TC: John Ashbery: At North Farm

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La terre rouge: photo by Guy Néchois, 2007

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,

Give you the thing he has for you?

Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?






At North Farm: John Ashbery, from A Wave (1984)

TC: Born-Again Christmas

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Red-capped Plover (Charadrius ruficapillus), Orford, Tasmania: photo by Noodle snacks, 2010

I wouldn't mind being born again as a Red-capped Plover
If I were to be born again as a Fan-tailed Cuckoo

or a Bassian Thrush

a Dusky Woodswallow
a Little Penguin
a Pink Robin
or a Superb Fairywren
I'd be on top of the world
If I were to be born again as a Bennett's Wallaby
I'd be over the moon
If I were to be born again as a Moon Jelly
a Bubble-tipped Anemone
a Venus Flytrap Anemone
or a Zebra-striped Gorgonian Wrapper
life would begin again in a new and interesting way
for I would be beautiful
This old body's is on its last legs
anyway
If it could be born again
as a Red and White Christmas Tree Worm
it would wish you a happy Christmas and be gone
into its feathery Christmas wreath in the deeps

Fan-tailed Cuckoo (Ccomantis flabelliformis), Bruny Island, Tasmania: photo by Noodle snacks, 2010



Bassian Thrush (Zoothera lunulata), Bruny Island, Tasmania : photo by Noodle snacks, 2010



A Dusky Woodswallow (Artamus cyanopterus) parent feeding chicks in a nest at Mortimer Bay, Tasmania : photo by Noodle snacks, 2010



Little Penguin (Eudyptula minor) family exiting burrow, Bruny Island, Tasmania : photo by Noodle snacks, 2010



Pink Robin (Petroica rodogaster), Mount Field National Park, Tasmania : photo by Noodle snacks, 2010



Superb Fairywren (Malurus cyaneus), Male, Peter Murrell Reserve, Tasmania : photo by Noodle snacks, 2010



Bennett's Wallaby (Maacropus rufogriseus rufogriseus), Bruny Island, Tasmania: photo by Noodle snacks, 2010I



Adult Moon Jelly (Aurelia aurita), Monterey Bay Aquarium : photo by Dante Alighieri, 2006



Bubble-Tip Anemone (Entacmaea quadricolor): photo by Nick Hobgood, 2006



Venus Flytrap Anemone (Actinoscyphia aurelia), Gulf of Mexico : photo by Aquapix and Expedition to the Deep Slope, 2007 (NOAA)



Zebra-striped Gorgonian Wrapper (Nemanthus annamensis), a type of colonial anemone : photo by Nick Hobgood, 2005



Red and white Christmas Tree Worm (Spirobranchus giganteus) photo by Nick Hobgood, 2005

TC: Paratasis

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Now that a blizzard of idiocy has buried the world, logic must take care of itself.

Everything that is possible at all, is also impossible.

"Goofy is Pluto" is nonsense.

It is impossible to go wrong in logic unless human beings are involved.

Any sentence that makes sense is bound to be mis-heard.

Now that logic must take care of itself, can we trust it will be clothed, warmed and fed?

Can we identify the individual signs of idiocy in the midst of a blinding snowstorm?

If the signs can no longer be made out, why is it we must have signs?

If someone were to have torn down the signs in the night, would we know the difference?

If Pluto is Goofy, it may be Pluto who has torn down the signs.

Are those glimmerings we see through the blizzard the headlights of the logical snowplows?

The turnings in the road are dangerous in zero visibility.

Pluto would never be caught dead out on a night like this without the snowshoes of logic.

Were Pluto to be found dead in a snowdrift, would Goofy be more likely to lament or to celebrate?

Can logic be attributed to a system of thought that exists in defiance of logic?

When the drifts rise to cover the tops of the buildings, will the muffled cries of Pluto continue to be heard?

Samotnia Shelter, Karpacz, Karkonosze, Poland: photo by Klapi, 2006

TC: Clean

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Cat cleaning itself (showing hooked papillae on tongue): photo by Jennifer Leigh, 2007

Oft turns the ageing mind to Frances
Waldman's blunt query, back seat of full taxi,
Riding downtown, that chill February,
To young Angelica: "Maybe marrying
Him seems like a good idea now, but where
Will it leave you in forty years?" Being there
Herself, she should have known: old. Low blow, Frances!
The minds of the old are dirty, dirty
With the pained truth of all those years. Old, one grows,
At least in the opinion of strangers,
Ever less loveable (fact of nature), and so,
It follows, ever less easily loved--
Yet still, old does not so easily
Surrender the capacity to love
Nor the need to be loved. If anything
These things increase as one ages, somewhat
Inconveniently let it be said.
No one young likes to think of love among
The old. Consider the film Cloud Nine
In which seventy-somethings conduct
A none-too-discreet affair: things get sloppy,
No fleshy detail's spared us. Would you
O reader, not yet superannuated,
Wish to look away? En route to dust, let us
Guard and preserve, if not our virginity
(Pace Andrew Marvell), then our privacy.
Let's not talk about dignity, only wild
Creatures get to maintain that. And of course
As I'm writing this, Smokey the cat
Fastidiously scours his private parts with
Busy tongue. Animals, unlike us, are clean.
Young, the parts that interested one
Most in books and movies were the dirty ones.

TC: Clean: from The New World, Libellum Books, 2009

TC: I Was Born To Speak Your Name

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I knew the tune
It was my song
Even before you came along
Yet only then did I perceive its meaning

This you I wished for
This desired Other of whom
I spoke so glowingly in poems
I never knew its name

When I lifted its arms up
I noticed tiny wings
That’s all I knew
The rest was Muselike
Anonymous this “you”

So I guess those poems
Were like phonecalls to the future
I think I had your number
Knew what I was looking for
Even before I found it
In the face directory

And luckiest of all
Your human substance
Was life’s loveliest
Far as I could see

As if I’d placed
Bones and skin
Together in a dream
You were put together that way
But I wouldn’t let it go to my head if I were you





The Muse Inspiring the Poet: Henry Rousseau, 1909 (Kunstmuseum Basel)

TC: Walter Benjamin: A Map of Hell (1938)

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Paradise and Hell: Hieronymus Bosch, c. 1510 (Museo del Prado, Madrid)

March 6. On recent nights I've had dreams that remained deeply engraved in my day. Last night I dreamed I had company. Friendly things came my way; I believe they consisted primarily in women taking an interest in me -- indeed, even commenting favorably upon my appearance. I think I remember remarking aloud that now I probably wouldn't live much longer -- as if this were the last display of friendship among people bidding one another farewell.

Plique-à-jour enamel setting, cloisonné enamel on gold: Guillaume Julien [?], Paris, late 13th/early 14th century: Musée National du Moyen Age, Paris (image by Jastrow, 2006)

Later, just before I awoke, I was in the company of a lady in Adrienne Monnier's rooms. They were the setting for an exhibition of objects which I can't quite recall. Among them were books with miniatures, as well as plates and intricately wrought arabesques which were colorfully overlaid as if with enamel. The rooms were on the ground floor facing the street, from which one could look in through a large windowpane. I was on the inside. My lady had obviously already treated her teeth according to the technique that the exhibition was advertising.

Front of dental office "Next Appointment" notice, advertising Chlorodont toothpaste: VEB Elbe-Chemie, 1969 (Archiv der Firma Dental-Kosmetik GmbH und Co KG, Nachfolgerin der Leowerke und späteren VEB Elbe-Chemie; image by Freak1972, 2010)

She had polished them to an opalescent shine. The color of her teeth ran to dull green and blue. I took pains to make her understand most politely that this was not the correct use of the product. Anticipating my thoughts, she pointed out that the inner surfaces of her teeth were inlaid in red. I had indeed meant to say that, for teeth, the brightest colors are scarcely bright enough.

Toothpaste with wood-texturing: Blender3D image by SoylentGreen, 2006

I've been suffering greatly from the noise in my room.

Wood-Texture, Band type: Blender3D image by SoylentGreen, 2006

Last night my dream recorded this.

Looping Particle Fire: Blender3D image by SoylentGreen, 2006

I found myself standing in front of a map and, simultaneously, standing in the landscape which it depicted. The landscape was terrifyingly dreary and bare; I couldn't have said whether its desolation was that of a rocky wasteland or that on an empty ground populated only by capital letters. These letters writhed and curved upon their terrain as if following mountain ranges; I knew or learned that I was in the labyrinth of my auditory canal. But the map was, at the same time, a map of hell.

The Hollywood Sign, shot from an aircraft: photo by Jelson, 2009

Walter Benjamin: Diary Entries, 1938 (excerpt), translated by Gerhard Richter and Michael W. Jennings in Selected Writings, Volume 3 (1935-1938), 2002

TC: Walter Benjamin: Cult

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Still-life with Rarities: Jan van der Heyden, 1712 (Szépmûvészeti Múzeum, Budapest)

A religion may be discerned in capitalism -- that is to say, capitalism serves essentially to allay the same anxieties, torments and disturbances to which the so-called religions offered answers.

We cannot draw closed the net in which we are caught...

Vanitas still-life: Harmen Steenwijck, c. 1640 (National Gallery, London)

Capitalism is a purely cultic religion, perhaps the most extreme that ever existed. In capitalism, things have a meaning only in their relationship to the cult; capitalism has no specific body of dogma, no theology. It is from this point of view that utilitarianism acquires its religious overtones.

The Carrot: Willem Frederik van Royen, 1699 (Märkisches Museum, Berlin)

This concretization of cult is connected with a second feature of capitalism: the permanence of the cult. Capitalism is the celebration of a cult sans rêve et sans merci. There are no "weekdays." There is no day that is not a feast day, in the terrible sense that all its sacred pomp is unfolded before us; each day commands the utter fealty of each worshiper.

Hunting still-life: Willem von Aelst, c. 1665 (private collection)

And third, the cult makes guilt pervasive. Capitalism is probably the first instance of a cult that creates guilt, not atonement. In this respect, this religious system is caught up in the headlong rush of a larger movement. A vast sense of guilt that is unable to find relief seizes on the cult, not to atone for this guilt but to make it universal, to hammer it into the conscious mind, so as once and for all to include God in the system of guilt and thereby awaken in Him an interest in the process of atonement. This atonement cannot then be expected from the cult itself, or from the reformation of this religion (which would need to be able to have recourse to some stable element in it), or even from the complete renouncement of this religion.

Vanitas still-life: Harmen Steenwijck, c. 1640 (Stedelijk Museum de Lakenhal, Leiden)

The nature of the religious movement which is capitalism entails endurance right to the end, to the point where God, too, finally takes on the entire burden of guilt, to the point where the universe is taken over by that despair which is actually its secret hope. Capitalism is entirely without precedent, in that it is a religion which offers not the reform of existence but its complete destruction. It is the expansion of despair, until despair becomes a religious state of the world in the hope that this will lead to salvation. God's transcendence is at an end. But he is not dead; he has been incorporated into human existence. This passage of the planet "Human" through the house of despair in the absolute loneliness of his trajectory is the ethos that Nietzsche defined. This man is the superman, the first to recognize the religion of capitalism and bring it to fulfillment.

Portrait of a woman: Bartolomeo Veneto, 1520-1525 (Städelsches Kunstinstitut, Frankfurt)

Its fourth feature is that its God must be hidden from it and may be addressed only when his guilt is at its zenith. This cult is celebrated before an unmatured deity; every idea, every conception of it offends against the secret of this immaturity.

The Seven Deadly Sins (detail: Superbia, or Pride): Hieronymus Bosch, c. 1480 (Museo del Prado, Madrid)

Freud's theory, too, belongs to the hegemony of the priests of this cult. Its conception is capitalist through and through. By virtue of a profound analogy, which has still to be illuminated, what has been repressed, the idea of sin, is capital itself, which pays interest on the hell of the unconscious.

Thérèse Dreaming: Balthus, 1938 (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York)

The paradigm of capitalist religious thought is magnificently formulated in Nietzsche's philosophy. The idea of the superman transposes the apocalyptic "leap" not into conversion, atonement, purification, and penance, but into an apparently steady, though in the final analysis explosive and discontinuous intensification. For this reason, intensification and development in the sense of non facit saltum are incompatible. The superman is the man who has arrived where he is without changing his ways; he is historical man who has grown up right through the sky. This breaking open of the heavens that was and is characterized (even for Nietzsche himself) by guilt in a religious sense was anticipated by Nietzsche. Marx is a similar case: the capitalism that refuses to change course becomes socialism by means of the simple and compound interest that are functions of Schuld (consider the demonic ambiguity of this word).

Count Willem II presides over the execution of the dishonest bailiff, 1336: Nicolaes von Galen, 1657 (Town Hall, Hasselt)

Capitalism is a religion of pure cult, without dogma.

Capitalism has developed as a parasite of Christianity in the West (this must be shown not just in the case of Calvinism, but in the other orthodox Christian churches), until it reached the point where Christianity's history is essentially that of its parasite -- that is to say, of capitalism.

Count Willem II presides over the execution of the dishonest bailiff, 1336 (detail): Nicolaes von Galen, 1657 (Town Hall, Hasselt)

sans rêve et sans merci=without dream or mercy
non facit saltum=he cannot make the leap
Schuld=debt; guilt

Capitalism as Religion (fragment): Walter Benjamin, 1921, edited excerpt (translation by Rodney Livingstone in Selected Writings, Volume 1: 1913-1926, 1996)

TC: A Meditation Outside the Fertile Grounds Cafe

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Ayman just came back from his family
Home in the West Bank. How's the spirit there?
I asked. "Good. Nobody's giving up."
Ayman paused, wiping down the spotless glass top
Of the pastry case one more careful time
Without looking up. Thinking to himself.
"After all, all they want's a little justice."
On the map of the West Bank, that blank space
Just to the left of the town of Bhiddu
Is the village where Ayman's father, one
Of twenty children, was born and raised.
The name of the village means House of Stones
"Because there's a quarry there," but still
It's too small to rate a spot on the map in
The Economist, alongside this story
On the fresh welling up of blood and anger
In my friend's home land, that blank space
Filled with blood and stones. Ayman loves
His trade; in six years he's built from nothing
The coolest little coffee shop on the street;
People like him, he likes them; he makes
Great coffee, his sandwiches are famed, justly;
It's the old American Horatio
Alger Dream, and America's his country.
Every day he gets hundreds of calls
On his cell phone. "But know how many
Calls from people here I take when I'm back
Home?" he smiles. "None. I talk to people
There." And when he goes back home to Beit
Duqqu, America feels far away.
That's the way it feels to me too, but I have
No other home. The photo of the olive tree,
Its roots exposed from the bulldozer cut,
That was up on Ayman's wall last autumn --
Is that a photo of a broken home
Or is it that one's home's always intact
In one's mind as long as one's heart is
Full? I wouldn't begin to know. Tacked
On a phone pole out front of Fertile Grounds
In drifting night mist, a tattered poster
With a picture of a cat's face on it, lost
Near Delaware and Shattuck. It's Momo.
And what's become of poor Momo, now a week
Gone? Tonight, caning into the fog,
I hallucinated a Momo
Sighting downtown. No, just another feral.
Over ferals few sentimental
Tears are shed. A shelter's not a home.
A sanctuary's what everybody needs
These days -- the ferals, the street and doorway
People, the drifters in the mist, the bums.
On my way back, as I passed, I saw that
A young Arab girl in headscarf sat weeping
At a table outside Fertile Grounds. Ayman
In his counterman's apron, spick and span,
And Mohamed stood huddled in conference,
Mo holding a cell phone. "She's just lost
Her family, everything," Mo said softly.
"She doesn't have people here. I am
Going to help her." Ayman was talking
To the girl in Arabic, serious, hushed.
Then too Mo, in Arabic, reassuring.
"Don't worry, it will be okay," said Mo --
Switching back to Shattuck Avenue English
For me, the infidel. God is great. May
God bring Momo home if it is His will,
And everybody else along with him,
Whomever that may include -- we, living --
And we'll abide in that, and till then hope
That Momo too, pilfering out of the trash
Bins behind the Shattuck eateries,
Will abide likewise. He'll not lack competition.



from TC: The New World (Libellum, 2009)

TC: Penmanship

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If I were Sophocles, brave with truth

I would play my old fiddle a sharp tune or two

And then withdraw into the uniqueness of rock

Which your special penmanship changes into lock

For your l’s are special, as in Elgin Penitentiary

Where you have never been, my expressive farmer

Preferring liberty to freedom or a penitentiary

The baroque swoop in your l’s is for enhancing liking

I like you because I am mad at you

Often you are mad at me too

All very spectacular

But it’s awful when the other person isn’t breathing

Friendship tempts you to essay the r in rock while breathing

Your friend Rock likes you

Jean

Frank

Paul

Matthew

Joy

Austin

And people

Like that

Like you

Goya is a tremendous painter

Goya is dead

But the poetry of penmanship is never dead

While you are writing

We survive for a while, and then we die

And this is but the beginning

Your d pirouettes then later you die

But there is no reason for you to care about any of that

For you have become the virtuoso of capital F

Even if tomorrow we die

I am still free to go on choosing whomever I like

I go on choosing you

And you go on choosing me

Over and over again

Irrespective of merit

Spencerian script: D.L. Musselman, 1884

Classic Pelikan fountain pen with inkwell: Lothar Spurzem, 2006

German class-book, manufactured by Langenkämper-Verlag: photo by Moritz Hector, 2009

Dip pen with nib, 1925: image by EraserGirl, 2008

Cursive script, 1894: image by Arpingstone, 2005

TC: James Schuyler: Salute

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Unidentified Asteraceae, Death Valley National Park: photo by Mila Zinkova, 2005

Past is past, and if one
remembers what one meant
to do and never did, is
not to have thought to do
enough? Like that gather-
ing of one of each I
planned, to gather one
of each kind of clover,
daisy, paintbrush that
grew in that field
the cabin stood in and
study them one afternoon
before they wilted. Past
is past. I salute
that various field.

James Schuyler: from Salute, 1960

Wildflowers, Death Valley National Park: photo by Mila Zinkova, 2005

TC: Boats

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All the inconsequential memoria
Seeping into the monody: voyages,
Purposes, cargos, ports of call whose names,

Long since forgot, returned to him in dreams
Only to be forgot again by morning --
Supposing those were really dreams, and this morning.

Boat and Grain Elevators No. 2: Ralston Crawford, 1942 (The Phillips Collection, Washington, D.C.)

LIVE FROM THE LIVING THEATRE: Updates from #OccupyWallStreet!

- The Occupation has been a success! and the power of the people has prevailed, including those in authority who resisted the temptation of acting oppressively and violently, and allowed the occupants to stay on October 14th, backing away from their demand the protestors leave Zucatti Park.

This video is a STUNNING example of what is happening, from the 14th.

Watch the man in the green pushed by a policeman on the right side of the screen 12 seconds in, and the guy in blue reach to catch him. Then watch one policeman wildly swinging his baton at 20 seconds into it, so much so he hits another police man with his baton swinging without discretion.

BUT then a courageous woman in red hair comes in from the bottom left corner, and uses peace to over power three police men and keep the peace. It is truly one of the most incredible individual acts of pacifism in action that we have seen in this movement and it is its back bone. She also helped the police keep the situation under control by doing so: (90 seconds long total):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w6tboOENXtU

- Occupy Wall Street Occupies Times Square! At 2:30 into this one, a man yelling, "OH MY GOD, THEY'VE SHUT DOWN TIMES SQUARE!!" (8 mins total)

For those who care about schools and education, checkout what Sarah has to say at 6:52.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwYaBpxledo&feature=player_embedded

Also see this article about 350 Columbia Professors signing a document in support of the protest (article one page):

http://occupywallst.org/forum/news-almost-350-columbia-professors-have-signed-a-/

- President Obama, at the unveiling of Martin Luther King Jr. statue, says MLK would have backed the movement. See the following Washington Times article(one page):

http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2011/oct/16/obama-king-would-have-backed-occupy-wall-street/?utm_source=RSS_Feed&utm_medium=RSS

- From Zucatti Park on the 14th to Times Square on saturday, PHENOMENAL FOOTAGE(5 mins).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=75KHM4uvctA&sns=em

- The Living Theatre performance at Washington Square Park October 8th, after the first general assembly held there. Attached is the script we use, for those interested in participating. Please change it, use it, put your logo on it, talk about your projects, keep up the dialogue this movement has started. Also, let us know if you are involved so we can keep you up to date and include you in the Occupy Your World performance festival. Also attached is Judith's essay on Modern Political Theatre that will be published in her book next spring: (5 minutes)

http://vimeo.com/30714057

- On going discussions are happening about occupations in many places, by many different groups all over the world. Here is the video from the Offical NYCGA.CC website explaining the process and how to be involved:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dtD8RnGaRQ&feature=player_embedded

The Occupation is currently discussing the occupation of Washington Square Park and the NYU student body has already offered to share their meal plans with the occupants should they try for this. The Occupation is currently discussing the occupation of Washington Square Park and the NYU student body has already offered to share their meal plans with the occupants should this happen.

- Representing 64 countries and tens of thousands of artists around the world, from IETM Congress:(2 mins)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g6QcL0fslQU&feature=player_embedded

Also, encouragingly, The VIllage Voice Obies responded in support as well, and posted on their facebook page!

This is our first attempt at a worldwide social and cultural dialogue for almost 50 years. We need everyone to help maintain the peace. Follow along, and say your piece, whatever it is. Everyone is upset, and we all have the same problem. No one's needs are any greater than anyone else's.

Let's get to work solving our problems.

Spread the word!!!

Love from The Living,

Brad

The Living Theatre

TC: Ticky Tacky

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Surf-Riders, Honolulu: Charles W. Bartlett, 1919 (Honolulu Academy of Arts)

Life should have enough arresting moments
to create at least a tropism in Xanadu

between the bamboo swizzle sticks
and the sarongs soaked in lizard spittle

revolving ceiling fans banana trees
birds of paradise and pineapple daiquiris

but little is expected by those who
dwell in the environs of the lawn bowling court

for them it is a perennial Mondo Samarkanda
a pointed tin roof above cute wood shingles

the ghost of Reagan bumbling through the palms
amid a sunset out of Papua New Guinea

like a great snork bird homing in on orange juice

The Surf-Rider, Hawaii: Charles W. Bartlett, 1921 (Honolulu Academy of Arts)