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 …
