Friday, November 14, 2008

Room 2000

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XXX

This heart pain is not a medicine.

a gigantic sound-shriek

And every version seemed to me, peering over and into the austere glass and bossy case, of an equal, or similar merit, or wondrousness. Further: it was the totality as I felt this experience of reading and interpreting, and not understanding, was, for me. Later I realised that there was again here an example of constant process as 'poem' - and my encounter with it was part of an ongoing experience of a work - a work that ( if not for Curnow ) had it's importance for me in its endlessess and its non beginning. Later in lectures on Sartre (particularly his La Nausee) this issue or concept of there not being any place a "story" starts was presented as being problematic for the main protagonist.


In the beginning,

there was only Te Kore,

the great void

and emptiness of space.


invaders: the Vietnamese fought, the French, the Greeks.

No one knows why John Mulgan committed suicide just after the war, in a hotel, in Cairo, alone, with poison. Man is indeed alone: perhaps not always.

for there is
something about you, something nobody can see

R.T. 33) “Of course I fucking bloody well do! And I hate everyone in the world – they rob me of my power – I want power [power power power and blood and death.]”

puzzled me. What was this strange writhing and inquiring worm? What was it all about? ( I have trouble with


I DONT KNOW WHAT ANYTHING


MEANS



He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him

R.T. 33) “And sex and slime.”

R.T. 1) “Why slime? Why talk of slime? Who are we anyway where?? When what?”

R.T. Aleph Null 1) “Percolates inprecision into a coroallary of stanite coroallas coronae carseerers gets out you chicken head bitch face in tercede in full deep dip ploggle cringing hollee hope…”

R.T.5) “I we mean – this Blog you post here so infrequently –now as young fellow –were weyou 8 or 9 or older but we read Dickens (started with Pickwick Papers) and followed Snodgrass and the adventures of the Pickwick Club – then you read most the other novels…then a lot of Somerset Maugham, Ryder Haggard…”

R.T.44) “A ha!! Weeeewewewew weeeeeee 'emember that – you experienced that erotically –always there was huge Tower or a Temple in the jungle with a beautiful partly clad Sheila…the girls at Tamaki College used to move their legs and smilesmirk..who…were….”

R.T. 88) “Shut up you useless prick face! Kill the Universe – stick a pin in the plastic red Indian’s arse. Then hurl him to his death from the door cliff and into the chasm. ”

R.T. 60) “Orgasm in a chasm.”

R.T. 86) “ Bags ! He get’s shot with silver six shooters by Hopalong Cassidy!! Whip whooo whirlry!”

meaning is a construct across symbols, neither within them nor within the dictionary translation / transliterations.

here, in this example, only in this particular example, one has a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the

In the beginning,

there was only Te Kore,

the great void

and emptiness of space.

R.T. 80) “ Boom!! ----- ‘mem you mem you when you half my height?’”

R.T. 222) “Percolates.”

You were so proud!

You looked at me!

Yes,

On the way I remembered the
walk. I followed myself step by step, reconstructing as I went along. This
was six days ago. Now again I remember.

What did you think you were doing?

==============================================================

(deceased now)

====================================================

Memory and reconstruction worries me. I wanted to follow myself. I didn't
think of this at the time, that is the time of the walk itself, but only
later. I conductor asked if I were a philosopher; I think I appeared deep
in thought. I wanted to remember as much as possible. Later, several times
in the past six days, I thought I would try and remember again, try to
write everything down. But I thought this would take too much effort; it

wasn't until now, Tuesday, that I've had the energy to proceed.
______________________________________________________________________________________

all around cant u see the dragons breath... ???

heard to cry out at deep of night to the Great One
who is probably dead and ensconced in a dream of lubricated, or
lubricious cavortings toward spittle. and flesh, words that send
shudders up my spire wire's spine loom; one would naturally much
prefer to be the vision inside a technical robot, whose

doom scenes
see wire mass everywhere, and,

puzzled me. What was this strange writhing and inquiring worm? What was it all about? ( I have trouble with


how does the spider know, because he,
too, is a constructor - or is it because the music nags us back down
the drain pipe into a parallel universe of incomprehensible equations,
or a crazed jumble of electronic, electrical, and machine parts
pushed into an eclected enclave, whose triumph is its denseness, or the

enormous significance

(deceased now)

of an endlessly looping musical track which your
great great grandmother could well have enjoyed:

________________________________________________________________________________________
What did you take with you?

I'm clearing my belongings out of Leslie Thornton's office. This trip I
took, in addition to what I brought up, a Cambodian bowed instrument, a
pair of slippers, some extra toiletries, a white towel. The towel and a
plastic bag were wrapped around the instrument and inserted into a cloth
bag. It was damp out. I added a polka-dotted umbrella as well, in case I
needed it.

Where did you go?

He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him

THINK MAYBE OF THE IMAGES AND THE COLOUR AND THE SHAPES

we beat strange

we beat strange

we beat strange

What if your giant snail starts to eat New Zealand, Leicester? What if it is molecularly transtoned by those green bastards and eats everything in the world up! Leicester Kyle, the writer of many books of poetry, one dedicated to me. Shut up head!

puzzled me. What was this strange writhing and inquiring worm? What was it all about? ( I have trouble with

Where was I? Oh, here is the entry: at 11 am today, after reading an encyclopaedia entry on bones, I told my helper (who is a medical student, and concurred) how marvellously complex, how mysterious the body is. But then everybody knows that.

absolute waste: the total futility, the loss.” He had some coffee. I was glad he could speak this immensity to me. I was young, and it was what I wanted to hear. Yes, there had to have been some better way.

(deceased now)

He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him.

The crosses, the rows and rows, the ordered dead: the endlessly dead; the white, the crosses, the dead, the dazzling, the white rows.”

He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him.

THIS BLOG IS ESSENTIAL READING TO ANYONE IN NZ OR COMING HERE OR READING ABOUT THIS LAND - AND 'MAPS' LINKS ALSO TO THE "GREATER" WORLD VIA HIS POLEMICS AND INSIGHT IN TO E.P THOMPSON AND THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR.BUT HIS KNOWLEDGE OF N.Z. HISTORY AND REALITY IS EXTRAORDINARY. NOT ONLY IS HIS READING AND INTERPRETATION HIGHLY ACUTE AND VERY WIDE - AND NOT ONLY IS HE A PHD IN SOCIOLOGY AND LITERATURE ETC ETC BUT HIS GRASP OF POLITICAL PHILOSOPHICAL AND CULTURAL-HISTORICAL MATTERS IS MASSIVE - BUT HE IS NOT JUST AN ARMCHAIR PHILOSOPHER AND TAKES PART IN MANY PROTESTS AND ACTIONS.

And every version seemed to me, peering over and into the austere glass and bossy case, of an equal, or similar merit, or wondrousness. Further: it was the totality as I felt this experience of reading and interpreting, and not understanding, was, for me. Later I realised that there was again here an example of constant process as 'poem' - and my encounter with it was part of an ongoing experience of a work - a work that ( if not for Curnow ) had it's importance for me in its endlessess and its non beginning. Later in lectures on Sartre (particularly his La Nausee) this issue or concept of there not being any place a "story" starts was presented as being problematic for the main protagonist.

I came here via reading the Maps and I am NOT impressed.

As a typical reader, I want had-hitting action, bang for me bick, NOT self-indulgent postasting and circle jerks by pseudonyms.

C'mon, mate, have some self-respect: do Live or do you EXIST?

You fucking cunt.

if you are not in it nothing is lost except nothing at all except what is not had, there are naturally all the refusals, and the things refused are only important if unexpectedly

somebody happens to need them. In the case of the arts it is very definite. Those who are creating the modern composition authentically are naturally only of importance when they are dead because by that time the modern composition having become past is classified and the description of it is classical. That is the reason why the creator of the new composition in the arts is an outlaw until he is a classic, there is hardly a moment in between and it is really too bad very much too bad naturally for the creator but also very much too bad for the enjoyer, they all really would enjoy the created so much better just after it has been made than when it is already a classic, but it is perfectly simple that there is no reason why the contemporary should see, because it would not make any difference as they lead their lives in the new composition anyway, and as every one is naturally indolent why naturally they don't see. For this re

(deceased now)

........................................ being perhaps differently in a different place


............. an agonistic sense, as sense as of desole, or illume.......

........................................as if things were, and something screams inside his silent head

.................who are we?

........................................wha -?! eh?

ape shaped

of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the ma

XXX

This heart pain is not a medicine.

_____________________________

WHAT AM I DOING HERE ?

_____________________________

miserable. This is precisely the reason why Boltanski's works are not made of bronze or of marble, but rather of cheap materials such as tinplate; materials that fall into decay by themselves. The artist also uses simple and easily recognizable materials such as coats or photos. To him, everybody is a fragile and unique character whose memories have to be preserved, just like the example of his grandmother: no trace of her existence has left, at the exception of this samovar displayed in the Moscow exhibition or the memory of those who knew her. It is all about "small" individual memory, that is opposed to the "large" collective memory, that of the history books that he also tells throughout his installations. Each of his exhibitions creates a new path made of old pieces combined with new works, which setting is renewed every time.

Boltanski tells that at the beginning of every work of art, there is a historical or psychoanalytic event, referring to events that have to be told in order to be better understood.

For me there are no answers - the Mass is something incomprehensible (and undoubtedly

the clicks and insane toys and all the other cacophanies of the night scream with significant laughter as we too disappear down the twisted corridors
with grace of those who have failed perfectly and

we are completely mad and huge with ourselves
amid the gigantic lobelias and frozen leopards -
the joyful destruction continues

and we recall 'the phenomenological phallus' and the excrutiatingly lovely details

and -

(deceased now)

but I am not interested just now in the poem's meaning (meaning is problematic in any case) interested here in the look of the totality of his work as worked through and I then transform it - as things constantly do in life - in fact I went "berserk" with it almost in trance or a fever, a kind of "creative rage" perhaps: creating a new "poem" or text as in the following image-poem-text-enactment: an implication of an infinite and progressive or degressive process ... I got very angry with it:

-it is the details we require - progress was mentioned - but Buzz kept drinking -

we who also read the technical books and wonder about the blue one and the red one and
and the endless miles to fulfill our wire blood needs &
our quietly desperate hungers - our advancing annihilation and the wonder of tree trunks

Is that dilapidated run down house with the graffiti and the beautiful views available for a squat? Moved in just now and have invited all the animals in the neighbourhood to join me...happy house warming...

Richard Taylor said...

It was an abandoned house just opposite to the road that goes up Mt Wellington or Maungarei - I took shots of it - then one day we found it had been also burnt down - I got close ups not long before the Security closed it right off.
For me there are no answers - the Mass is something incomprehensible (and undoubtedly

On one level of course it is sad and not good...so I am recording what is going on here in NZ particularly Panmure-Mt Wellington (there is irony also of course as this was the site of Pa and also has great history as does so much of the land in NZ - that of Maori and the Pakeha etc (see Reading the Maps )- the grafitti - the vandalism and also the violence etc (there have been a lot of murders and rapes around here and a suicide attempt off Mt Maungarei - a guy trued to kill himself by driving off the edge - he killed his daughter - so joy and sadness - tragedy reality and hope? - we have to continue) - and a part of me thinks - well at least in Remuera they are civilised -this is done by mostly Polynesians or others (either unemployed or on low pay - but certainly of the much vaunted "working class" - the question is why? -

puzzled me. What was this strange writhing and inquiring worm? What was it all about? ( I have trouble with

The other is the ongoing social and existential or ontological question of it all... (there is also perhaps some pure Husserlian and Heideggerian phenomenology at work here) (and a dash of Nietzsche!) and of course it is also a recording what "is" in so far as it can be what it is - "nature" in fact. (As defined)

______________________________________________________

all around cant u see the dragons breath... ???

================================================

For me there are no answers - the Mass is something incomprehensible (and undoubtedly


But also it links to many aspects of what I am doing here - it's good idea to click on the images some of the shots are great - briefly though: life "fights" against destruction and so on... on one level the destruction has its own aesthetic and fascination; on another level it is awful (people lived in that house once) and so on... one of the images shows the Turkish guy who lives near me... he hates

miserable. This is precisely the reason why Boltanski's works are not made of bronze or of marble, but rather of cheap materials such as tinplate; materials that fall into decay by themselves. The artist also uses simple and easily recognizable materials such as coats or photos. To him, everybody is a fragile and unique character whose memories have to be preserved, just like the example of his grandmother: no trace of her existence has left, at the exception of this samovar displayed in the Moscow exhibition or the memory of those who knew her. It is all about "small" individual memory, that is opposed to the "large" collective memory, that of the history books that he also tells throughout his installations. Each of his exhibitions creates a new path made of old pieces combined with new works, which setting is renewed every time.

Boltanski tells that at the beginning of every work of art, there is a historical or psychoanalytic event, referring to events that have to be told in order to be better understood.


(deceased now)


I came here via reading the Maps and I am NOT impressed.

As a typical reader, I want had-hitting action, bang for me bick, NOT self-indulgent postasting and circle jerks by pseudonyms.

C'mon, mate, have some self-respect: do Live or do you EXIST?

You fucking cunt.

Chinese for example! ..but he is else interesting... centres everything in Anatolia and reads strange books in Anatolian about "Mu" and other interesting mysteries - and he raves about Attaturk etc....another image shows a fence on Jellicoe road that has or was hit by a car/truck (boy racer?)
and also there is an image of "rage incident" (the eternal triangle was the cause) and a young man smashed the glass of vehicle that is followed by an image of another smashed window and so on...art via my father's self portrait and that of the great Mannerist artist Parmigianino's (in a convex mirror) and also an abstract by Nick Owens (deceased now) and a work my myself and an artist called Robinson and so on contrast also some "new" Maori art influenced by modernity...all very involved......links perhaps to John Ashbery of "Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror" (he won the Pulitzer with that book) and thus "ash" and so on....all th is perhaps offers hope (or an alternative) and contrasts or it is inextricably linked to it all...

puzzled me. What was this strange writhing and inquiring worm? What was it all about? ( I have trouble with

"Chiming" with the "dark" images are the leaves (the fall of course - what else!) and change and entropy and so on...the drawing in colour I did...

My grandson is the personal aspect and represents possible hope and learning and play and growth and joy - contra the holocaust (or war and destruction in general); this section started with that theme...

Themes - images and texts are repeated as in music - say as in Wagner with his leitmotifs - or as in Bach or Reich or-who knows NZ composers - but there is also Bill Direen and The Dead C

The loss of dialogue in philosophy has been a central problem since Plato; Cavell, applying this to his own work, and that of Thoreau, talks about the dialogue of a “text answerable to itself”. Certainly Philosophical Investigations is the primary instance of such a text in this century, and also a primary instance of taking this practice as method. I can easily imagine more extreme forms of this: where contrasting moods and styles of argument, shifting styles and perspectives, would surface the individual the individual modes and perspectives, would surface the individual modes and their meaning in individual ways, and perhaps further Heidegger’s call for an investigation into “pure thinking” (Thinking is also construction.) Indeed, I can imagine a writing that would provide a philosophic insight but would keep essentially a fabric of
dance – logopoeia – where truth would not be to the validity of argument but to the ontological truthfulness of its meaning.


Bill is very interested in what I am doing here.

but I am not interested just now in the poem's meaning (meaning is problematic in any case) interested here in the look of the totality of his work as worked through and I then transform it - as things constantly do in life - in fact I went "berserk" with it almost in trance or a fever, a kind of "creative rage" perhaps: creating a new "poem" or text as in the following image-poem-text-enactment: an implication of an infinite and progressive or degressive process ... I got very angry with it:


Being an "artist" is very lonely BTW ... in way you are also - perhaps we all are...so you will know...

There some satire but much of what I see is of course very beautiful -the trees (trees fascinate me) the gardens and so on...also women!! There are BTW many positives here
of people of many ethnicities and kinds - and I talk to many on Maungarei and also at the Panmure lagoon or anywhere......there is also a Maori art gallery /work place not far from where I took these pictures (in the Panmure shopping centre) so positive things happening to and by Maori and other (young) Polynesians, the kids who destroyed the house are kind of "lost"...

(deceased now)

And every version seemed to me, peering over and into the austere glass and bossy case, of an equal, or similar merit, or wondrousness. Further: it was the totality as I felt this experience of reading and interpreting, and not understanding, was, for me. Later I realised that there was again here an example of constant process as 'poem' - and my encounter with it was part of an ongoing experience of a work - a work that ( if not for Curnow ) had it's importance for me in its endlessess and its non beginning. Later in lectures on Sartre (particularly his La Nausee) this issue or concept of there not being any place a "story" starts was presented as being problematic for the main protagonist.

But there is also the side of me that enjoyed watching 9/11...the fascination with destruction that we all have...

As Patrick White wrote in 'The Tree of Man'

"Destruction is always more convincing than construction..

tertius said...

Was entropy a theme of Pynchon? Vaguely recall something about systems running inefficiently....9/11 looked like implosion...have viewed most of your links...there are many things I miss from home...one realisation is that the ethnic inequalities in Nz are minimal, on a global scale it is the anglo who is an endangered minority...

Richard Taylor said...

Ultimately we are all part of the cosmic mix! Probably we are "endangered" but I continue to exist for now...

Yes in "The Crying of Lot 49" entropy is big - he also mixes things such as technology and "the noir novel or film (noir?)" Revenge Comedy and so on - great book.

eye is forest

eye is forgive

eye is eternal unterminate torment

eye is could be

eye is possibility

eye is e ...y...e

eye is si

here was curious noise inside … A child crying – eyah, Herregud! … Well, there it was, but a terrible strange thing. And Inger never said a word.

The rugged man stood there with a miracle before him; a thing created first of all in a sacred mist, showing forth now in a life with a little face like an allegory. Days and years; and the miracle would be a human being.

eye is an ancient irradiate star

eye is a black factory

eye is blue

eye is ship

eye is

eye

eye is eternal colour

I started to read "Sons and Lovers” by D. H. Lawrence BTW (there was quote from Huxley’s "The Olive Tree" in a book about war I read so I read that and I saw an essay also by Huxley about Lawrence - with whom was quite a good friend. Thus I divagated onto "Sons and Lovers" - so far very great stuff...

His poetry is very great - we studied his: ‘The Snake’ at high School... Matt gave me a volume of his poetry once.

Regards

tertius said...

The fulcrum of the european entent, churchill wrote in the 1920s of his fears on the russian white national defeat by the bolshieviks and its relation to judaism with trotsky and marx. In a pre nazi carve up of poland the great powers reveal the land grab which ascends upon all regional conflicts... the nature of the beast... bluchers prussians at waterloo...stalins communists at berlin...expediency for churchill but necessary 20 years later...and for collins in ireland a republican pact with america...all around cant u see the dragons breath...

tertius said...

The compromise for neutrality is the crown in the 6 of ulster and america has its foot in europe.... without the crown the waitangi treaty is obsolete and its terms vulnerable...activists tread careful that you may invite entropy into your cause as vampires dont seek other vampires they feed on living blood...

M...O...K...O



outcast, and shows it. For me tattooing is very profound. The meeting of body and, well, the spirit—it’s a real kind of

1 comment:

Richard said...

Good stuff!