3 notes

"And you
you the shadow of yourself
you who move forward like a horse
head on one side and body on the other,
who see one half of the sea
and don’t stop searching for the other,
who put your eyes in your mouth
your mouth in a bottle
the bottle in the sea
and the whole sea in a cigarette.
You seated on a rock the whole sea
rolling in smoke
into your chest.
You become seahorse for one evening
                                        for a night,
become seahorse so that there will be
                                                      no more night
so that there will be no more mornings to
                                                      ask yourself
on what rock to rest your head,
in what dust to place your feet
and no other mornings to ask yourself
"And today…?"."


Rachida Madani, from “Tales of a Severed Head” tr. Marilyn Hacker

1 note

::::debris
And once I entered a chamber to rest a few millennia and when I rose to scuttle on I discovered I could not locate the door.
     I assumed at first I had misplaced it, was groping the wrong wall. I made a slow survey of the room with my free hand, Catastrophe rooting me on, but encountered nothing save gritty blank surfaces and right angles.
     What, I wondered, if this was another Daedalus trick? If the door was gone for good? Debris could starve in here. Debris could be forgotten.
     As I stood there vexing my paws together, my brother mumbling beneath my arm, the walls exploded into a whirl of knife blades. The knife blades exploded into an applause of white hands. The white hands exploded into a mischief of mice. The mice exploded into a zeal of invisible angels. The invisible angels exploded into an ambush of orange shrieks.
     And that is when I understood everything was as it should be, was as it had always been, would always be—and so I crouched in place to wait out the hot blood drizzle that had begun falling around us.”


Lance Olsen, from “Dreamlives of Debris”

1 note

::::debris
There are stories that make sense. These are called lies. There are the stories that maze you. These are called the world.
     I should mention your body is a haunted house you can’t escape.


::::debris
Which is to say the worst is still to come, was still to come, will still be to come, has come, had come, is coming, has been coming, might come, is going to come, will have come, would have come, but not yet, and already.


::::debris
Because all clocks are labyrinths.”


Lance Olsen, from “Dreamlives of Debris”

2 notes

::::debris
These speech turbulences are not mine—do not seem to be mine, do and do not seem to be mine. That is, I am nearly convinced my mouth is vigorously unmoving as I ramble these branchings.

[…]

::::debris
That is, sometimes I have the impression I exist.”


Lance Olsen, from “Dreamlives of Debris”

2 notes

::::debris
I say once, I say now, I say hours, days, weeks, but I do not understand myself: Down here there is a storm-swamped ship always breaking up.


::::debris
The liquid architecture will not hold still. Sometimes I cannot locate the walls. I shuffle forward, hands outstretched in the grainy charcoal air, breathing mold, must, fungus, sulfur, damp dirt, wet rock, waiting for the gritty touch ushering me onto the far shore. Sometimes so many walls erupt around me I am forced to crab sideways to make any progress at all.
     Sometimes the walls become a whirlwind of hands or dying alphabets.
     The ceiling sinks without warning and I discover myself crawling on my belly across the chalky floor, Catastrophe clutched tight to my chest.”


Lance Olsen, from “Dreamlives of Debris”

171 notes

(Source: promieniowanie, via rawforms)

13 notes onepainting:

Claire Harvey: The man who discovered nothing 2009, oil on canvas 30 x 24cm

onepainting:

Claire Harvey: The man who discovered nothing 2009, oil on canvas 30 x 24cm

6 notes

m-u-s-i-k-a:

boy with a coin - iron and wine

2 notes

I dreamed I was a man who hated my land of origin consisting of trees in a deep ravine with mountain peaks pointing up on all sides. In my hatred of the land I married the woman who’s husband would rule. I shut myself in my chambers and began writing with scraps of fabric. I cut them into thin slabs at varying lengths and they made perfect sense. Suddenly the world was no longer hateful. I showed these scraps to the queen. I tried to speak to her by showing her which ones communicated that which I had to say. She grew angry and spoke with words and pushed the fabric slabs into the air. I insistently pushed them back toward her in their communicative order. She pushed them away. I awoke.

5 notes

"I can read and feel each organ, each organ is a known quantity, a self-contained pain—kidneys, liver, spleen, these three afflictions … in addition to the affliction in my head that I have described for you … the affliction of the head and the affliction of the body, mutual, diametrical, you should know—in addition to the afflictions of the mind and the afflictions of the soul and the entire subterranean realm of afflictions … I could break my head down into all its millions of components and determine its laws—this work of destruction! this bright land of pain—no horizons, no laws of perspective, no reprieve from consciousness …"


Thomas Bernhard, from “Arguments from a Winter’s Walk” tr. Adam Siegel

3 notes

Why not announce my garbled notes
to you earth-red, earth-yellow woods?

Dirt gathers into yellows leaves, & leaves

float into branches & turn green. Light
shuttles back into the sun; rain clouds
return to waves. Rising from the pitted
banks, rising from the swamp-oak field,

rising from the rock-brushed creek
the woozy, uncrypt dead (wearing
a snagged place in the throat) mend
& sing. Snout-to-understory, I slash

past branchesto hedge-centers
to locate truffle-blooms & crash
my skull against trees for apples,
sweetness raining at my hoofs.

(Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall …)
(Sunburn, bulb-bursts, ice-plains, orchard …)
Broken teeth grow back along my gums
as my thinning body throws a shadow

less & less. One day I’ll return
to mother’s womb, a fetus pressed into
a single cell, then a want disappearing
from my mother’s heart.”


Kevin Phan, from “Clement the Pig Moves Backward Through Time”

5 notes

each day is dreaming the same dream, not quite lucid enough to catch the details, not quite lucid enough to implement a lesson learned next time around. each day is dreaming the same dream of cyclical arrival at pain. each day is dreaming the same dreaming speaking of ghostly voices. voices ghostlike speaking of dreams. dream the same dream and cyclically arrive they muse. yesterday’s dream you learned today’s dream would dream like tomorrow. dream today for tomorrow’s details and yesterday for today’s details and dreaming dream each day a dream. each day is dreaming the same dream and the dreams’ details disassemble and reassemble in the same configuration.

0 notes

"Here, with a white rose, color is clairsentient, this color in the process of being expressed, like seeing Venus in the day.

Walking, I move in and out of negative space around which each rose is engaged and become uncertain of my physical extent as an object.

Look at the energy between people and plants; your heart moves into depth perception; for depth, read speed of light.

I set my intention through this sense of moving into coherence with the bio-photons of a plant and generate feeling in response.

A space opens and awareness gathers it in, as at night my dream is colorless weaves into the nuance.

I can intentionally engage with the coherence of light beams, instant as though lightless, or the colored light of a dimension not yet arrived, as our hearts are not outside affinity with respect to wavelength, shaping meaning, using the capacity for feeling to sense its potency in a rose and to cultivate the inter-being with summer perfume.”


Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, from “Hello, the Roses”

3 notes

"If you spend a quiet fortress in tears it may be necessary to spurn stillness. Mount ebony strings and run until breath demands cessation of crying. If you are unable to represent yourself, even in imaginary terms, you may watch a palette of sylvan days removed from your body. Like a creature enchanted by a remote cottage, your hopes revolve around the unmet inhabitants within. A small and almost imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate. Remind yourself to be anyone you choose.

                                   ——————————————-

Practice holding your hand, apologizing to a whisper, a crease in paper, a partial figure in a drawing. What drifted from us, bodies once beloved, adorned, now soft coal—remote eyes—we could not accept. If it is cold inside your house it is not cold inside your body. We spoke as if wading through a barren field, a fireplace dark with ash, folding a blanket near the surface of the sea. Unlacing your garments as if this would permit access to that which animates winged instruments within.

                                   ——————————————-

How close we are to any living being. I don’t know what I am practicing. I’ve lost the loom, utterance, original stamp. Practice your hands placed on keyed ivory, mounted boxwood, earth—in order to bring yourself. If wind instruments then why not water? Walk between windowpanes. Practice remembering where you used to live as a maple neck—an offshoot of now.

                                   ——————————————-

I sat in silence and removed all of myself. When he called my name I was a long way under. Where? Practicing paperwhite hours. Eighty-five beats per second. Transparent sheathe-wings hidden by outer shell. To all appearances, to him calling my name and entering the room, nothing had changed. There is a place one can exist where the boisterousness of mind is not a lesion. Engraved brass body. French, anonymous rosewood. Someone has saved these instruments we call watermarks. Though wading through leaves somewhat erased, we are able to see beyond multiple smudge marks, hear the silence of colors as the sky changes inside our closed eyes.”


Laynie Browne, from "P R A C T I C E"

6 notes

"Divided as half of me is small and distant.
The other tongue talks of exterior objects,
while this one speaks of water and limitation.
Neither understands the other and while looking
for a translator the street ends the clock changes.
Drummers gathers, crowd like a meteor, crush.
Tongue only delivers, does not listen, stone deaf.
All talking makes a crowd plural agitation.”


Marcella Durand, “In This World Previous to Ours”