A Review of the Reviewers

06.30.10 | Permalink | Comment?

Critics constantly complain that writers are lacking in standards, yet they themselves seem to have no standards other than personal prejudice for literary criticism. (…) such standards do exist. Matthew Arnold set up three criteria for criticism: 1. What is the writer trying to do? 2. How well does he succeed in doing it? (…) 3. Does the work exhibit “high seriousness”? That is, does it touch on basic issues of good and evil, life and death and the human condition. I would also apply a fourth criterion (…) Write about what you know. More writers fail because they try to write about things they don’t know than for any other reason.
– William S. Burroughs, ‘A Review of the Reviewers’



06.19.10 | Permalink | Comment?

From Wikipedia

The term “sousveillance” stems from the contrasting French words sur, meaning “above”, and sous, meaning “below”, i.e. “surveillance” denotes the “eye-in-the-sky” watching from above, whereas “sousveillance” denotes bringing the camera or other means of observation down to human level, either physically (mounting cameras on people rather than on buildings), or hierarchically (ordinary people doing the watching, rather than higher authorities or architectures doing the watching).


Fire, Shark, Snare, Torrent

11.15.09 | Permalink | Comment?

“There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed.”
- Buddha

quote, text


09.27.09 | Permalink | Comment?


You’ve made the right choice.
Believe me, today is a good day for you.
These are tough decisions, I know.
But we intellectuals, and I say “we” because I consider you as such,
must remain lucid to the bitter end.
This life is so full of confusion already,
that there’s no need to add chaos.
Losing money is part of a producer’s job.
I congratulate you.
You had no choice.
And he got what he deserved for having joined
such a frivolous venture so lightheartedly.
Believe me, no need for remorse.
Destroying is better than creating,
when we’re not creating those few, truly necessary things.
But then is there anything so clear and right
that it deserves to live in this world?
For him, the wrong movie is only a financial matter.
But for you, at this point, it could have been the end.
Better to quit and strew the ground with salt,
as the ancients did, to purify the battlefields.
In the end what we really need is-
some hygiene, some cleanliness, disinfection.
We’re smothered by images, words and sounds
that have no right to exist, coming from, and bound for, nothingness.
Of any artist truly worth the name we should ask nothing
except this act of faith: to learn silence.
Do you remember Mallarmé’s homage to the white page?
And Rimbaud, a poet, my friend, not a movie director.
What was his finest poetry?
His refusal to continue writing and his departure for Africa.
If we can’t have everything, true perfection is nothingness.
Forgive me for quoting all the time.
But we critics – do what we can.
Our true mission is -
sweeping away the thousands of miscarriages that everyday -
obscenely – try to come to the light.
And you would actually dare leave behind you a whole film,
like a cripple who leaves behind his crooked footprint.
Such a monstrous presumption to think
that others could benefit from the squalid catalogue of your mistakes!
And how do you benefit from stringing together
the tattered pieces of your life?
Your vague memories, the faces of people
that you were never able to love.


What is this sudden happiness that makes me tremble,
gives me strength, life?
Forgive me, sweet creatures.
I hadn’t understood.  I didn’t know.
It’s so natural accepting you, loving you.
And so simple.
Luisa, I feel I’ve been freed.
Everything seems so good, so meaningful.
Everything is so true.
I wish I could explain.
But I don’t know how to.
So. Everything is confused again, as it was before.
But this confusion is – me.
Not as I’d like to be, but as I am.
I’m not afraid anymore of telling the truth,
of the things I dont know, what I’m looking for and haven’t found.
This is the only way I can feel alive and
I can look into your faithful eyes without shame.
Life is a celebration.
Let’s live it together!
This is all I can say Luisa, to you or the others.
Accept me for what I am, if you want me.
It’s the only way we might be able to find each other.



Pressed Rat and Warthog

09.27.09 | Permalink | Comment?

Pressed rat and warthog have closed down their shop.
They didnt want to; twas all they had got.
Selling atonal apples, amplified heat,
And pressed rats collection of dog legs and feet.

Sadly they left, telling no one goodbye.
Pressed rat wore red jodhpurs, warthog a striped tie.
Between them, they carried a three-legged sack,
Went straight round the corner and never came back.

Pressed rat and warthog have closed down their shop.
The bad captain madman had told them to stop
Selling atonal apples, amplified heat,
And pressed rats collection of dog legs and feet.

The bad captain madman had ordered their fate.
He laughed and stomped off with a nautical gate.
The gate turned into a deroga tree
And his pegleg got woodworm and broke into three.

Pressed rat and warthog have closed down their shop.
They didnt want to; twas all they had got.
Selling atonal apples, amplified heat,
And pressed rats collection of dog legs and feet.

- written by Ginger Baker and Mike Taylor


On the Edge of the Great Orb

08.05.09 | Permalink | Comment?

something broke that day
unjustified temperament
maximal advantage
minimal benefaction

all changes
beginning in time
lost by the meander
forward in hewn subjects

false patterns
grotesque mask
in pleasure, blindness ensues
cloven dance



08.05.09 | Permalink | Comment?

I lied there at Mapledurham for days
water flowing over me
the wheat and laughter of youth unseen
a cold wind season of time
lord of all


A Poison Tree

06.28.09 | Permalink | Comment?

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water’d it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil’d the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch’d beneath the tree.

- William Blake 1794


Surface Penetration

06.22.09 | Permalink | Comment?

I found this written on a half sheet of notebook paper in a local alley:

…and as the cascading folds of extensive meme-connectors sheer and fall upon the crests of superficial ego-structures, the underlying none-ness is slowly revealed to the non-existent exterior body.  It is then realized that there is no body, the notion of illusions is found to be in itself a meta-illusion, recursively parenthesised infinitely.  Upon shedding waste, a decrease in overall substitution is gained throughout all related subjects – but only if the subject-object surface is penetrated by itself, thus ceasing any separation.

This has seen it to be so.


The Tubes

01.20.09 | Permalink | Comment?

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