fall of Grace) by Liz Earth, here

- Declaration of War, or Coke & Pie by anonymous folk artist, Snells Beach

touch the image for the
fruit of a collaboration with Heidi May
initiated in the soft_skinned_space
of -empyre- [here]
touch it again

I

Je chante la chaleur à visage de nouveau-né, la chaleur désespérée.

I SING THE WARMTH IN THE FACE OF A NEWBORN,

THE DESPERATE WARMTH.

II

Au tour du pain de rompre l’homme, d’être la beauté du point du jour.

THE BREAD’S TURN TO BREAK MAN,

TO BE THE DAWN’S BEAUTY.

III

Celui qui se fie au tournesol ne méditera pas dans la maison. Toutes les pensées de l’amour deviendront ses pensées.

HE WHO BELIEVES THE SUNFLOWER WON’T BROOD IN THE HOUSE.

ALL THOUGHTS OF LOVE WILL BE HIS THOUGHTS.

IV

Dans la boucle de l’hirondelle un orage s’informe, un jardin se construit.

A STORM INQUIRES INTO THE SWALLOWS LOOP,

A GARDEN IS CONSTRUED.

V

Il y aura toujours une goutte d’eau pour durer plus que le soleil sans que l’ascendant du soleil soit ébranlé.

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE A WATER DROP TO OUTLAST THE SUN

THAT WILL NOT SHAKE THE SUN IN ITS ASCENDANCY.

VI

Produis ce que la connaissance veut garder secret, la connaissance au cent passages.

MAKE THAT WHICH FAMILIARITY WOULD KEEP SECRET,

FAMILIARITY WITH ITS HUNDRED HALLWAYS.

VII

Ce qui vient au monde pour ne rien troubler ne mérite ni égards ni patience.

THAT WHICH COMES TO THE WORLD TO DISTURB NOTHING

MERITS NEITHER CONSIDERATION NOR TOLERANCE.

VIII

Combien durera ce manque de l’homme mourant au centre de la création parce que la création l’a congédié?

HOW LONG WILL THIS LACK AT THE CENTRE OF CREATION LAST

OF THE DEATH OF MAN BECAUSE CREATION HAS REJECTED HIM?

IX

Chaque maison était une saison. La ville ainsi se répétait. Tous les habitants ensemble ne connaissaient que l’hiver, malgré leur chair réchauffée, malgré le jour qui ne s’en allait pas.

EVERY HOUSE WAS A SEASON. THE CITY WAS THUS REPEATED.

IN SPITE OF THE DAY THAT WOULDN’T LEAVE THEM.

X

Tu es dans ton essence constamment poète, constamment au zénith de ton amour, constamment avide de vérité et de justice. C’est sans doute un mal nécessaire que tu ne puisses l’être assidûment dans ta conscience.

YOU ARE A POET IN YOUR BEING CONTINUOUSLY, AT THE ZENITH OF YOUR LOVE CONTINUOUSLY,

THAT IN YOUR CONSCIENCE YOU CAN’T BE SO ASSIDUOUSLY.

XI

Tu feras de l’âme qui n’existe pas un homme meilleur qu’elle.

YOU’LL MAKE OF THE SOUL WHICH DOESN’T EXIST

A MAN BETTER THAN IT.

XII

Regarde l’image téméraire où se baigne ton pays, ce plaisir qui t’a longtemps fui.

LOOK AT THE RECKLESS IMAGE

THIS PLEASURE THAT FOR A LONG TIME ESCAPED YOU.

XIII

Nombreux sont ceux qui attendent que l’écueil les soulève, que le but les franchisse, pour se définir.

THOSE WHO WAIT TO BE LIFTED UP BY WHAT BLOCKS THEM,

ARE NUMEROUS.

XIV

Remercie celui qui ne prend pas souci de ton remords. Tu es son égal.

THANK HIM WHO PAYS YOUR REMORSE NO MIND.

YOU ARE HIS EQUAL.

XV

Les larmes méprisent leur confident.

TEARS SCORN THE SYMPATHISER.

XVI

Il reste une profondeur mesurable là où le sable subjugue la destinée.

THE DEPTH IS STILL MEASURABLE THERE

WHERE FATE FOUNDERS IN SAND.

XVII

Mon amour, peu importe que je sois né: tu deviens visible à la place où je disparais.

MY LOVE, WHO CARES THAT I WAS BORN:

YOU BECOME VISIBLE AT THE PLACE WHERE I DISAPPEAR.

XVIII

Pouvoir marcher, sans tromper l’oiseau, du coeur de l’arbre à l’extase du fruit.

THE POWER TO WALK,

TO THE FRUIT’S ECSTASY.

XVIX

Ce qui t’accueille à travers le plaisir n’est que la gratitude mercenaire du souvenir. La présence que tu as choisie ne délivre pas d’adieu.

WHAT YOU GET FROM PLEASURE

GRANTS NO ADIEUS.

XX

Ne te courbe que pour aimer. Si tu meurs, tu aimes encore.

DON’T BOW YOUR HEAD

STILL YOU LOVE.

XXI

Les ténèbres que t’infuses sont régies par la luxure de ton ascendant solaire.

THE DARKNESSES INSTILLED IN YOU

OF YOUR SOLAR ASCENDANT.

XXII

Néglige ceux aux yeux de qui l’homme passe pour n’être qu’une étape de la couleur sur le dos tourmenté de la terre. Qu’ils dévident leur longue remonstrance. L’encre du tisonnier et la rougeur du nuage ne font qu’un.

IGNORE THEM IN WHOSE EYES MAN PASSES FOR NO MORE THAN A TONE OF COLOUR

THE POKER’S INK AND THE REDNESS OF CLOUD ARE JUST ONE.

XXIII

Il n’est pas digne du poète de mystifier l’agneau, d’investir sa laine.

IT’S UNWORTHY OF THE POET

TO INVEST HIMSELF IN WOOL.

XXIV

Si nous habitons un éclair, il est le coeur de l’éternel.

OUR LIFE IS IN THE LIGHTNING,

TO BE IN THE HEART OF THE ETERNAL.

XXV

Yeux qui, croyant inventer le jour, avez éveillé le vent, que puis-je pour vous, je suis l’oubli.

EYES WHO, THINKING TO CREATE THE DAY,

I AM OBLIVION.

XXVI

La poèsie est de toutes les eaux claire celle qui s’attarde le moins aux reflets de ses ponts.
Poèsie, la vie future à l’intérieur de l’homme requalifié.

POETRY IS OF ALL CLEAR WATERS

INSIDE OF THE MAN RETRAINED.

XXVII

Une rose pour qu’il pleuve. Au terme d’innombrables années, c’est ton souhait.

A ROSE THAT IT RAIN.

THAT IS YOUR WISH.

if you find it impossible to say,
once you find it’s impossible to go on,
then it’s clear that this is the place
to start.

What were they?
We had taken many of the same drugs.
I only remember parts of the very long words for them,
ptslblnmnkrnwfrsdnx.
What they were I don’t recall.

if the artist allowed the work to survive
it is by reason of curiosity and comparison
not as potential evidence of achievement.

- James Lord, Giacometti, p. 356

FOR YOU
… nobody has come back and said,
‘I have broken the ends off my fingers’
‘I have cried …
‘I have cried …’

a desirable challenge:
TO HAVE ONE’S EYES
OPENED BY
BUT NOT TO
infinity

It is one thing to dissolve the ‘I’ in impossibility.
It is another thing to do the impossible.

there are then two kinds of death just as there are two kinds of representation: one is intense, while one is not; one is lived, while one is living. … Are reversals possible? … It is in the dimension of time that intensity becomes event and death overcomes its limit, its terminal limit, that termination, and becomes timeless. While the other kind of death ends in time or is ended and falls away, like a ruined armature, falling to dust, without any sense of loss – as if it were the twin of the other kind of representation. Jesse.

The first waterman was a Russian immigrant. He had written a novel detailing his adventures, in and out of trouble with the law. It created a myth. It was into this myth that I was invited now to step.

When I first came to this city it was full of good things that I loved: a bookshop, a café, colourful characters. Now, moving back here …

Pinsized people seen from heights,
mountains, skyscrapers.

to be equal to one’s wound,
to be equal in shame,
to be equal in pride.

You lose your name because it is rough.
I watch you swap body parts.

a socialisation of music … we are a carpet and a carpet of sound sound

Two white goats’ body
staggered on a boundary,
heads in a green dark hedge.

I am the girl inside her head &
I am the boy inside her head

these claims we make on images
by shooting them

the stylites:
What is writing? I fear it will behoove me to ask this question.
Nobody knows what writing is

the year is 1980. The détente between East and West has been broken with salvos of nuclear warheads travelling in both directions. Everybody knows hostilities will escalate, that neither Superpower will rest until every enemy target has been hit; everybody knows that New Zealand is on the list of targets.

I left my wife for Carax
back to hell
The world demands that we be equal to its wound
back to hell

how is it possible, unless you really hate yourself, not to conceive a love for those who do what you tell them to do?

it’s really impossible, unless you have no self-respect at all, not to love the people who do what you tell them

the people are fascists

if sex is the “theatre of the working classes,” one can very well understand the ‘pornification’ of society.

on the evidence that society doesn’t descend to – or rise to the challenge of becoming – an orgy, while, it is said, they think about sex every several seconds, we must adduce that men are capable of being gentlemen the majority of the time

crying … REAL men shouldn’t feel afraid to show their emotions. Unless those emotions involve machetes or Samurai swords.

Nava Valencia’s [sic] diamond-studded gun

sometimes unpleasantness lends to enjoyment a little extra; however, like salt, it is possible to over-season.

you left me
i hate you
you came back
i love you

technicolour

knowledge is power; information is force?

I must be at the same level
as my belief
that is why I am a king
or a count at the very least

what becomes exotic is the rarefied context in which such exhibitionism can not only take place but become de rigueur. Aristocracy becomes a matter of self-display. This is the scene, a feature of the scene.

it shows up the hypocrisy of fashion editorial that does not go “all the way” but changes what is “all the way” into an act of honesty: the candid shot. Conventional fashion editorial starts to seem contrived, above all in the way it eroticizes or plays on the erotic fantasy of the viewer, male or female.

Zahm here celebrates and is critical. The critique lies in the candid shots interpellated into the more or less conventional spreads. That these are not primarily [illegible] sexual is attested to in the example of Lindsay Lohan’s scarred knee.

What is put on display is perversity in the sense that sex does not occur: no erect penises or shots of penetration. Here the perversity contemplates itself.

Olivier is a young-girl too. He is included … his glasses … and his stubble, resembling a pubic tonsure, particularly that of …