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Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Room 37 Some examples of who or what i ....


Do I inhabit that genetic engine of the other dream in the hidden house - or do I fallupon the bleeds of life wicked inn the woods?

Make me thy lyre ... make me liar. Ha! My bride ... be leaf. Hakka!!

Back of the RH wall of my room the self portrait is one my father did of himself perhaps before leavng from London to come to NZ about1926 or so. The "abstract' was done by the poet and artist and my good friend Nick Owens. He died of heart failure about 1995. His poetry in "At All Times When Loving" is excruatiatingly beautiful and moving poetry - especially when one knows some of the tragic aspect of his life - as I do. He also worked at the Whitecliff Art School at one stage teaching photograhy.

My children went there for art lessons some years.

Parmigianino was mannerist artist who John Ashbery must have been fascinated in or by - he was at one stage an art critic -he took this self portrait in a convex mirror as the starting point of his Pulitzer winning poetry book "Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror". It is fascinating. I did a pastiche of it which is possibly of equal brilliance or it is rubbish

(I possess a book about Mannerism

"where sub speciae aeternitatis is my little joke"

bu' not one abou' Womannerism) a ha ha haa!!!

there is also pile of my ex library collection of novels by Joyce Carol Oates -I recommend her short stories and Bellefleur - a book that is one of the most agonisingly brilliant books I have ever read. I blundered onto Oates via a book - the only book I have read by Updike - a book about books - called "Odd Jobs"

Years ago - briefly I was in the Cubs - I couldnt ever tie my woggle - but we used to do "bob a job" -because I was embarassed by my inabilty - my failure - my terible failure - to tie the woggle - I drifted out of the Scouts. My father was in the second scout group ever formed - at Chiswick London. In the Scout den they put all the hundreds of pictures and drawings he had on all around the walls. he went to Copenhagen one year to a Jamboree and he said that the Germans were the best singers - the singing was beautiful.

I ( and him also) love Bach's Cantatas

he is here

The English are kind and gentle. My grandmother loved me (she made marvelous scones -she always made me scones) - she had twinklyblue eyes and would say "be off with you!" and "when I'm dead and gone" and so on - all my relatives are English.

They lived i n Devonport and we would all (Gillian, Susan, Richard, Dennis) visit most Sundays and travel across by Vehicular ferry (in the 50s this was - there was no harbour bridge) - we would buy white bait and later have whitebait fritters.

My father had an old car. My mother used to read books to me.

showing knot holes and questioning swirls
motionlessly forever move.

We would always have huge English roast dinners and afternoon teas (brought in on a trolley) (and there was a silver platter on the trolley and proper cups and a teapot with cosy and so on) - as is the English way - for the English are a kind and decent people as I know from my grand parents and others of my family.

Who are you? Eh? Im??

as some of you may have noticed I am fascinated by he "space" or the blackness and the possibilities and impossibilities on the internet - my faher - who taught me to do water colours when I was about nine or so - said it was inadvisable to use black in painting (he that advised one should use it sparingly) - but I feel that this black is never complete -it always has a reflection on it or in it - if I peer into it see a reflection of my 59 year old self's outer face

I see it - i see the blackness ---

  1. E Y E
  2. E Y E
  3. E Y E
  4. E Y E
  5. E Y E
  6. E Y E
  7. E Y E
as a a a a a a kind of 'aa'



a n d

a kind of total music

Charles Ives, John Cage, Stochausen - Wagner - Heil!!!

the black blocked blackness bocks blocks

(thet want meeaanning!!!!!! haa aha aaaaa he he ahaaa !!!!!!!!!!!)

a kind of 'composed nothingness' - a composed silence - a blackness -a

totalatatumatum at Arkhen Artten artum

blocks of black

black carefully laid on black - laid black to black

Superman dived into the black lake so many years ago

a l so in th picta ther is a 'sad' mask done by my daughter and some of the boks i got when i was a member of the Scientifc Book Club as tenager - there is one about bats. Ther is also an old mechanical chess clokk with one of the push buttons missing so it is useless.

what am I?

am I hah "The shadow of the wax wing slain - caught by the azure of the window pain" ha ha


God hides in the Stone these days



Yet the picture blurs at this point. It is notable too how time
endorses time:Rome,The Romans, Hadrian with his elephants charging
to what death, what old rapes, destructions, decimations? In fact,
what catacombs of doom, what screams, what desire, what shouts, what
anvils, what clangs in the steeline resonations of the thinking night? The clock face, itself, giving up no such secrets (or secrets of any kind), returns us to this.., this being’s face: this shard or snap of The Woman’s soul, proud; yet ultimately tart in its whimsical but doomed dignity. My pen moves — or so it seems — as if my hand were autonomous, and as if I,King or Monarch of my own unbearable Cerebrum, had long since lost...
her blouse is blue, and open at the neck which reveals some lines and
the beginning of a double chin: tho there is no suggestion of obesity.

The chair, wooden, is straight-backed, as befits a working writer. The
wall behind is also wooden, with horizontal slats of varnished pine[or is it Rimu?), showing knot holes and questioning swirls that motionlessly forever move. The hands, pinkish, clasp a tentative teacup. Closer to myself or to the other viewer, another teacup, harmless enough, almost innocent, swims or blurs into view. Perhaps it’s the photographer’s? Who knows, the world’s a shit sandwich,by which the more bread or oil you’ve got,the less crap you consume... Suddenly there stirs in me a sense of something maybe of the abyme [the boredom, the horror) - perhaps of a mad penis, or a steel machine, car twisted with all the violence and greed of a night of blood and booze and semen in whose centre a man is grunting and gasping, as if dying, and the woman is heaving and screaming and shuddering with lust and sweat, black or white, until that final, golden and animal explosion - the car impacting the wall at 200kph
- maximum dead fall terminal velocity in fact — and given that F = 1/2
mv squared, then we have, say: 1 tonne x 200 squared, divide two,
returns about 10 kN of final force...

All in all, though, nothing, however vague, can be divined, or
concluded from the observation of this picture...

In fact we think of
Caliban, and the evil in the woods.

then the light


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