mercredi 28 janvier 2015
mardi 27 janvier 2015
lundi 26 janvier 2015
“What’s not a miracle? Which piece of the vase is less than another? Everything fits, everything belongs. None are lost. All will arrive. The one is the source of the many, returning is the motion of the Tao, and the science guys got it ass-backward. The universe isn’t flying apart, it’s flying together”
Jed McKenna, Spiritually Incorrect Enlightenment
dimanche 25 janvier 2015
Miroslav Tichý (1926-2011)
Malgré la fermeture de son studio et d’autres bâtons dans les roues, Tichý s’adonne à la photographie le plus souvent possible. On peut aussi dire que le DIY (Do It Yourself) est au cœur de sa démarche photographique car il fabrique lui-même son appareil photo fait de bric et de broc : carton, tuyau d’écoulement, bitume. Ses objectifs sont construits avec du plexiglas poli par du dentifrice et de la cendre de cigarette. Lorsque ses photos étaient développées (également par ses soins), il dessinait (parfois) sur ces dernières. D’après son biographe Roman Buxbaum, le premier commandement de Tichý est de ne pas rechercher la qualité. "Premièrement, tu dois avoir un mauvais appareil photo ! Et si tu veux être célèbre, tu dois faire quelques chose de visuellement mauvais pour que personne ne puisse le reproduire".
source
Let go and feel your nakedness, tits ache to be bitten and sucked
Let go with pong of armpit and crotch, let go with hole a-tingle
Let go with tongue lapping hairy cunt, lick feet, kiss ass, suck cock and balls
Let the whole body go, let love come through, let freedom ring
Let go with moans and erogenous zones, let go with heart and soul
Let go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love
Let go with senses, pull out the stops, forget false teachings and lies
Let go of inherited belief, let go of shame and blame, in brief
Let go of forbidden energies, choked back in muscle and nerves
Let go of rigid rules and roles, let go of uptight poses
Let go of your puppet self, let go and renew yourself and be free
Let go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love
Let go this moment, the hour, this day, tomorrow will be too late
Let go of guilt and frustration, let liberation and tolerance flow
Let go of phantom worries and fears, let go of hours and days and years
Let go of hate and rage and grief, let walls against ecstasy fall for relief
Let go of pride and greed, let go of missiles and might and creed
Let go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love
Harold Norse
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The Ex-Nun and the Gay Poet
They talked about meditation
and extra-sensory perception
as her eyes kept straying
to the black hair on his chest
where his shirt was open
and he talked of his new poems
as his eyes kept straying
to the slit in her crotch
where her slacks were tight.
They smoked Lebanese hash,
her first turn-on,
and she slumped a little
and said, "Nothing is happening,"
and he laughed, watching her
and she said, "I feel as if our bodies
are moving towards each other
like 2 sticks in a bathtub
of their own volition,"
and he reached over
cradling her neck in his arm
and said, "They are,"
and didn't wait
to remove his pants.
That night they drifted
in a twilight zone
with Adam and Eve
fish and amoeba
sperm and egg.
She spoke of the convent in Boston
where the nuns were in love
with the body of Christ
spreadeagled on the crucifix
and very naked.
The nuns did strange things
as they passed each other
silently in the hall
like flicking the habit
against each other's breasts
which made them horny
and quite crazy.
So she dropped the habit
and went in search of a real man.
She worked at the US Army Base
in Libya, but had troubled dreams
of the Boston Strangler
and woke up screaming
because she dreamed of a man
under the bed.
One night he was in the bed
but it wasn't the Strangler,
it was a G.I. Then a cameldriver.
Then a string of cameldrivers.
Then a camel. Or was it a dream?
She felt the need of something
"more spiritual"
and having read Lawrence Durrell
she fled to Athens to find herself
and drowned her dreams in bottles of ouzo
with male hustlers in tourist tavernas.
But the Greeks had nothing
to say except "I love you,
50 drachmas please!"
They got money from other men
for services rendered
and gave it to her
for services rendered.
It wasn't very spiritual.
She was losing her mind
and her looks trying
to find a way of giving and receiving
that wasn't physical.
It looked like curtains
for the ex-nun from Boston.
And then it happened.
"I met you," she said,
"I hit the jackpot."
She found her bliss
with a Gay American poet
from Brooklyn.
Porto Santo Stefano, Summer, 1970
by Harold Norse
They talked about meditation
and extra-sensory perception
as her eyes kept straying
to the black hair on his chest
where his shirt was open
and he talked of his new poems
as his eyes kept straying
to the slit in her crotch
where her slacks were tight.
They smoked Lebanese hash,
her first turn-on,
and she slumped a little
and said, "Nothing is happening,"
and he laughed, watching her
and she said, "I feel as if our bodies
are moving towards each other
like 2 sticks in a bathtub
of their own volition,"
and he reached over
cradling her neck in his arm
and said, "They are,"
and didn't wait
to remove his pants.
That night they drifted
in a twilight zone
with Adam and Eve
fish and amoeba
sperm and egg.
She spoke of the convent in Boston
where the nuns were in love
with the body of Christ
spreadeagled on the crucifix
and very naked.
The nuns did strange things
as they passed each other
silently in the hall
like flicking the habit
against each other's breasts
which made them horny
and quite crazy.
So she dropped the habit
and went in search of a real man.
She worked at the US Army Base
in Libya, but had troubled dreams
of the Boston Strangler
and woke up screaming
because she dreamed of a man
under the bed.
One night he was in the bed
but it wasn't the Strangler,
it was a G.I. Then a cameldriver.
Then a string of cameldrivers.
Then a camel. Or was it a dream?
She felt the need of something
"more spiritual"
and having read Lawrence Durrell
she fled to Athens to find herself
and drowned her dreams in bottles of ouzo
with male hustlers in tourist tavernas.
But the Greeks had nothing
to say except "I love you,
50 drachmas please!"
They got money from other men
for services rendered
and gave it to her
for services rendered.
It wasn't very spiritual.
She was losing her mind
and her looks trying
to find a way of giving and receiving
that wasn't physical.
It looked like curtains
for the ex-nun from Boston.
And then it happened.
"I met you," she said,
"I hit the jackpot."
She found her bliss
with a Gay American poet
from Brooklyn.
Porto Santo Stefano, Summer, 1970
by Harold Norse
No Poets Don’t Own Words
I Am That I Am
Junk Is No Good Baby
I Don’t Work You Dig
Kick That Habit Man
I’ve Come To Free The Words
Rub Out The Word
Recalling All Active Agents
Brion Gysin (1916-1986)
I wrote the software "Permutations" for the exhibition Brion Gysin: Dream Machine on display at The New Museum for Contemporary Art between July 7th and October 3rd 2010. This software is a "version" of the program developed by Ian Sommerville and Gysin in 1960 to permute poems. The original program ran on a Honeywell Series 200 model 120 computer. The version I wrote uses a modern programming language and hardware. While the materials used to produce the original permutation poems are in many ways quite different from my own, I have attempted to create a realization of the work that is sensitive to the original and its process. At the same time, it is a new version, a collaboration done in the spirit of an artist whose work provides a critique of conventional notions of authorship.
I believe it is in the spirit of the work to share copies of the software I wrote under the GNU General Public License. This license allows gives anyone the ability to download, run, alter, and share the software. The one requirement is that all future versions must be released under the GPL as well. You may download the software here or on github.
In closing, I want to thank The New Museum and specifically Kraus Family Curator Laura Hoptman and Assistant Curator Amy Mackie for their trust and support in completing this project. Thanks also to Doron Ben-Avraham, Manager of Information Technology at The New Museum for his help and advocacy.
Notes From Underground, no. 1. 1964.
John Bryan, ed
This literary magazine features the first published appearance of Neal Cassady's "The First Third," which inspired Jack Kerouac's *On The Road*. This 5,000 word excerpt is taken from the lost 13,000-word "Joan Anderson Letter" sent to Kerouac by Cassady, then subsequently passed on to Allen Ginsberg, and then poet and Ace Books rep, Gerd Stein, who according to legend, lost the original off the side of his house boat. The surviving portion, printed here, was likely copied by Kerouac himself shortly before he started work on his now classic novel. Following the excerpt is Kerouac's reply letter to Cassady, a gushing letter of praise in which he say Cassady has overshadowed the best writers of the day.
The magazine also includes contributions from Charles Bukowski, Kenneth Patchen, Anselm Hollo, Kirby Doyle, John Rechy, Lenore Kandel, David Meltzer, Bob Kaufman, and Grover Lewis.
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