the devil's in the house with no escape

Apr 18

(Source: thischarmingcharlie, via ituala-deactivated20140419)

“Gaze we for nought in one another’s eyes?
Is not life teeming
Around the head and heart of you,
Weaving eternal mysteries
Seen and unseen, even at your side?
Oh, let them fill your heart, your generous heart,
And, when you lose your being in that bliss,
Give it what name you will-
You joy, love, heart, your God.
For me, I have no name
To give it: feeling’s surely all.
Names are but noise and smoke,
Obscuring heavenly light.” — Faust by Goethe


4 Visitors | Klaus Leidorf
5 is a crowd.
SoP | Scale of Environments


4 Visitors | Klaus Leidorf

5 is a crowd.

SoP | Scale of Environments

Apr 17

“Now, what a stupid threat! Well, really, all death threats are stupid and ridiculous. In what way can one be threatened other than with death? It would be truly clever or original to threaten someone with immortality!” — Interviews with Jorge Luis Borges by Roberto Alifano

“Before we go any further here, has it ever occurred to any of you that all this is simply one grand misunderstanding? Since you’re not here to learn anything, but to be taught so you can pass these tests, knowledge has to be organized so it can be taught, and it has to be reduced to information so it can be organized do you follow that? In other words this leads you to assume that organization is an inherent property of the knowledge itself, and that disorder and chaos are simply irrelevant forces that threaten it from the outside. In fact it’s the opposite. Order is simply a thin, perilous condition we try to impose on the basic reality of chaos …” — JR by William Gaddis

(Source: slothnorentropy)

Apr 16

“People? They usually ask only stupid questions, forcing you to reply with equally stupid answers. For instance, they ask you what you do, not what you would have liked to do. They ask you what you own, not what you’ve lost. They ask about the woman you married, not about the one you love. About your name, but not if it suits you. They ask your age, but not how well you’ve lived those years. They ask about the city you live in, not about the city that lives in you. And they ask if you pray, not if you fear God.
So I’ve gotten used to answering these questions with silence. You know, when we shut up, we force others to reconsider their mistakes.” — Chaos of the Senses by Ahlam Mosteghanemi

Things No One Knows

   overcome by the stink of mildewed wash, i have
   been three months behind in my rent for thirty years, my
   countrymen do not love me. even my lines have
   lines. we are getting old in a city where the old are
   invisible, i have nothing new to eat and barely five minutes
   to use the jane. and less time than that to revisit my
   father’s grave, i’ve worn the same underwear for fifteen
   of those thirty years and some pieces longer than that

   writing friends is a luxury, enemies a necessity, my car
   was stripped and stolen months ago and i have no
   money with which to repair or replace it. my mentors have
   exiled me to the outskirts of nappy literacy, my wallet is
   dying of militant brain cancer, my lust for my country
   is frigid, the light excludes me and there is
   no degree for what is learned in the dark

   i am too clumsy to steal big. there is a boogieman in
   New York City who conspires against and spreads
   rumors about my lost lip. i am so economically crippled
   even my begging cup has mold sprouting in its well. my
   son has mistaken me for a dragon and his history teachers keep
   trying to hose out these flames in my mouth, i do not
   attend my high school class reunions because too many of
   my classmates died in Vietnam or in the liquor lockers
   of America or in those classrooms long ago. there is
   a boogiewoman in Oberlin who conspires against me, her
   jealousy inspired by my imaginary imaginings

   i am trapped in the hold of my greedy
   grief and expect to keep circling, i expect my son to escape
   and my husband to die during exquisite crisis, the federal
   bureau of pajamas is after my hot cross buns. i expect to
   awaken from sleep soon. i expect my banana nut bread to
   go stale and uneaten, i expect to die poemless and to
   be cremated in state ovens, i expect my ashes to be scattered
   like pollen, to take wing on the wind like buddhaflies

Apr 15


John Lee Hooker


John Lee Hooker

Black Confederate Ghost Story

Attention African-American apparitions hung,  burned or drowned before anyone alive was born:

please make a mortifying midnight appearance  before the handyman standing on my porch  this morning with a beard as wild as Walt Whitman’s.

Except he is the anti-Whitman, this white man  With confederate pins littering his denim cap and jacket.  (And by “mortify” I mean scare the shit out of him.)

I wish I were as tolerant as Walt Whitman  waltzing across the battlefield like a song  covering a cry of distress, but I want to be a storm

covering a confederate parade. The handyman’s  insistence that there were brigades of black  confederates is as oxymoronic as terms like “civil war,” “free slave.” It is the opposite of history.

Goodbye plantations doused in Sherman’s fire  and homely lonesome women weeping  over blue and gray bodies.  Goodbye colored ghosts. 

You could have headed north if there was a south  to flee.  In Louisiana north still begins with Mississippi,  as far as I know. East is Alabama, west is Texas,

and here is this fool telling me there were blacks  who fought to preserve slavery. Goodbye slavery.  Hello black accomplices and accomplished blacks.

Hello Robert E. Lee bobble head doll  on the handyman’s dashboard whistling Dixie

across our post racial country. Last night  I watched several hours of television and saw  no blacks. NASDAQ. NASCAR. Nadda Black.

I wish there were more ghost stories  about lynched negroes haunting the mobs  that lynched them. Do I believe no one among us  was alive between 1861 and 1865?                                                              

I do and I don’t. We all have to go somewhere  and we are probably always already there.

I know only one ghost story featuring a brother  in Carrolton, Alabama, dragged to the center of town  in a storm for some crime he didn’t commit. 

As he was hung lightening struck a window  on the courthouse he’s been haunting ever since.

Attention apparitions: this is a solicitation  very much like a prayer. Your presence is requested  tonight when this man is polishing his civil war relics  and singing “Good Ol’ Rebel Soldier”* to himself.

Hello sliding chairs. Hello vicious whispering shadows.  I’m a reasonable man, but I want to be as inexplicable  as something hanging a dozen feet in the air.

Terrance Hayes

“Now, welcome, twilight, weave you silken skein
Within this homely simply sanctuary,
And bring my heart the bitter-sweet of pain
That lives on dewy hope of love-to-be.
Her stillness breathes through every listening sense” — Faust by Goethe

Apr 13


Serendipity by Ann Veronica Janssens


Serendipity by Ann Veronica Janssens

(via solefoods)

A veces te contemplo

A veces te contemplo en una rama
en una forma, a veces horrorosa,
en la noche, en el barro, en cualquier cosa,
mi Corazon entero arde en tu llama.
Y sé que el cielo entre tus labios me ama,
que el aire forma tu perfil de diosa
de oro y de piedra, sola y orgullosa,
que nadie existirá si no te llama.
Entre tus manos quedaré indefensa,
no vivire si no es para buscarte
y cruzaré el dolor para adorarte,  
pues siempre me darás tu recompensa,
que es mucho más de lo que te he pedido
y casi todo lo que habré querido.
Silvina Ocampo

Today I turned twenty-three. It has been a beautiful weekend. My love reaches around all of you. The people in my life form a composite without which I’m nothing. Anticipate hearing everyone’s stories. In the words of Clarice Lispector, “Amen for all of us.”

1609: See These Bones


It is where you retreat to after tired conversations and hollow laughter with the caps lock turned on. It is space: Emotional vacuum to rest the heaviest of hearts, just for a while. It is the conscious disregard of repercussions behind breaking social rules. Like white noise and the blue screen of death emerging, it is a sign for you to go to bed. Perhaps a void was never meant to be filled in the first place.

Apr 12


Nancy Spector’s Paired, Gold: Felix Gonzalez-Torres and Roni Horn (2009, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York).


Nancy Spector’s Paired, Gold: Felix Gonzalez-Torres and Roni Horn (2009, Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York).

(via solefoods)