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Sunday, December 6, 2009

Who is walking beneath the quayside trees? Who is lost, utterly lost? On whose tomb does the grass grow? Dreams have arrived, they came up against the current, they climb the quayside wall with the aid of a ladder. People stop. People converse with them. They know many things. Only they do not know where they come from. That they do not know. It is warm on this autumn evening. They turn to the river and raise their arms. "Why do you raise your arms, and not close them round us?"

Kafka

Writers are afraid. Almost all those whose instrument of work is language are afraid: journalists, critics, university teachers, almost all of them. Fear and lies govern their tastes and their activities. Fear of what? Fear of death by social starvation, fear of not being invited to the dominant banquet, fear of not immediately receiving a pittance of compliments, fear of not being published, of not winning prizes, of not being invited onto the greatest possible number of TV programs. Fear of not belonging to the powerful cliques that reign over institutions private and public, fear of not belonging to the inquisition clubs. Fear for their reputation, fear of not being cited in the maximum number of papers, fear of not always being congratulated, of never being congratulated, fear of being unmasked and called inferior, fear of not getting in touch with the establishment, fear of never getting a taste of power, fear of exile, of cold, of solitude, of that sever climate that follows the artist, as Joyce well knew. Fear of being honest and of this old fashioned virtue costing them very dearly indeed.

Helene Cixous, We who are free, are we free?

Sunday, November 29, 2009

12:42pm

Single: adj: individual: being or characteristic of a single thing or person, solitary or sole; lone.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

8:30 p.m.

I don’t like it

I don’t like her

I don’t like it

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

text tree n solid root you find, you roll

crouched like a crow

dress up as this though another

question o,k. knight may me my i

ow go further yeoman ch. chooo

invent my identity

social roll you are avail able

hi me a-don't recognize me, mi

you're my vegetalia

Sunday, November 8, 2009

typing too loud in the car on the way back from Evansville, Indiana

for k.

it's silver, not gray

could get it, no no didn't get it no no, you warned me

ah meeee, made noise enround

black bed horsey.

black bed window.

black bed open.

black bed yes.

black bed red and black and hingest hottest rug

need you (k)now

went up, and up hund, grood, no no you are you-your grooved pinion on little button carnival backdrop. leaf. leg to arm at mi. it's silver, not grey

o,k.

you-you're round, it's grey, not brown. getting somewhere here. like where this is going somewhere. now here we are getting somewhere no no again.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

"...the agency of domination does not reside in the one who speaks (for it is she who is constrained), but in the one who listens and says nothing; not in the one who knows and answers, but in the one who questions and is not supposed to know." - Foucault

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