jeudi 14 décembre 2017
The most dangerous myth is that another person can ‘make’ you happy. No, no. Happiness, true happiness, the kind of happiness that cannot be bought or sold or neatly packaged, is identical with your own presence, which nobody can give to you, and nobody can take away. If you look to another for happiness, you will always depend on them, always be afraid of losing them, and fear and resentment will rumble underneath your ‘love’. You will adapt yourself to please them, numb your thoughts and feelings, close your eyes to the truth and live in fantasy and hope. You will make yourself unhappy in order to win their love, keep them, control them. You will make yourself unhappy trying to make them happy… or forcing yourself to be happy. That is not love, it is an addiction to a person. It is fear masquerading as ‘romance’. It is the lie.
But underneath every addiction is the longing for home, for Mother in the deepest sense of the word. Find the deepest sense of home within yourself, then. Make your body your home, your breath, your belly as it rises and falls in the present moment. Find your ground in the sense of being alive. And in that place of presence, spend time with others who nourish you, who help you feel alive, who empathise with you and can validate your precious feelings. When you are not trying to win love, when you are not running from your own uncomfortable feelings, you can afford to truly love and be loved.
Invite others into your love field; let them stay, let them leave, bow to their path and walk your own with courage. But do not for a moment buy into the lie that salvation lies anywhere except at the very heart of your exquisite presence, the place where there’s nobody to be saved. The place where you touch life, and are touched in return, moment by moment.
mercredi 13 décembre 2017
mardi 12 décembre 2017
John Cage and Joseph Beuys, Good Morning Mr. Orwell, 1983.
“One must be disinterested, accept that a sound is a sound and a man is a man, give up illusions about ideas of order, expressions of sentiment, and all the rest of our inherited aesthetic claptrap.”
“The highest purpose is to have no purpose at all. This puts one in accord with nature, in her manner of operation.”
“Everyone is in the best seat.”
“Everything we do is music.”
“Theatre takes place all the time, wherever one is. And art simply facilitates persuading one this is the case.”
“They [I Ching] told me to continue what I was doing, and to spread
Marshall McLuhan and Quentin Fiore, The Medium is the Massage: An Inventory of Effects (1967)
dimanche 10 décembre 2017
"Is it art? Is it business? Should it be shocking?
Should it be funny? Could you do better?"
en six parties, qu'à remonter à l'origine du clip
There is something divine in being spontaneous and not being hampered by human conventionalities and their artificial hypocrisies. There is something direct and fresh in this lack of restraint by anything human, which suggests a divine freedom and creativity. Nature never deliberates; it acts directly out of its own heart, whatever this may mean. In this respect Nature is divine. Its ‘irrationality’ transcends human doubts or ambiguities, and in our submitting to it, or rather accepting it, we transcend ourselves.
The desire to consume is a kind of lust. We long to have the world flow through us like air or food. We are thirsty and hungry for something that can only be carried inside bodies. But consumer goods merely bait this lust, they do not satisfy it. The consumer of commodities is invited to a meal without passion, a consumption that leads to neither satiation nor fire. He is a stranger seduced into feeding on the drippings of someone else’s capital without benefit of its inner nourishment, and he is hungry at the end of the meal, depressed and weary as we all feel when lust has dragged us from the house and led us to nothing.
Lewis Hyde, The Gift
We constantly distinguish–right and wrong, sacred and profane, clean and dirty, male and female, young and old, living and dead–and in every case trickster will cross the line and confuse the distinction. Trickster is the creative idiot, therefore, the wise fool, the gray-haired baby, the cross-dresser, the speaker of sacred profanities. Where someone’s sense of honorable behavior has left him unable to act, trickster will appear to suggest an amoral action, something right/wrong that will get life going again. Trickster is the mythic embodiment of ambiguity and ambivalence, doubleness and duplicity, contradiction and paradox.
Lewis Hyde, Trickster Makes This World: Mischief, Myth, and Art
the road to the western lands is devious, unpredictable. today's easy passage may be tomorrow's death trap. the obvious road is almost always a fool's road, and beware the middle roads, the roads of moderation, common sense and careful planning. however, there is a time forplanning, moderation and common sense.
Do you free yourself from fear by cowering in your physical body for eternity? Your body is a boat to lay aside when you reach the far shore, or sell it if you can find a fool...it's full of holes...it's full of holes..
dimanche 3 décembre 2017
samedi 2 décembre 2017
Joey Ramones: I never really sniffed glue or Carbona. I never got really heavy into the paper bag. I did it, but I didn't get into it like Johnny and Dee Dee did.
They used to go up on the roof and sniff Carbona and sniff glue and shit. It was this sensation, like "Bzzzz, bzzz, bzzz."
DeeDee Ramones: Besides smoking good pot, I started doing a lot of glue. I'd do glue and Tuinals and Seconals. What a party, you couldn't get your head outta that bag. I used to do it with my friend Egg, because Egg was real sleazy. He didn't go for dope or pot or acid, what he liked was sniffing Carbona, the cleaning fluid, and glue. After we'd sniff glue we used to call up numbers on the phone. We knew these numbers to dial where you could get these weird sounds. We'd call the numbers and it would go "Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep." We'd listen to that for hours. Then sniff some more glue. Or if we couldn't get any glue, Egg would go to the supermarket, get some cans of whipped cream, and we'd do the gas in it. Anything to get high-cough medicine, glue, Tuinals, and Seconals. But Joey was a wino. No one else I knew liked to drink, except Joey. So that started our friendship. We used to get a couple bottles of Boone's Farm or Gallo, and sit on the stoop in the afternoons and drink all day. Joey told me he was an ambulance driver, and maybe he was. I mean, he had a driver's license, but then he couldn't get it together to unlock the garage door, start the car, and get it out before the garage door closed. You know, he couldn't even drive. But then, neither could I.
Please Kill Me The Uncensored Oral History of Punk - Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain