photography

Dawn Chorus – D. Grips – Steroids (Crouching Tiger Hidden Gabber)

all forever – growths breaking soil like flesh

burnt lips like blooming

and like that, at rebirth. by lsd

CATEGORIES: music, Uncategorized

Dusk Chorus – N.F.A. Khan & M. Attack – Mustt Mustt

fear not – froth too,

water too, you’re all accountable now

and like that, along the shore. by lsd

CATEGORIES: music

Notre dame de paris | Collapsed Crane | 籠屋 | something that lasts

carry into the future something that lasts. like accidents, disasters, and cruelty do.

there too – i think about lean-ness and efficiency. desire to cut down ever-further toward a solid hardened state. confusing venture, no less impossible and vile.

little left but to take away is an irredeemable position. i wish no more. i take all. once it is mine. i surely dream.

they were just constantly flying in circles.
constantly flying in huge circles.
(laurie anderson, the beginning of memory)

what about the ten thousand year clock, or the pyramids of germany, the practice of caving. these mass projects of human dominance, in which we take into the unknown (profound or unfounded) the meager seed of our ingenuity. keep mine my own. let it be said that i was there once. such and such. as it were.

if we fit everyone in – just how much could we think, together? the box in the home becomes the home. and what if we stopped living entirely? i was recently told about tangential metamorphosis – how i could no longer be human only without transformation – a neutered permanent alter-state. conniptive reluctance. trespassing human crowding by removing ourselves from humanity.

and if it all went ahead, and then came to an end? do we have the chance to really see it through? lines drawn like aching joints do. by lsd

CATEGORIES: art, musings

Stacy Horn | Bachelard | Sebastião Salgado | ECHO, And Now?

echo, at once dead and very much alive, alone maintains narcissus’ beauty. his claim to self, that, as gaston bachelard puts it, becomes as is reflected. “je veux paraître, donc je dois augmenter ma parure.” (bachelard, l’eau et les rêves, 1942, p. 34).

the gentle stream brims with cosmic rigidity. the bank of clear waters, where things rest and can be thought to have been made, is where they take the form they pictured. a demented slumber. hypnosis. really, it is only in the depths of cloudy/violent/ruthless bodies that material imagination is most potent. there we can truly delve into matter, to find ourselves in the midst of that most gentle and fragile condition: excess. only wade these waters.

wherein do we bridge and travel past form, into matter. to much relief bachelard affirms “la matière est l’inconscient de la forme”. it is within then. materialistic phenomenology allows us this oneiric passage from one into the other.

but echo is also 34 years old. it is the life work, masterpiece, of developer and new yorker stacy holt. where form is the passkey to matter. a message board of few members, it once held great interest for a kind of crowd capable of hanging together. artists, writers, students, politicians, musicians, designers, doers, all under the banner of “and now?” a place to congregate and produce desire. a moment of permanent instigation that has been housed in a thoroughly complex mechanical network. grinding out the signals into something truly malleable that allowed its participants to call and answer to “and now?” in plastic reverie.

indeed.

though it has always been that paste, this originating material of dreaming and entry into, this giving molasses, hardens and brittles when it is driven away from its source. gross doing. mean endeavor. potential in progress left solid. scorched earth, salted terrain, prey to a drying heat. crackling sound, echoing unto itself into a vast murmur.

who decided this?