I found this, today, quoted at the beginning of Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri's Commonwealth (2009):
"People only ever have the degree of freedom that their audacity wins from fear."
-- Stendhal, Vie de Napoléon
Glad to see we have all been thinking the same things for centuries...
Sad to see it still needs to be said...
12 December 2011
11 December 2011
08 12 2011, London
[Written for I'm with you's I'm with you : Occupy London event - 08 12 2011, London]
I woke up in a new bed, well
I laid in luxuriously
I was warm and I was comfortable and I was enjoying the light
I was daydreaming
But I was annoyed at myself
Because last night I couldn't do what I'd set out to do that evening
I couldn't bring myself to
Make the move that I so wanted to make
The move that seemed so easy in dreams but so impossible in confrontation
Because I was somehow, somewhere, irrationally
Fearful
Fearful of rejection (which logically I'm quite sure would not have come)
Fearful of putting myself on the edge, making myself vulnerable and responsible and risking comfort
I despise this fear, it is poison,
And rationally, existentially,
I know that audacity in fact very rarely brings about rejection
And that being comfortable, secure and acceptable is not what I want – in theory
For surely if audacity could bring about rejection, in any form
Then it is a pill worth swallowing
For it can only help
Whereas fear, the opposite of audacity, or boldness as we may like to call it
Is like being rejected without even the attempt!
Automatic-reject!
So to choose fear over audacity
Because there is less chance of overt rejection
Is like choosing rejection straight up
Choosing rejection before even permitting the attempt
Choosing rejection before even attempting to move
I know all this ! And yet … the fear is there
So how do we confront?
How do we move?
We must move!
I propose the attempt itself as the kernel of audacious and bold life
We know we must move
We must move in all directions
In any direction
We must only ensure that we are not deluding ourselves that rejection isn't worth the risk
So don't let me stand on the safe side
The side where my sensible, well-trained mind is very comfortable, actually
The side that prevents us from moving
The side where there are no attempts, just preempts
I woke up in a new bed, well
I laid in luxuriously
I was warm and I was comfortable and I was enjoying the light
I was daydreaming
But I was annoyed at myself
Because last night I couldn't do what I'd set out to do that evening
I couldn't bring myself to
Make the move that I so wanted to make
The move that seemed so easy in dreams but so impossible in confrontation
Because I was somehow, somewhere, irrationally
Fearful
Fearful of rejection (which logically I'm quite sure would not have come)
Fearful of putting myself on the edge, making myself vulnerable and responsible and risking comfort
I despise this fear, it is poison,
And rationally, existentially,
I know that audacity in fact very rarely brings about rejection
And that being comfortable, secure and acceptable is not what I want – in theory
For surely if audacity could bring about rejection, in any form
Then it is a pill worth swallowing
For it can only help
Whereas fear, the opposite of audacity, or boldness as we may like to call it
Is like being rejected without even the attempt!
Automatic-reject!
So to choose fear over audacity
Because there is less chance of overt rejection
Is like choosing rejection straight up
Choosing rejection before even permitting the attempt
Choosing rejection before even attempting to move
I know all this ! And yet … the fear is there
So how do we confront?
How do we move?
We must move!
I propose the attempt itself as the kernel of audacious and bold life
We know we must move
We must move in all directions
In any direction
We must only ensure that we are not deluding ourselves that rejection isn't worth the risk
So don't let me stand on the safe side
The side where my sensible, well-trained mind is very comfortable, actually
The side that prevents us from moving
The side where there are no attempts, just preempts
3 December 2011
03 12 2011, London
We talk when there is nothing to say,
we don't talk when everything needs to be said.
we don't talk when everything needs to be said.
14 November 2011
14 11 2011, London
tailored fags
smoking friends down to the filter
like tom says
we want to
but the other prevents
(usually, but not always, I HOPE)
because of 'work' and fear
and laziness
of mind and spirit
and the self condones
oh! the horror
of denying magnitude
for the sake of the safety of this phoney world
(of 'No Smoking'!)
smoking friends down to the filter
like tom says
we want to
but the other prevents
(usually, but not always, I HOPE)
because of 'work' and fear
and laziness
of mind and spirit
and the self condones
oh! the horror
of denying magnitude
for the sake of the safety of this phoney world
(of 'No Smoking'!)
27 October 2011
27 10 2011, Moorland
farm
fags
fortified shiraz
father
family
food
slow conversations
of past
waiting for sentences to finish
learning of grandparents, great grandparents, Switzerland, Sydney, Moorland, and the depression
"country bumpkins" ? ha ha !
Benedict Weber (great grandfather, immigrated from Zürich), James Otto Weber (grandfather), Ada Aileen Weber née Pryor (grandmother), Flora Helena Weber née Kidd (great grandmother, whose pendant I wear now), etc.
Benedict came to Australia in (circa) 1883, first to Kangaroo Valley, where he married Mary Flynn, and had two children, then settling in Moorland after Mary's death. There he married Flora Helena and they had seven children, including James Otto, born 1906.
Jack (Otto's older brother) was visited by Joseph (cousin in Switzerland) in Paris where he was in hospital during the First World War.
Aileen lived in Sydney with her Aunt Jean until she was 25. They went to the Randwick Races often; Aileen's father Arthur Pryor bred horses and Aileen liked to bet!
Aileen went to evening dos with her cousin, a dentist. She wore crocodile skin shoes.
Jean and Aileen cooked and served food to homeless and hungry people during the depression. She wore crocodile skin shoes.
Otto lived in Moorland, where he worked the farm, played piano in a band called The Chequers, and represent the North Coast of New South Wales in both Cricket and Rugby League.
Aileen and Otto married when Aileen was in her mid-thirties, Otto was seven years older. Jean didn't approve of Otto for Aileen, who she thought could do better (read: richer).
James Michael was born in 1949, when Ada Aileen was nearly 36.
love over money romance rendered so by (me) (and) decades hindsight
maybe it was
we will never know
but the story goes that they loved each other
we play piano, violin and sing
go for walks in the paddocks, along the river, creeks and dams
to explore familiar land
with those still here
looking at maps of the world, maps of possibilities, histories and lives lived
by someone important to someone
then looking out our own broad windows to a whole world
a whole history
that is somehow irrelevant, somewhat irretrievable
and at once vital, necessary, useful for self-narrative
for future narrative and time perspective
connecting now flesh to then flesh will enable future flesh, perhaps
otherwise it is lost? lost is a silly concept. it doesn't need to be found if it is really lost.
i guess that's why we attempt retrieval while it's still possible
to get an idea
to create that narrative
this irretrievable is sought
through the slow conversations
the wandering across paddocks
the attempt to ask, to retell
to remember
what is long gone
people who i never knew, will never know
people who never knew me, will never know
people i have nothing to do with
except blood and earth
depending how you look at it
what day it is
and if you are on that earth
which is a lot and nothing
fags
fortified shiraz
father
family
food
slow conversations
of past
waiting for sentences to finish
learning of grandparents, great grandparents, Switzerland, Sydney, Moorland, and the depression
"country bumpkins" ? ha ha !
Benedict Weber (great grandfather, immigrated from Zürich), James Otto Weber (grandfather), Ada Aileen Weber née Pryor (grandmother), Flora Helena Weber née Kidd (great grandmother, whose pendant I wear now), etc.
Benedict came to Australia in (circa) 1883, first to Kangaroo Valley, where he married Mary Flynn, and had two children, then settling in Moorland after Mary's death. There he married Flora Helena and they had seven children, including James Otto, born 1906.
Jack (Otto's older brother) was visited by Joseph (cousin in Switzerland) in Paris where he was in hospital during the First World War.
Aileen lived in Sydney with her Aunt Jean until she was 25. They went to the Randwick Races often; Aileen's father Arthur Pryor bred horses and Aileen liked to bet!
Aileen went to evening dos with her cousin, a dentist. She wore crocodile skin shoes.
Jean and Aileen cooked and served food to homeless and hungry people during the depression. She wore crocodile skin shoes.
Otto lived in Moorland, where he worked the farm, played piano in a band called The Chequers, and represent the North Coast of New South Wales in both Cricket and Rugby League.
Aileen and Otto married when Aileen was in her mid-thirties, Otto was seven years older. Jean didn't approve of Otto for Aileen, who she thought could do better (read: richer).
James Michael was born in 1949, when Ada Aileen was nearly 36.
love over money romance rendered so by (me) (and) decades hindsight
maybe it was
we will never know
but the story goes that they loved each other
we play piano, violin and sing
go for walks in the paddocks, along the river, creeks and dams
to explore familiar land
with those still here
looking at maps of the world, maps of possibilities, histories and lives lived
by someone important to someone
then looking out our own broad windows to a whole world
a whole history
that is somehow irrelevant, somewhat irretrievable
and at once vital, necessary, useful for self-narrative
for future narrative and time perspective
connecting now flesh to then flesh will enable future flesh, perhaps
otherwise it is lost? lost is a silly concept. it doesn't need to be found if it is really lost.
i guess that's why we attempt retrieval while it's still possible
to get an idea
to create that narrative
this irretrievable is sought
through the slow conversations
the wandering across paddocks
the attempt to ask, to retell
to remember
what is long gone
people who i never knew, will never know
people who never knew me, will never know
people i have nothing to do with
except blood and earth
depending how you look at it
what day it is
and if you are on that earth
which is a lot and nothing
9 October 2011
6 October 2011
06 10 2011, Sydney
D I S T R A C T E D
distracted
from the task at hand
from the only thing
in this world
that i 'have' to do
and 'have' to do well
instead i invent great stories for myself
make grand plans, devise my next moves
book intercontinental flights
reply to dozens of inconsequential emails
reconnect with long-lost or never-attained friends
spend too much time on skype
speak too enthusiastically with everyone i meet
but refrain from socialising
in self-punishment
i lock myself in the library
or install myself for hours in a café
with my ever-present companion
my shitty laptop, who i dislike
i plug headphones in
and listen to 80s synth, heavy techno or cheesy chansons françaises
waiting for gmail to relieve me from the torture -
of trying to construct academia -
or for someone to call
(this won't happen, i have no phone)
or for there to be an emergency
to relieve the sedation of staring at screens and tabs
but nothing comes
so i resort to my old ways
in the knowledge (hope) that 'it will happen'
but just not right now
meanwhile, while waiting...
i stare at the pages and dates in my agenda for a long time
LIKE, IF I DO THIS LONG ENOUGH, ALL WILL BE REVEALED
tactics like this belong to the mentally unstable
we are told
obsessive compulsives
well, what do we expect ?
after all
it is hell
to be forced, given no choice
to do that which
under other circumstances
you might do willingly,
without need of such burdensome coercion
such masochistic, or rather ridiculous self-oppression
i want to enjoy this, i should
but i cannot
i am too distracted
and maybe too confident
that 'it will happen'
because i know it 'has' to
distracted
from the task at hand
from the only thing
in this world
that i 'have' to do
and 'have' to do well
instead i invent great stories for myself
make grand plans, devise my next moves
book intercontinental flights
reply to dozens of inconsequential emails
reconnect with long-lost or never-attained friends
spend too much time on skype
speak too enthusiastically with everyone i meet
but refrain from socialising
in self-punishment
i lock myself in the library
or install myself for hours in a café
with my ever-present companion
my shitty laptop, who i dislike
i plug headphones in
and listen to 80s synth, heavy techno or cheesy chansons françaises
waiting for gmail to relieve me from the torture -
of trying to construct academia -
or for someone to call
(this won't happen, i have no phone)
or for there to be an emergency
to relieve the sedation of staring at screens and tabs
but nothing comes
so i resort to my old ways
in the knowledge (hope) that 'it will happen'
but just not right now
meanwhile, while waiting...
i stare at the pages and dates in my agenda for a long time
LIKE, IF I DO THIS LONG ENOUGH, ALL WILL BE REVEALED
tactics like this belong to the mentally unstable
we are told
obsessive compulsives
well, what do we expect ?
after all
it is hell
to be forced, given no choice
to do that which
under other circumstances
you might do willingly,
without need of such burdensome coercion
such masochistic, or rather ridiculous self-oppression
i want to enjoy this, i should
but i cannot
i am too distracted
and maybe too confident
that 'it will happen'
because i know it 'has' to
5 October 2011
05 10 2011, Sydney
futurefuturefuturefuture
fu-tu-re ... refut(e)
FU, tu re ... tu (me) re-trouves
on se retrouvera jamais !
someone today said something
to me
even though i have spoken to no-one all day
(literally)
they said :
"so much of this so-called extra time, or “non-productive” time, taken tends to be consumed by the anxious desire to figure out the right thing -- the legitimate thing -- to do. AS IF YOU COULD EVER WORK THAT OUT IN ADVANCE"
this non-present friend is so right
fu-tu-re ... refut(e)
FU, tu re ... tu (me) re-trouves
on se retrouvera jamais !
someone today said something
to me
even though i have spoken to no-one all day
(literally)
they said :
"so much of this so-called extra time, or “non-productive” time, taken tends to be consumed by the anxious desire to figure out the right thing -- the legitimate thing -- to do. AS IF YOU COULD EVER WORK THAT OUT IN ADVANCE"
this non-present friend is so right
22 September 2011
22 09 2011, Sydney
en ascendant les escaliers (toujours) vers
le septième étage de Fisher Library du troisième (rez-de-chaussée)
je compte les pas
première compte (vers 14h30) : quatre-vingt-trois escaliers
deuxième compte (vers 17h30) : quatre-vingt-six escaliers
troisième compte : à faire
conclusion : la realité n'est jamais fixe
le septième étage de Fisher Library du troisième (rez-de-chaussée)
je compte les pas
première compte (vers 14h30) : quatre-vingt-trois escaliers
deuxième compte (vers 17h30) : quatre-vingt-six escaliers
troisième compte : à faire
conclusion : la realité n'est jamais fixe
12 September 2011
7 September 2011
07 09 2011, Sydney
∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑
∑ O S E R :::: R E S O ∑
∑ R O S E :::: E S O R ∑
∑ E R O S :::: S O R E ∑
∑ S E R O :::: O R E S ∑
∑ :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ∑
∑ O R E S :::: S E R O ∑
∑ S O R E :::: E R O S ∑
∑ E S O R :::: R O S E ∑
∑ R E S O :::: O S E R ∑
∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑
∑ O S E R :::: R E S O ∑
∑ R O S E :::: E S O R ∑
∑ E R O S :::: S O R E ∑
∑ S E R O :::: O R E S ∑
∑ :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: ∑
∑ O R E S :::: S E R O ∑
∑ S O R E :::: E R O S ∑
∑ E S O R :::: R O S E ∑
∑ R E S O :::: O S E R ∑
∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑∑
5 September 2011
05 09 2011, Sydney
the sun sets into sky scrapers, orange and dusty, slowly beating them into darkness until they switch on their electric show for the night. they are secretly so ashamed of that poor imitation of the sun's rays that they will only show the moon. for the moon naturally understands imitation, but what the scrapers don't understand is that the moon would never stoop to feeling shame for it.
3 September 2011
03 09 2011, Sydney
"You Who Will Never Be Mine" (L.I.)
it is always, always the self
under scrutiny
in any issue whatsoever
in every circumstance whatever
the self may believe the other to be a cause for scrutiny
the self may believe that the other demands scrutiny
the self may think:
why did the other do this to me?
what does the other want from me?
why doesn't the other understand me?
but the other is merely a foil through which the self ignorantly
auto-scrutinises
scrutiny is directed at the other by the self, flowing from the self
the self believes in the other's problems, in the other's ideas, in the other's necessity or uselessness
rather,
every thing the self says to, thinks of, does towards the other
is merely a reflection of the self
a projection of the self
an idea of the self
the necessity of the self
the other serves to give the self excuses and blindfolds for the self's
weaknesses, loneliness, desires, faults, confusions, obsessions, fears
if only the self would see the other as just that
other
as is
then the self would see
there is no need for scrutiny
and without scrutiny, the excuses and blindfolds appear as ludicrous as they are cruel
these would fall away and the self's fears would seem tolerable
because the other is there, just there
but never near enough to scrutinise
the self will then stop bothering the other with all that hidden self stuff
and they will both learn they will never know the other
but that they can try to learn to know the self
together
it is always, always the self
under scrutiny
in any issue whatsoever
in every circumstance whatever
the self may believe the other to be a cause for scrutiny
the self may believe that the other demands scrutiny
the self may think:
why did the other do this to me?
what does the other want from me?
why doesn't the other understand me?
but the other is merely a foil through which the self ignorantly
auto-scrutinises
scrutiny is directed at the other by the self, flowing from the self
the self believes in the other's problems, in the other's ideas, in the other's necessity or uselessness
rather,
every thing the self says to, thinks of, does towards the other
is merely a reflection of the self
a projection of the self
an idea of the self
the necessity of the self
the other serves to give the self excuses and blindfolds for the self's
weaknesses, loneliness, desires, faults, confusions, obsessions, fears
if only the self would see the other as just that
other
as is
then the self would see
there is no need for scrutiny
and without scrutiny, the excuses and blindfolds appear as ludicrous as they are cruel
these would fall away and the self's fears would seem tolerable
because the other is there, just there
but never near enough to scrutinise
the self will then stop bothering the other with all that hidden self stuff
and they will both learn they will never know the other
but that they can try to learn to know the self
together
25 August 2011
25 08 2011, Sydney
effondrement
all is lost
no direction
city
people
university
career
country
bureaucracy
love
money
family
time
all throwing me
in different directions
so that (as They say):
i have none.
*
i can't focus my eyes
without something sure to see
(there is nothing, of course, i know that but...)
suddenly i've not even the illusion of surety
to see to, to look after, to cling to
because everything is blurring and slipping
my eyes are bleeding and my organs are crying
heavy wind and rain would be welcome relief
pound me all over
until blinded eyes learn why
*
They are right:
lost, no direction.
and i blame Them
for trapping me
so that i no longer know
what to do to
how to move to
who to go to
where to look to
just live
all is lost
no direction
city
people
university
career
country
bureaucracy
love
money
family
time
all throwing me
in different directions
so that (as They say):
i have none.
*
i can't focus my eyes
without something sure to see
(there is nothing, of course, i know that but...)
suddenly i've not even the illusion of surety
to see to, to look after, to cling to
because everything is blurring and slipping
my eyes are bleeding and my organs are crying
heavy wind and rain would be welcome relief
pound me all over
until blinded eyes learn why
*
They are right:
lost, no direction.
and i blame Them
for trapping me
so that i no longer know
what to do to
how to move to
who to go to
where to look to
just live
22 August 2011
31 07 2011, Sydney
[Written for l honneur de timur's rezeption happening - 27 08 2011, Berlin]
When we talk about receiving someone we imagine them to be physically before us
When we talk about missing someone we imagine them to be physically absent
Reverse the terms
How much do you hear?
How much do you see?
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Can we be together?
It is the same story over and over
The same numbness and the same loss
The same ecstasy and the same gain
Whose loss and whose gain?
Reverse the terms
Reverse the terms
Reverse the terms
They are only terms after all
Grammar has long chained us
As it does now
From feeling each other to be here with each other now
Now, now, now
Here together
Again, again and again
Past, present, future
Present, present, present
Does it make a difference
What we say
What we said
What we will say
Are you here with me?
Instead we are fearful that we will be seen
That All Will Be Revealed
And so we conceal
Forget about being seen
What do you feel?
Are we here?
Do you hear me?
Can we be together?
Hear me as I hear you
Say that, please
Hear me as I hear you
Does it make a difference
What we say
What we said
What we will say
Are you here with me?
Ask me that, please
Repeat it back to me, now
Are you here with me
If I have lost you, I am no longer here
If I was never here, you have lost me
Let's understand that
Let's hear that together
Tell me that
Reverse the terms
Receive me missing
When we talk about receiving someone we imagine them to be physically before us
When we talk about missing someone we imagine them to be physically absent
Reverse the terms
How much do you hear?
How much do you see?
Can you see me?
Can you hear me?
Can we be together?
It is the same story over and over
The same numbness and the same loss
The same ecstasy and the same gain
Whose loss and whose gain?
Reverse the terms
Reverse the terms
Reverse the terms
They are only terms after all
Grammar has long chained us
As it does now
From feeling each other to be here with each other now
Now, now, now
Here together
Again, again and again
Past, present, future
Present, present, present
Does it make a difference
What we say
What we said
What we will say
Are you here with me?
Instead we are fearful that we will be seen
That All Will Be Revealed
And so we conceal
Forget about being seen
What do you feel?
Are we here?
Do you hear me?
Can we be together?
Hear me as I hear you
Say that, please
Hear me as I hear you
Does it make a difference
What we say
What we said
What we will say
Are you here with me?
Ask me that, please
Repeat it back to me, now
Are you here with me
If I have lost you, I am no longer here
If I was never here, you have lost me
Let's understand that
Let's hear that together
Tell me that
Reverse the terms
Receive me missing
6 August 2011
06 08 2011, Sydney
the pain of time passing
of feeling that it is passed
is unbearable
we feel this time but cannot see it
'signs of change'
have nothing to do with time itself
and everything to do with vain attempts
to fix time to a physicality
a body, a face, a city
to possess it
we will feel them all change,
think we see time's traces,
try to grasp its cruelty,
and why we will never see again as we did
but only feel something is no longer
look at your face
time is not there, engraved
time is beating in your chest
floating about your mind
bleeding from your skin
and one day it will be pulsing through your inert body
of feeling that it is passed
is unbearable
we feel this time but cannot see it
'signs of change'
have nothing to do with time itself
and everything to do with vain attempts
to fix time to a physicality
a body, a face, a city
to possess it
we will feel them all change,
think we see time's traces,
try to grasp its cruelty,
and why we will never see again as we did
but only feel something is no longer
look at your face
time is not there, engraved
time is beating in your chest
floating about your mind
bleeding from your skin
and one day it will be pulsing through your inert body
2 August 2011
26 July 2011
26 07 2011, Sydney
going
now
into
professional
hyper
active
mode
AGAIN
but
hopefully
more
calmly
and
without
loss
of
experience
let's see what happens
maybe i don't belong to you, after all, my old lover
ha! what a novel thought!
but, granted, take you away
and i'm starting
afresh
AGAIN
here, of all places
which is odd
and 'nonsensical'
and easy (or the opposite)
is it giving up?
or in?
but why not, actually?
why not?
(i lie to myself constantly
but i can't hear what i'm saying
it's all muffled
by endless jetplanes
and chlorinated water)
now
into
professional
hyper
active
mode
AGAIN
but
hopefully
more
calmly
and
without
loss
of
experience
let's see what happens
maybe i don't belong to you, after all, my old lover
ha! what a novel thought!
but, granted, take you away
and i'm starting
afresh
AGAIN
here, of all places
which is odd
and 'nonsensical'
and easy (or the opposite)
is it giving up?
or in?
but why not, actually?
why not?
(i lie to myself constantly
but i can't hear what i'm saying
it's all muffled
by endless jetplanes
and chlorinated water)
17 July 2011
17 07 2011, Paris
je suis triste
after nearly a year of parking my Paris bike in the street outside my flat
in one of those bike-parking-lots you see
with a dozen pieces of bent metal
to support all these vehicles
old and new
belonging to all these people
you'll never know
but who all have many different stories
and ways with their bike
tonight I leave my flat
I go to my bike
I unlock it
and it won't move
after nearly a year of this wonderful bike doing (almost) exactly as I tell her
it takes me longer than it should to realise
what's going on !
I scan the chain
the gears
the shift
all looks OK, even if she's seen better days
but she still won't pedal
and I'm bewildered
slowly I realise there is a dent in the metal mud-guard
merde! dents that will not budge despite the attempts of my weak hands
they press into the tire and grip it like defiant scars on otherwise normal skin
scars of an accident
always and ever an accident
I'm sure it meant nothing to the driver
if they even noticed it happen
as they hurried down the narrow, one-way street
towards the inevitable traffic lights that will tell them to
ARRÊT
the driver notes nothing but the way to traffic-lights (feux)
but I find - after the fact - a block in the road
or a signal - material as it could be - that the road is changing
must needs change
ce que dire rien pour le conducteur / what means nothing for the driver
signifie beaucoup pour moi / says a lot to me
for one, my plans are changed
I can't go meet my friend and dance as planned
too far, too slow
so plans are changed,
and changed again
LIVES ARE ALTERED
for two, how could it not strike me as prescient
that the day before I leave Paris
(in the most official sense to date)
my bike - my always companion during this time here -
permits herself to be intervened with
by one of the larger, more aggressive road vehicles
(who until now, a thousand times, passing by this narrow road, haven't affected her)
while she waited patiently in the bike-parking-lot
for me to collect her
and take her on our way
the red back-light is smashed
all that's left is a tiny little bulb
I imagine it still works
but its reflective casing is non-existent
it feels violent, this random act
that no-one will acknowledge as such
except me
it feels strongly
I feel it too pertinently
l'hasard frappant qui se lie à la verité actuelle
if it was my bike trying to tell me something
it is either:
get out of Paris !
or
I can't live without you !
so I'm even sadder to leave her in this
lonely, self-sacrificed state
this accident, among many
speaks to me
and gives repercussions
all the more strong
because
the driver has no idea
and certainly thinks not to it now
while I
not only think
but write, seek answers
FEEL HURT
by what I term this violent occurrence
but which is nothing more or less
than accident
like all the rest
perhaps I'd be better off heading for traffic-lights
instead of seeing prescience in broken bikes and altered nights
it must be that all is accident or nothing is
after nearly a year of parking my Paris bike in the street outside my flat
in one of those bike-parking-lots you see
with a dozen pieces of bent metal
to support all these vehicles
old and new
belonging to all these people
you'll never know
but who all have many different stories
and ways with their bike
tonight I leave my flat
I go to my bike
I unlock it
and it won't move
after nearly a year of this wonderful bike doing (almost) exactly as I tell her
it takes me longer than it should to realise
what's going on !
I scan the chain
the gears
the shift
all looks OK, even if she's seen better days
but she still won't pedal
and I'm bewildered
slowly I realise there is a dent in the metal mud-guard
merde! dents that will not budge despite the attempts of my weak hands
they press into the tire and grip it like defiant scars on otherwise normal skin
scars of an accident
always and ever an accident
I'm sure it meant nothing to the driver
if they even noticed it happen
as they hurried down the narrow, one-way street
towards the inevitable traffic lights that will tell them to
ARRÊT
the driver notes nothing but the way to traffic-lights (feux)
but I find - after the fact - a block in the road
or a signal - material as it could be - that the road is changing
must needs change
ce que dire rien pour le conducteur / what means nothing for the driver
signifie beaucoup pour moi / says a lot to me
for one, my plans are changed
I can't go meet my friend and dance as planned
too far, too slow
so plans are changed,
and changed again
LIVES ARE ALTERED
for two, how could it not strike me as prescient
that the day before I leave Paris
(in the most official sense to date)
my bike - my always companion during this time here -
permits herself to be intervened with
by one of the larger, more aggressive road vehicles
(who until now, a thousand times, passing by this narrow road, haven't affected her)
while she waited patiently in the bike-parking-lot
for me to collect her
and take her on our way
the red back-light is smashed
all that's left is a tiny little bulb
I imagine it still works
but its reflective casing is non-existent
it feels violent, this random act
that no-one will acknowledge as such
except me
it feels strongly
I feel it too pertinently
l'hasard frappant qui se lie à la verité actuelle
if it was my bike trying to tell me something
it is either:
get out of Paris !
or
I can't live without you !
so I'm even sadder to leave her in this
lonely, self-sacrificed state
this accident, among many
speaks to me
and gives repercussions
all the more strong
because
the driver has no idea
and certainly thinks not to it now
while I
not only think
but write, seek answers
FEEL HURT
by what I term this violent occurrence
but which is nothing more or less
than accident
like all the rest
perhaps I'd be better off heading for traffic-lights
instead of seeing prescience in broken bikes and altered nights
it must be that all is accident or nothing is
15 July 2011
15 07 2011, Paris
reality
movement
volatility
reality
irregularity
dependability
reality
stability
deception
reality
artifice
reassurance
reality
comfort
denial
reality
contradiction
actuality
movement
volatility
reality
irregularity
dependability
reality
stability
deception
reality
artifice
reassurance
reality
comfort
denial
reality
contradiction
actuality
10 July 2011
6 July 2011
06 07 2011, London
sans
sans
sans
sans
sans
avec
avec
avec
avec
avec
aujourd'hui
je me suis dit
j'ai plus du temps te donner
j'ai plus de l'énergie te donner
j'ai plus de l'amour te donner
et que maintenant
j'ai envie de la distance que tu m'as toujours offert
à travers tes yeux attentifs
à la fois
aujourd'hui
je me suis dit
j'aurai toujours du temps te donner
j'aurai toujours de l'énergie te donner
j'aurai toujours de l'amour te donner
et que maintenant
j'ai aucune envie de la distance que j'avais supposé tu m'aies donné
chaque fois il semble que tout soit trop proche au truc-même
chaque fois tu te sens peur (moi aussi, forcement) qu'un jour il faut arrêter le jeu
et se dire:
sans
ou
avec
mais bon
tant pis
pour tout le monde et personne
aujourd'hui n'est pas le jour
ni pour nous, ni pour l'amour
finalement, je me suis dit
c'est que une question du timing
comme toujours
mais, quand même
c'est triste
c'est rien sauf triste
sans
sans
sans
sans
avec
avec
avec
avec
avec
aujourd'hui
je me suis dit
j'ai plus du temps te donner
j'ai plus de l'énergie te donner
j'ai plus de l'amour te donner
et que maintenant
j'ai envie de la distance que tu m'as toujours offert
à travers tes yeux attentifs
à la fois
aujourd'hui
je me suis dit
j'aurai toujours du temps te donner
j'aurai toujours de l'énergie te donner
j'aurai toujours de l'amour te donner
et que maintenant
j'ai aucune envie de la distance que j'avais supposé tu m'aies donné
chaque fois il semble que tout soit trop proche au truc-même
chaque fois tu te sens peur (moi aussi, forcement) qu'un jour il faut arrêter le jeu
et se dire:
sans
ou
avec
mais bon
tant pis
pour tout le monde et personne
aujourd'hui n'est pas le jour
ni pour nous, ni pour l'amour
finalement, je me suis dit
c'est que une question du timing
comme toujours
mais, quand même
c'est triste
c'est rien sauf triste
30 June 2011
30 06 2011, London
Strangers in the Night
A series of bars, a series of beautiful faces
Of laughing smiles and glistening white teeth
Of arched brows and over-shoulder glances
Of a wine in the hand, and a cigarette in the other
(Here we take life and death together)
Of cascading conversations about nothing in particular and everything at once
Of enthused introductions and realised connexions
Of witty eyes and generous grins
Of the slow descent into floaty intoxication and communal seduction
Of beautiful goodbyes at the ends of endless nights
Of emerging into the city's breathtaking exactitude from smokey hallucinations
We dreamed it all and we wake up alone
Only to play it all over again, again, again
(Whether in mind or body - it is the same)
Until all that's left is a series of bars
A series of memories
Of deep words and fleeting expressions
Of beautiful faces -
Glowing candlelit, peripheral, with ever-fading edges -
The cold shock of Time
The joyful pain of ecstasy surpassed
The knowledge that all series must end
And that the end was written in those radiant stars
From the first time we think 'beautiful'
A series of bars, a series of beautiful faces
Of laughing smiles and glistening white teeth
Of arched brows and over-shoulder glances
Of a wine in the hand, and a cigarette in the other
(Here we take life and death together)
Of cascading conversations about nothing in particular and everything at once
Of enthused introductions and realised connexions
Of witty eyes and generous grins
Of the slow descent into floaty intoxication and communal seduction
Of beautiful goodbyes at the ends of endless nights
Of emerging into the city's breathtaking exactitude from smokey hallucinations
We dreamed it all and we wake up alone
Only to play it all over again, again, again
(Whether in mind or body - it is the same)
Until all that's left is a series of bars
A series of memories
Of deep words and fleeting expressions
Of beautiful faces -
Glowing candlelit, peripheral, with ever-fading edges -
The cold shock of Time
The joyful pain of ecstasy surpassed
The knowledge that all series must end
And that the end was written in those radiant stars
From the first time we think 'beautiful'
29 June 2011
29 06 2011, London
tired and tired
i want to go home
i want to stop
self
reflecting
self
projecting
i want a hug
with someone who
just gives it
without expecting
me to be
clever
beautiful
witty
well-dressed
cosmopolitan
challenging
sexy
interested
interesting
someone who just loves
me
like the animal
that i am
that we are
i want to go home
i want to stop
self
reflecting
self
projecting
i want a hug
with someone who
just gives it
without expecting
me to be
clever
beautiful
witty
well-dressed
cosmopolitan
challenging
sexy
interested
interesting
someone who just loves
me
like the animal
that i am
that we are
26 June 2011
26/27 06 2011, London
six minutes left
cyber cafe life
headphones fading in and out of functionality
now five
and what did I want to say?
something about something else
entirely
in speaking in third person
about something
with someone
with whom the topic is actually first person
with whom the topic is actually yours
one feels the weight of abstraction
the inherent fear -
three minutes -
of revealing that behind the third person
generalisations
there is a first person
an intimate person
a relationship
something very, very particular indeed
if we could escape our social moulding!
one minute
even in love we are tormented by fear
and if truth is only a dream
abstraction brings it closer
cyber cafe life
headphones fading in and out of functionality
now five
and what did I want to say?
something about something else
entirely
in speaking in third person
about something
with someone
with whom the topic is actually first person
with whom the topic is actually yours
one feels the weight of abstraction
the inherent fear -
three minutes -
of revealing that behind the third person
generalisations
there is a first person
an intimate person
a relationship
something very, very particular indeed
if we could escape our social moulding!
one minute
even in love we are tormented by fear
and if truth is only a dream
abstraction brings it closer
17 June 2011
16 06 2011, Paris
things always seem much lamer in hindsight
either that
or we romanticise them and make them seem much more wonderful
both are lies
lies
to make our lives tolerable
either that
or we romanticise them and make them seem much more wonderful
both are lies
lies
to make our lives tolerable
6 June 2011
06 06 2011, Berlin
another sign
during thunder lightning torrential rain storm
where i find the most beauty and reason to smile
kids running
during thunder lightning torrential rain storm
where i find the most beauty and reason to smile
kids running
5 June 2011
04/05 06 2011, Berlin
one chooses to read this as one likes
on the first day a beaded Union Jack bracelet falls out of the arm of a lounge chair we are moving
"it's a sign" Florinn says to me
today, whilst exploring a courtyard, I see one lone photo lying on the ground beside a skip bin
I pick it up
it shows the back of a woman
dark-haired, dressed in black
looking at Tower Bridge
"it's a sign" I say to myself
(we generate meaning from events we presume are unrelated in order to give our lives shape and sense
both are delusions
but neither dangerous
unless taken to be necessary instead of chaotic
for the shape and sense of life exists more precisely in the chaotic than in the necessary)
on the first day a beaded Union Jack bracelet falls out of the arm of a lounge chair we are moving
"it's a sign" Florinn says to me
today, whilst exploring a courtyard, I see one lone photo lying on the ground beside a skip bin
I pick it up
it shows the back of a woman
dark-haired, dressed in black
looking at Tower Bridge
"it's a sign" I say to myself
(we generate meaning from events we presume are unrelated in order to give our lives shape and sense
both are delusions
but neither dangerous
unless taken to be necessary instead of chaotic
for the shape and sense of life exists more precisely in the chaotic than in the necessary)
30 May 2011
29 05 2011, Berlin
currently
I live my life
in the assumption
(grounded or not)
that I will be around
in a year's time
to start
living my life
(everything that happens
in the meantime
is preparation)
I live my life
in the assumption
(grounded or not)
that I will be around
in a year's time
to start
living my life
(everything that happens
in the meantime
is preparation)
28 May 2011
27 May 2011
26/27 05 2011, Berlin
the skin on my ankles is dry
and white in that Ivory kind of way
I was looking at my ankles and feet whilst doing stretches this morning
and all I could see where my feet should be
were my mother's feet -
exactly the same -
though perhaps marginally larger
I observed closely the blue veins
feeding every muscle
and the tendons
which flicker at every movement
they look just like hers
and I felt closer physically
nice fleshy closeness
my own showing hers to me
like a subtle message
from genetics
or SAUDADE, perhaps
own flesh providing nearness to a distant other
a mother
here I was missing her
only to find her, here,
there all along
for better or worse, as it may be -
though neither before realisation
not only with me,
but literally part of me,
I saw her
in me, on me
in ankles and veins
and elsewhere I'm yet to discover
or am trying to deny
and white in that Ivory kind of way
I was looking at my ankles and feet whilst doing stretches this morning
and all I could see where my feet should be
were my mother's feet -
exactly the same -
though perhaps marginally larger
I observed closely the blue veins
feeding every muscle
and the tendons
which flicker at every movement
they look just like hers
and I felt closer physically
nice fleshy closeness
my own showing hers to me
like a subtle message
from genetics
or SAUDADE, perhaps
own flesh providing nearness to a distant other
a mother
here I was missing her
only to find her, here,
there all along
for better or worse, as it may be -
though neither before realisation
not only with me,
but literally part of me,
I saw her
in me, on me
in ankles and veins
and elsewhere I'm yet to discover
or am trying to deny
23 May 2011
23 05 2011, Berlin
If you live life with the thought that death will creep up on you when you least expect it then old age comes as a surprise.
Cruel, perhaps
Cruel, perhaps
17 May 2011
17 05 2011, Berlin
Boredom is a foreign emotion to me
Impatience I know well
but boredom eludes me
Even now, here, with nothing
really to do, boredom only
occurs to me as a stranger,
passing by - as concept -
through my stream of consciousness
We try to identify one another -
"Maybe I am bored? Come hither,
Boredom, let me recognise you..." -
but to no avail
Boredom appears to me as a mere shadow,
weak and superficial - a faux emotion.
Lacklustre.
A word, an excuse, masquerading
as emotion.
A façade beneath which something much
deeper lies
Those aware of this deeper, real
emotion - present always -
can never feel true boredom
and are thus doomed to a life
without this excuse
However, perhaps blessed
with a life where façades are self-erected
(and thus boredom is a convenient choice,
not a state of being)
Impatience I know well
but boredom eludes me
Even now, here, with nothing
really to do, boredom only
occurs to me as a stranger,
passing by - as concept -
through my stream of consciousness
We try to identify one another -
"Maybe I am bored? Come hither,
Boredom, let me recognise you..." -
but to no avail
Boredom appears to me as a mere shadow,
weak and superficial - a faux emotion.
Lacklustre.
A word, an excuse, masquerading
as emotion.
A façade beneath which something much
deeper lies
Those aware of this deeper, real
emotion - present always -
can never feel true boredom
and are thus doomed to a life
without this excuse
However, perhaps blessed
with a life where façades are self-erected
(and thus boredom is a convenient choice,
not a state of being)
10 May 2011
8 May 2011
08 05 2011, London
Fuck you for stealing from me
You don't even know me
And fuck you for playing games with me
Who are you to play ?
You don't even know me
You wish you knew me
And I wish, too
You don't even know me
And fuck you for playing games with me
Who are you to play ?
You don't even know me
You wish you knew me
And I wish, too
4 May 2011
04 05 2011, London
yesterday
my chest was very tight
i thought -
for the first time -
that maybe i would have a heart attack
not yesterday
necessarily
but one day
it felt very possible
likely, even
fated, perhaps
but the tightness
was not (only) thanks to
eating butter
drinking alcohol
smoking cigarettes
or even stress
more vital
was a mystery force
that clung itself
violently, almost
around the most crucial of my muscles
emanating thence
through the echoing chambers
of my lungs
silent to all but
lethal to me
once ignorant
until i felt
actual pain from le coeur -
the core - hardcore
heartcore
for a future unknown
but felt yesterday
then today
i woke up
having slept luxuriously well
and maybe the thought had gone
momentarily
maybe with it
the animal clinching
at my core
but now i feel it creeping back
heart attack
wringing thing inside my ribs
lungs, shoulders and throat
so it's definitely there
my chest was very tight
i thought -
for the first time -
that maybe i would have a heart attack
not yesterday
necessarily
but one day
it felt very possible
likely, even
fated, perhaps
but the tightness
was not (only) thanks to
eating butter
drinking alcohol
smoking cigarettes
or even stress
more vital
was a mystery force
that clung itself
violently, almost
around the most crucial of my muscles
emanating thence
through the echoing chambers
of my lungs
silent to all but
lethal to me
once ignorant
until i felt
actual pain from le coeur -
the core - hardcore
heartcore
for a future unknown
but felt yesterday
then today
i woke up
having slept luxuriously well
and maybe the thought had gone
momentarily
maybe with it
the animal clinching
at my core
but now i feel it creeping back
heart attack
wringing thing inside my ribs
lungs, shoulders and throat
so it's definitely there
26 April 2011
26 04 2011, London
Trois actualités d'aujourd'hui :
1) Al.
the love of my life
truth
2) An.
sudden loss
connection severed
obviously, unexpectedly
surprising and not
now it's just time
flowing ways
all was words
close
and now even they feel empty
3) Ri.
call from landline
come
together
simple and pure
1) Al.
the love of my life
truth
2) An.
sudden loss
connection severed
obviously, unexpectedly
surprising and not
now it's just time
flowing ways
all was words
close
and now even they feel empty
3) Ri.
call from landline
come
together
simple and pure
25 April 2011
25 04 2011, London
I am bleeding on the inside
For this world
Which gives me everything
And yet
Doesn't let me have it
Really
Sometimes this abstract burden
Of barbed wire and cruel determinism
Of arbitrary rulings
Upon our lives
Makes my heart writhe and pound
Within the chest I thought was mine
But which, I have learnt, has nothing to do with me
And everything with territory and skin
They tell me I'm lucky to have them
My pay-off is security and wealth
But only if I respect their game
If I don't, well, tant pis!
It's majority rules in this world, baby
Or was that minority wins?
Doesn't anyone ever think that
Without wealth there would be no poverty?
Without security there would be no danger?
You've got it mixed up, girl!
They say
Girl
But oh no
They forget that neither is possible
When the soul is oppressed
By fear and hate and
Me versus you
Us versus them
Same bullshit, really
Yet my heart still pounds inside a skeleton
That will one day -
Indiscriminately -
Be rotten
In this Earth
The very same Earth
They told me wasn't for walking on
But ruling on
I choose not to believe!
But bleed, anyway
For this world
Which gives me everything
And yet
Doesn't let me have it
Really
Sometimes this abstract burden
Of barbed wire and cruel determinism
Of arbitrary rulings
Upon our lives
Makes my heart writhe and pound
Within the chest I thought was mine
But which, I have learnt, has nothing to do with me
And everything with territory and skin
They tell me I'm lucky to have them
My pay-off is security and wealth
But only if I respect their game
If I don't, well, tant pis!
It's majority rules in this world, baby
Or was that minority wins?
Doesn't anyone ever think that
Without wealth there would be no poverty?
Without security there would be no danger?
You've got it mixed up, girl!
They say
Girl
But oh no
They forget that neither is possible
When the soul is oppressed
By fear and hate and
Me versus you
Us versus them
Same bullshit, really
Yet my heart still pounds inside a skeleton
That will one day -
Indiscriminately -
Be rotten
In this Earth
The very same Earth
They told me wasn't for walking on
But ruling on
I choose not to believe!
But bleed, anyway
24 April 2011
24 04 2011, London
upon discovery that torture is not screams and flesh
and certainly not their image
rendered by tricks of light
and angles of cameras -
how absurd -
one is relieved
through the (boring) picture of synthetic pain
one can learn that pain has nothing to do with
foreign objects
and everything to do with perspective,
power
upon realisation that there is always choice
(how much do i need to believe?)
in terms of relation to
the choice to believe that screams and flesh
could possibly be the torture
we all fear
is dangerous,
it allows the abstract rules of life and death
as binaries, as light and dark
take over what is never whole
and rule!
as if they were black and white -
like this and that -
or white and black, rather
nothing else
and the images were that
with some red
how symbolic
one is relieved
and certainly not their image
rendered by tricks of light
and angles of cameras -
how absurd -
one is relieved
through the (boring) picture of synthetic pain
one can learn that pain has nothing to do with
foreign objects
and everything to do with perspective,
power
upon realisation that there is always choice
(how much do i need to believe?)
in terms of relation to
the choice to believe that screams and flesh
could possibly be the torture
we all fear
is dangerous,
it allows the abstract rules of life and death
as binaries, as light and dark
take over what is never whole
and rule!
as if they were black and white -
like this and that -
or white and black, rather
nothing else
and the images were that
with some red
how symbolic
one is relieved
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