All posts tagged writing

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thoughts run amuck, but there is not much to cleave from these spaces that have been emptied of all material matter after the man left the trap door open and i fell asunder, it was the pressure of losing his cerebral muse into the waves that she said would pull us under – now we have nothing to lose and there is a pounding in this heart that goes faster faster with expediency that rolls a wave of thunder that brought down the rain tonight keeping us neither wet nor dry – it is the devil, she cries, pounding the ground awake from below and we feel her ache – we scream her scream for why must we swirl into this dream of living when it goes out of control under steam and plows down too many innocent things, innocent dreams that were just beginning to breathe softer under her soft sheen producing golden rubs upon their round chins and pursed lips; we shall never understand this, this life that is full of happiness, yet it pulls some of us under until we become buried within a storm so devastating that we question reality – was it really just a blink – in this bed of stolen slumber we shall finally find what could never been seen ~

(Apologies – it has been forever since there was freedom to just write a bit of stream. I am a bit lost without having a paper to write, a lecture to watch or a chapter to read. This bit of breath (2 courses start soon) has me choking on air.)

“So long as the artist does not belong, in the most concrete sense, to one of the great historical classes of humanity, so long he cannot realize a social expression in all its public fullness. Which is to say, an expression for, and not against. The artist is greatest in affirmation.”

~ Robert Motherwell

It is interesting, searching Motherwell’s book this weekend for personal research, I stumbled upon the above quote. The quote reads as the artist equivalent to Judith Butler on defining gender and sex. It should really come as no surprise for Motherwell was a philosophy student first, artist second. I left notes in the margins pointing out echoes of Marx, Rousseau and Foucault.

“To express the felt nature of reality is the artist’s principal concern.” ~ Robert Motherwell

What is reality…really? Is it the artist’s reality or the reality of society, a certain faction that is addressed within said art? How is it that this goes expressed in art? What is the purpose of art if the artist’s concern is expression of Felt nature – are we involved in this feeling too? If we do not get moved, who failed who?

A thought to leave with you – actually two:

1) I recently watched The Examined Life which is a fascinating documentary featuring several of the philosophers mentioned in recent papers on this blog. žižek’s brief interview took place in a garbage facility. He spoke of consumption, i.e. overconsumption and our throw-a-way society. He felt that society is too quick to forget where all this garbage goes – we just throw and ‘poof’ it is gone from our mind. It had me thinking – it would be wonderful if school age children took a field trip to a local garbage facility to understand where everything is going. In this “wonderful world”, they then would visit an artist’s studio whose work is composed from garbage or found things….

2) Would it be wrong to have a Conceptional Art Museum with nothing in it?

(This blog post has been powered tonight by First Listen @NPR : Laura Marling.)

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by angela on 2013/05/21  •  Permalink
Posted in art, artist, stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/05/21

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Que sais-je?

desperate – the whisper of clock hands strike hours gone and there is a time stamp on your mind to turn it gone by 2am leaving minutes minus fifteen to find a song that captures the words woven in today’s northward wind – but every melody is of a different memory – a hum of june lawnmowers, a taste of salt and lemon grass, for it was another time of low keys and nights that never ceased even when ninety degree sun beat upon the damp pillow- and no one could understand how those limbs continued to bloom despite no sunlight – only rain – - you, you knew though didn’t you with a peace offering saying, it is you, You, that tuned in my head when she sang a quiet voice to acoustic string – go chase another dream and leave this foolish one to travel – an empty car gone waiting for someone to place a key inside her and turn, but no one ever came and she sits rusting in almost the same place, playing the same dashboard song, chasing the same summer dream – someday, another will walk past her, only to stop and wonder about that old steering wheel serving as an anchor for the trunk that is blooming stubbornly in april snow~

(that was composed a few nights ago- never did like its flow- forced- closed it down at 2:30am and forgot about it until tonight when figuring if the inspiration from the day was still here.. it has gone waxen under her bright glow but oh how young frogs sing under the window and there is a hint of summer’s humidity ready to bathe skin in sweet misery; so much waits upon death’s rising, or is it life’s cycling round… Zizek wails about Saint Paul and Christianity, it intrigues for it is yet a reveal if this is true or false, which offers a great segue into David Shield’s book Reality Hunger started today, too (one gets so much more done when allowing the mind to wander in books without punching a clock, if only there were a fairy to carry my financial burdens) – Shields has quite a few clever observations on the state of truth in writing today … not tucked in enough to complete a summation, but shall leave a few nuggets; blank slate started me here in the first place…a vista that reminded me of a contrary nature of self -a war, country beauty vs city energy)

“Collage, the art of reassembling fragments of preexisting images in such a way as to form a new image, was the most important innovation in the art of the twentieth century.”

blank slate -a quiet beauty in its death, yet its life writhes under us

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“One responds to the history of his art so far; the other responds to life itself.”

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“Art is a conversation, not a patent office.”

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(Quotes have been patented in Mr. Shields’s manifesto.)

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by angela on 2013/04/26  •  Permalink
Posted in books, creative mind, stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/04/26

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/04/26/que-sais-je/

welcome to the zoo

Nothing soothes the flight of mind flying over violin snares seeping into a deep crescendo as I read her words – dear HD, how she seemed prayed (if that was her way) to write her world in poem in order to deal with each subjection into which she offered objection such as The Master, having just read sensing her anger welling believing it is her pen to Pound not seeing it is her Stein’s Picasso to Freud – he treated her with belief that she needed a man to keep her willow from weeping – I weep for her (or is it for all of us) a long note, a cello’s masterly cry into this cave “for whom are we living” Dear God, he preaches tonight your loving but if that is so then why these games since Adam went a wandering – each day there is fruit consumed from the apple tree – is this why you plant bombs in our head – or is that not you, that is what they call free will or is that what I mean when there are too many parlor games- thee shall be no preaching to anyone to follow these folded hands for the only prayed thing is to a master who is already dead to the noise of the living’s heart song and redemption is so dark when it has already gone to seed – should we not moor up our boat on this blood soaked sea and cast an anchor to something ahead of us for behind us is only more the same as the insane can testament to anyone who is kind enough to listen, but we are never listening to the chatter of them only to them – dealers of power – yes, it is a parlor game in our virtual salon hoping to make aces out of marked cards whilst someone outside on the street screams I AM only to not be the way but to pretend he is Nietzsche and his battle cry cries out the death – the death- where are all the animals locked up tonight – I have faith – it is not in the zoo ~

6 Comments
by angela on 2013/04/21  •  Permalink
Posted in stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/04/21

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/04/21/welcome-to-the-zoo/

~=~~==~~~====~~~ ÎĮÏ ======~===:::::::. .

Thinking back on Kant’s text, I wonder whether we may not envisage modernity rather as an attitude than as a period of history. And by “attitude,” I mean a mode of relating to contemporary reality; a voluntary choice made by certain people; in the end, a way of thinking and feeling; a way, too, of acting and behaving that at one and the same time marks a relation of belonging and presents itself as a task. (Michel Foucault, “What Is Enlightenment”)

****************************************************************************************************

how do we relate to contemporary reality – what is contemporary reality – do you see what i see – do you hear what i hear

i hear nothing but jazz – no, f-stop – it stopped in light of the scrim of cat gut that got stuck in that wishbone she chucked – what was that cat thinking spewing like that – did she lose all her mittens to get so bent?

went downtown, meant to go uptown, but there is no down tempo on the metro so we all swoon to her beat which rolls us right-side  damn city was built facing east and the roads buckle under her white powder turning to gel until it is a frozen heap.

did you get that swat team memo sent from base camp, otherwise know as home – cc to clergy, mother and your honey – what the hell, you threw the first snowball – not- a -fools- chance- in your hell -that THAT primal scream excused as thoracic release cleared your blue chakra – try some herbal tea, or something strong, you gonna need to loosen that tongue, you must have swallowed it after agreeing to his fifth and a rock glass made for two; we all have our limits on solitude – desperation paints silver lines over black raindrops that fall from your painted eyes. 

i heard her sing ‘someday, when you’re feeling low (da ta da ta da) know someone loves you    - but only in a song.

(Do not ask – I shall not tell – just a forward, backward, thinking stream dedicated to understanding reality for I truly believe that some do not live in this reality, but their reality — to that end, do we really have a society if no one can agree what is real? Perhaps Rousseau had it right – reflection is man’s worse enemy.)

one final whisper from her coven of trees under a moonlit stream gone frozen dreaming of summer wisteria drinking deeply from her rooted crown-  ”watch for beasts that feed on souls reflecting on empty words drowning in hate” ~ 

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by angela on 2013/02/27  •  Permalink
Posted in philosophy, poetry, stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/02/27

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/02/27/iii/

Motherwell on the Modern

To express the felt nature of reality is the artist’s principal concern.
~ Robert Motherwell, 1944

(not much time for this post, to contemplate, for i have been living life as a bohemian, writing until 3AM, not waking until 9AM – tomorrow’s 5AM alarm shall hurt. a storm brews, north winds will blow us to below zero tonight; the chill is working its way through these cheap windows. may its calming call sleep… but… before that Sandman visits I wished to share a bit of Robert Motherwell )~

“The function of the artist is to express reality as felt.”…

…”By feeling is meant the response of the «body-and-mind» as a whole to the events of reality.”

(Arvo Part generated playlist via Pandora :a piece written for Benjamin Britten – it came up rather serendipitously  causing me to wonder why AP composed such a somber piece – actually all his pieces seem to reside in sadness, so is he of ‘body and mind’ that feels Greatly and projects this pain so that we must all weep for all of our losses – in this, in this, IS reality of our modern human condition)   

The above was written in the margin whilst the music played. Perhaps in its muddle you will find a bit of your own clarity on the function of art/artist.

So moved by Motherwell’s writing today – first written for a lecture series ergo, hope that it could be found online — voila!
A must read for anyone who questions the role of art/artist, especially of the role’s evolution since the Enlightenment. Enlightenment? Indeed! Here is a quote I shall leave you to ponder. ~

 

Spinoza reminds us that the thing most important to man is man. Hence the poverty of the modern painter’s experience. We long to embrace one another, and instead our relations are false. It is after the French Revolution and the triumph of the bourgeoisie that the human figure disappears from painting, and the rise of landscape begins

~ R. Motherwell, 1944

6 Comments
by angela on 2013/02/20  •  Permalink
Posted in art, philosophy, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/02/20

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/motherwell-on-the-modern/

“send that stuff on down to me”

my hands are raw. my mind is raw – or is it -is it anything after it swims in the ideas presented in this week’s lecture regarding Cartesian Dualism…surely this mind is more than mere immaterial that functions as brain beyond body – or something, is there still doubt that the mind controls the body?  –  is there a disconnect –  this mind has oft wondered, though, if it is of this body – that sensation when you experience the environment around you, yet you do not really feel of your surroundings – or that surreal feeling when you’ve just watch death and a bubble has somehow surrounded your being allowing you to function without really functioning within reality.

these studies of philosophy (one via Edinburgh, one via Wesleyan) seem to draw me further from a solution – pulling the mind farther from body. a  puzzle piece that perhaps had just fallen beneath the table is presently wedged between floor boards with no finger nimble of mind to retrieve it successfully. this befuddlement, this failure, rests solely on this being trying to cram lectures at 6AM whilst reading Gutenberg files on a tiny mobile screen. certainly there are missing pieces of a puzzle unresolved.

resolve: tis a long weekend and the body continues to mend despite the mind’s demand for more sleep and less work. odd hours can be kept for a few days following this body’s natural rhythm of late night thinking and late mornings verses early night slumbers and predawn sojourns in a midwest cold with an oblivious dog.  finally – to catch up on Rousseau’s discourse whilst grabbing his Confessions off the shelf for another go as Marx waits in the wings; finally – to catch up on your blog posts, especially since I’ve missed philosophical musings and a trip down Ashbery lane via KWH; finally – more monster reading, my free Naropa education as Bhanu teaches through her blogs (if you think I write in a rather odd mind/body convo, just read her for a while); and finally – so many books to visit both cerebral and not as i wonder where things have gone with Kafka, Beckett, even Genet, but still taking time for a different romp via the Dude. 

this lofty objective for the next few days fills me with anxiety – will i accomplish anything? it is like those empty journals that stack up after being bought with lofty ambition to fill, fill them with so many thoughts that they shall burst at the seems only to scream with mind-numbing silence. yet, spying the lovely journals of Klint via ArtForum, there is inspiration to create, Create!  always the fool, certainly the answer is in the unlined journal i must purchase tomorrow! throw all the others away (recycle) rid of the baggage and start anew, right?

sigh – (it did just escape me – this need to breathe out as if i hold my breath while typing these ambitions)

never one to celebrate V day (a day that wrecks havoc on relationships unnecessarily whilst fattening the wallet of those industries that prey on weak-minded men and women) there was sweet serendipity of stumbling upon a post about Nick Cave. Nick Cave, one who seems to be a champion for all those Romantics –  no, not THOSE romantics, but those Romantics, the ones you would like to engage with, you know, the ones beyond the fringe who dare to make a statement beyond this society of suicidal social engagement of lofty notions and plastic ambition. Rousseau’s idea of enlightened? Rousseau, who seemed to reject it all – chuck it all, this modern, but we cannot go back once time has traveled us forward – or can we? do we buy what society feeds us as reality – these fake holidays, or any day that revolves around a consumerist society…. Cave calls upon the muse to save if you play within her reality which is always a step away from what they are selling on the corner of Modern & Free… go ahead “send that stuff on down to me” so we can survive Today ~

13 Comments
by angela on 2013/02/16  •  Permalink
Posted in philosophy, stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/02/16

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/send-that-stuff-on-down-to-me/

noise & vegan dreaming

i do not buy journals (lie) / i buy JOURNALS and half read them until the presence of white space calls this pen/pencil/crayon/Sharpie and we fill up the silence with incessant chatter that fills up THIS place / this head is brimming perchance we call it recourse from reading through the white space / A Public Space is screaming: there Are artists to be leveled to be heard at a level inaudible to those who cannot break through to the other / no we will not mimic THAT artist who is of no walls nor doors / open it Miss Emily but i cannot find the secret you have hidden in your poems even if Close Reading even if working hard / hard life this life is leading  if you roamed around last night in too many dreams / dream life is hard to remember with each waking fit if we do not write each scene for we risk the silence of 3AM and rest / the rest of it is missing then in a swirl of eye twitches except for the wheelchair that just fit in the elevator at the zoo  & that young man who appeared like death but i saw him breathing beneath all that vomit /red vomit but it was with meatballs and  people were standing there looking thinking him dead but i walked away (or did i roll) laughing because that is karma for you

“Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade. ”

― Marcel Proust

(original noise created in “A Public Space” – before you recycle make sure to fill your journals’ silence)

white space

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by angela on 2013/01/11  •  Permalink
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Posted by angela on 2013/01/11

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/01/11/noise-vegan-dreaming/

hijacking reality – or reading philosophy

…when the alchemy of Habit has transformed the individual capable of suffering into a stranger for whom the motives of that suffering are in idle talk, when not only the objects of his affection have vanished, but also that affection itself; and he thinks how  absurd is our dream of a Paradise with retention of personality, since our life is a succession of Paradises successively denied, that the only true Paradise is the Paradise that has been lost, and that death will cure many of the desire for immortality.(25-26 Beckett’s Proust)

Samuel Beckett contemplates Habit and Time and Memory as he delves into the writerly mind of Proust. The one hiccup to reading this lit-crit – thousands upon thousands of pages need to be read before this reader can agree/disagree with his analogy.

This was to be a completely different blog post two hours ago. It was to open with a memory of a dream. A dream that should have been written down upon waking instead of an internal dialogue, statement, this Will be remembered…(it was not)

a mountain, a cavern, an avalanche of snow or was it a flood…there was a lunch out on a veranda which held black iron furniture and plates of overflowing pasta. the umbrellas were an earthy orange — not bright, heavy with umber or a mustard, ochre — i have no idea why or what or where. there was something about a twig or a tree branch and then my brother appeared or was he there the whole time. we headed to an apartment decorated with college brands we both disliked. three people too old to be students lived there – they made no bones about wanting me to be gone; he apologized for me and moved quickly to repair whatever it was they needed. there is a station wagon; a dog; a curvy road; a key…

Things have been left out, voluntarily and involuntarily, Proust would have something to say about that type of truth, ‘ad nauseum’ according to Beckett, for that is what Proust’s monumental meta is all about. I don’t know, ask me next year.

Today, there shall be no truth. Well, it is laced between the trees-  when you avert your eyes, narrow your gaze so that the sunset glints off your neighbor’s window reflecting an image that intrigues; who is that person slightly askew in black drab, a hat – why, it Is.

No, no revelation of biblical nature, for as stated above, a realization that one too many whom walk beyond this technological sphere may read this… should a relative be privy to what the masses can know. You, dear reader, are allowed as Derrida, Proust, Beckett, etc. know, albeit the known, the one who may see your bleary eyed gaze tomorrow must be kept deluded, one man’s Paradise is certainly not privy to another. One Must keep a bit of sanctity of mind, or is it face?

It makes me think of another work being read rather blindly, for the commentary regards Derrida, especially his book Post Card. David Wills’s Matchbook is rather brilliant, even if above most this head starting at the chin. What has got me, though, is his essay three, “Matchbook” which has me concluding that Derrida Wants you to burn after reading, “Envois” that is. Will it actually deconstruct, this destruction? Not from what I understand, for the problem resides in the subject/object framed in conceit of text of love.

Do you ever wonder if those that like your post read all the way to the end? Does anyone ever test it? Dare – write something so salacious that if there is only a ‘like’ then you may be safe to contend that content below the fold is Not being read.

Perhaps this is a reflection of how we move through life in our smartphone world. With half an eye on content with a conceit to agree in order to not admit we were not really paying attention. Our congress could take a tip or two on being agreeable from these boards. We just wish to champion the one who has taken the time no matter the content. We are living our Habit, our Time is ticking too, after all, ergo do we not know what they speak. Your reality is my reality, no?

Speaking of, will leave you with this…ironically, the Wills book held a postcard as bookmark. I started the book a year ago, not really knowing about the “Post Card” discussion – I just collect them from art museums and then use as place holders. Oddly,  at the  right angle, but not really a right angle, out of the corner of my eye, the sunflower actually becomes a portrait of Van Gogh painted over. (the photo’s glare and position do not offer the right perception — you would need to turn your monitor, cock your head to the left and look down at an angle – the brown spot becomes and eye/nose area — sigh, hard to recreate this Perception, really ~)

IMG_1023

 

 

Perception- we perceive what we want to see or do we ~ 

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by angela on 2013/01/04  •  Permalink
Posted in philosophy, stream of thought, writing
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Posted by angela on 2013/01/04

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/01/04/hijacking-reality-or-reading-philosophy/

::..:.:snow::..:.: bank..::.:

12.19.12

a stillness invokes a maudlin air that recalls childhood dreams of christmas eve spires sprinkled in holy waters & thick frankincense that settled deep into innocence’s eyes causing a tear to arc across a ghost cheek as stale choirs sang silent night. tonight purity shines from rooftop to uncleared sidewalk, an ephemeral brightness highlighted by thunderclaps and blue-silver flash, it is a scene saturated in december romance as north winds stir bowing cedars upright. our tiny vigil lasts past midnight hoping for epiphany, but as each tree waivers under blank weight we wait and wait — amen – but nothing appears from within just a flicker remains dancing amongst wax ruins; blowing out this light but a light remains brighter than the blues inside our comfort zone gathering milk sap from a ten-year-old weeping tree; throw open your sash let this blizzard bless us until a dream finally comes to fill tomorrow’s day – and if it never comes, do not salt our walk remembering a waiting diary for nothing is forever whilst living on this side of a snow bank ~

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by angela on 2012/12/20  •  Permalink
Posted in poetry, writing
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Posted by angela on 2012/12/20

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/12/20/snow-bank/

lightening strike

we shall wander these ink blots with untethered feet wishing for a bit of moonglow to illuminate our soles searching black paces that reflect nothing but our dissidence painted on building sides, street signs, with nothing but a fingertip and the blood that was pricked during our pact to remain pure to the cause because we feared the reaper less than the man who forces us to march to a country band banding us together in little clusters of tumors growing like red cancer all over a healthy brain.

you used to bring fresh sunsets, orange and white ones, because you said together they reminded of a perfect sun that you once saw in one blue iris that winked at you after a night spent camping under impossible stars and a angry coyote, or was it a wolf, howling at a blue moon which made you quote Ginsberg; when i questioned who, your doe eyes turned flying object not flying over us, engulfing me with insecurity that somewhere an alter ego was questioning reason, life, and why we had trekked a thousand miles together when clearly there was no connection beyond our bodies revolving, grinding up a singular universe heating this core so hot that you swore a burn from the inside scorched everything around us; in the morning the lone blue sleeping bag remained in tact other than a peculiar spot where the flannel had turned from grey to white.

you left me at that beaten station with a hundred different reasons stashed in a blue daypack that left my back sweaty, my head filled with square notes of shame; the cancer seemed to be growing, multiplying, feeding off toxic attachment that no amount of reasoning could kill; it kills that there is no shower in this godforsaken place in which to baptise myself reborn in the name of a new lover with old lover’s ghost noose still hanging on; let that be a lesson, girly, drag that host into daylight so that purity in action will burn away each donut shaped cell whose sticky ways tried to remain attached, just like that Man who i asked to leave me alone, he took every possession anyway, after a country hospital said there was no cure for me, and I quote this fact checked: besides we could mend your broken body but you’d die anyway, suffocating under the mountain of receipts we have ready.

a red dust highway, deep in a rust canyon, that i follow until my soul collapses under weight of surreal beauty, pouring thick oil paint into each pore; a purple blanket waiting to tuck me into the final day’s dream.

a red dust highway, deep in a rust canyon, that swallows this last sound’s reverb off prickly vegetation and bits of rock; upshot, i had reached some old Native’s crested butte, still holding his final possession; it remained standing despite alien invasion, no one lays claim on broken red crates and rusted metal hammered together; a smile crept into a shadow as a flash of silver swept across someone’s sky that some name heaven, i learned long ago a name is rhetoric waiting to die ~

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by angela on 2012/09/07  •  Permalink
Posted in poetry, writing
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Posted by angela on 2012/09/07

http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/09/07/lightening-strikes/

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