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A Self-Portrait Using Objects I Threw in the Bin

August 21st, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

My internet friend (does it matter what type of friend? we have never met in physical proximity or looked at each other in real time,  so I signify it as a type of friendship for clarity, for specificity?) R recently wrote a resonant blog post about moving into a new flat with his girlfriend. Recently, Caroline’s (my roommate) best friend moved into her boyfriend’s flat. We discussed the pros and cons of moving into someone’s space rather than finding a space together— holding hands holding sage over a doorway to burn away old encounters to make way for a world of unknown welcome desires.

In R’s post, what stood out, was the softness with which he moved through the memories, not in some grand gesture of removing them from his life, but knowing that they had their time, and granting himself the permission to let them go. The objects don’t need to be in physical proximity for that archive to exist, but that archive does need to expand its boundaries to include a new person & to move with a new person.

I include the whole post because reading an excerpt is wasteful of the experience, even if it doesn’t comply with his fastidious page arrangement. 

A Self-Portrait Using Objects I Threw in the Bin

ON SATURDAY I AM (we are) moving out of this flat and into another, within the same building, yes, but larger and with more windows. It is the windows I am delighted by. 
I moved into this place eleven months ago but it doesn’t seem so long ago as eleven months. Time moves as it does, and so it goes. It has been quite the year. Much has changed. In preparation for moving out I have slowly been sorting through bits & pieces, clearing drawers and throwing away many of the things I have collected over the years. It is strange to go through the drawers. In my parents’ house – which it is now known as – I would often, through laziness or indecision, simply put objects in these drawers only for them to now be stumbled across once more: letters from family and boys and girls, an untold amount of very bad photographs, small gifts I received but had no use for, cigars I never smoked, maps, posters and promotional flyers, new & used batteries, Allen keys, busted lighters, paintings that I had abandoned or lost interest in, bills, payslips, gig ticket stubs, t-shirts I forgot about, two piano books (sonatas and jazz respectively), about a score’s worth of foreign money (European and American), instruction manuals and birthday cards. Going through it all was something I normally would have, in my usual way, put off from now until forever; I was forced to clear the drawers to make way for things my girlfriend may wish to put in there – for a long time her own possessions have been scattered around the room.

Beside me was a gaping black bin-bag. With a brutality I found most unnatural, I picked up each item, considered it briefly, held it close to my eyes, and stuffed it into the bag (which burped after every swallow). All this time! Vanishing! It was therapeutic as it was sad. Before I tied the bag I contemplated bending down and retrieving the goods but could not bring myself to do it. What would be the use? The bag weighed heavy. I drew the thin corners in and tied them tightly. I carried them down, in the rain, to where the bins were and felt nervous that somebody could go down them. I threw the bag to the back of the farthest bin. 

I checked today and the bins had been emptied. All those memories – or at least the stern to which the barnacles of memory attach themselves – are gone.

And now I leave this place. I viewed it just under a year ago on the seventh of September. I was finally inside the flat I had wished to live in for all the years I had taken the train past it. One Saturday my parents and I visited (parking in the carpark of a McDonald’s where I bought something to stave off my hangover, and the sun hazy and thick) and we, all three, fell in love with it. Two days later I put down my name.

It has been my first place and it has treated me well. Though she is sleeping upstairs this very moment – or tossing and turning, if I can hear through one unearphone’d ear – it has always been mine. It is small and its one tall window is my sun. How much I will miss it! Soon it will be empty again. By Sunday night it will be empty again, and clean, untainted by any of my belongings. What will the space be then? Even if I were to stand up right now and remove the rug from the middle of the floor, I would not quite know where I was. The memories are on the rug, as they are anywhere else I choose to look.

I feel sad to leave it behind but excited for all that which lies beyond it, the times that are to come. There are other places, other dates.

For all I express in these words, please understand that I have not packed anything. Everything is still in its right place. I should get away from this keyboard and put it orderly in boxes. I am appalling at packing, excellent at procrastinating, and a devil at putting-off. It is likely that the next time I write here I shall be in our new abode, wriggling into a new writing space and endowing new memories upon new things.

The Poem Cat by Erica Jong

August 20th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Sometimes the poem
doesn’t want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders’ eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls

Sometimes the poem
can’t requite
the poet’s passion.

The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won’t dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

If the poem won’t come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don’t care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.

1 July // World Cup // Women Artists

July 7th, 2014 § 1 comment § permalink

1 July saw Kevin De Bruyne reach nirvana on the field & become my favorite World Cup player, so much so I even designed a teeshirt copying his jersey. His fierce but gentle assists were a wonder to watch.

Belgium, Sophie Podolski, poet, graphic designer. Committed suicide at 21. Admired by Bolaño.

trans. Paul Legault
from The country where everything is permitted

PODOLSKI_PORTRAIT1100We have the Sun by its mane. The firefighters have
written of everything in signs and still the fire-alarms are
sounding. A Letter to The World(s): you are all whores –
where there is good, you break it down until all that was
good is now whores – because this planet is an
incomprehensible whore-planet with nothing in it worth
comprehending. – She is a succubus. – She is the (third-
world) suicide of modern Philosophy (which she never
studied) – why debate the true-or-false-ness of this
demon-woman-hybrid – when all thought is the
awareness that she wants nothing to do with our human
organism and its every function – Doubt is a hysteria that
relieves the frustration of those who have undertaken to
make her up – You are not sages – you are spacemen –
see you later, then – the weed’s in the drawer – do you
really think you can handle what will happen next –
really, on this planet you’re barely on? – someone’s
demanded the total postponement of the mailmen’s
acidic routines – someone’s demanded all these
frightening grotesques be placed into a slow
bureaucracy until we learn through perseverance how to
ban all failures of expression – Behold her, she wants
you to take her Moos literally – Let’s go back to the times
of the steam-trains and the telegraph wires when you
could lose weight as easy as smoke lifts from a railroad
baroness – from page 50 of Dynamo 13: When someone
passes through pleasure, as through a room, he passes
between doubt and certainty – Pleasure is a plastic thing,
is placed in acid – it is what lasts the desire for it. Thus,
we, the Good and the Just, control our own separate
badnesses for the possibility of living without pain – Shed
the red strings of despair – The whale-bones in the
corset collapse at the feet of the endlessly weeping-
willows – the answering machine announces the undoing
of its animal-life – at this, the ham begins to dance again
– the nomadic houseboat rots in the harbor – the caravel
you keep in your lil’ Susie suitcase will never again run
its feet over saltwater – In the Kasba Noissette you strut
around with your nappy hair like one of those Pakistani
widows, sometimes wearing burgundy, sometimes
bustling around like a vacuum cleaner untying knots –
your boys wrestle over the last of the heroin – one falls
asleep in the hallway – in the lobby – in the lab – so he
can get injected with whatever it is that will let him take
off his face, finally – to abandon the mask and enter
tranquility as into sudden applause – the way one
unlaces a boot – They keep my mask in the ice-cube
compartment – in the fridge – for your dinner – Zap-ada! –
Someone must govern the foldaway beds of the
pedophiles – with their hands and asses out on full
display – O, Gallery of the Queen! – Crankily, the little
gentleman barges through – the unkempt bush of the
labiate-badlands – into the thick velvet. – The viola’s
small thighs, – slotted mandatorily under his arms, –
attend his final monument – He is their musician – he
plays “Love or Confusion” by Jimi Hendrix – And
suddenly his instrument is transformed into something
half-bicycle/half-machine-gun – Within the institution of
marriage and animal husbandry everyone sidles up to
the white enamel bar – and with a little help from the
bartender, the girls loosen up enough to waddle off
deeper into the cave to lie down in the hay – like dogs to
lick themselves thirsty – it’s not entirely the opposite of
disagreeable – Mr. Stationmasterrrrrrr – I am the phantom
ghost – I follow the sun because it is leading me to that
paradise – that is my fist – raining down on your little-
doll’s-tea-parties, you dear, you sweet little cabbages –
Meanwhile us admirals are strophe-ing ourselves –
sometimes the cream-cupboard darlings call out: help –
hup – TAXI! – Your luggage rotted – you can never
associate with the malt-shop-Suzies – you, with your
constantly shaven head – I will stand with you in the
shade of a fern, slowly rising into time, and lead our own
two selves, humble and certain, from scrutiny – But it
must be that I am constantly myself and chaos – and am
myself in every remnant of myself – albeit a traumatized
version of myself – on the coast, meeting some future
twin or ghost of myself – You want to take the subway – I
want to buy an ice cream cone – HA! – we are,
essentially, milksmiths – we love our beaten path and if
the sheepdog is crazy, there’s nothing we can do about
it – but graft our pleasure to this EXIT – You can’t take
the boys with you – the amateur sailors you keep on
balconies and on terraces to make it with at your
convenience – who you haven’t granted permission – to
overflow from their ashtrays – to inject themselves with
death – to sever – all that’s you from them – They’re
planning to steal your patio furniture – after putting away
all the leather accessories you keep them in – even their
adorable singlets – because the only life is a life of love –
Destroy – yours, theirs, and the others’ bright academy –
it isn’t necessary – to drink pure lemonade, with two ice
cubes, at all times, endlessly smoking menthols – Quit
your, their, and the others’ constant bitching – it isn’t
necessary – in your parents’ basements, where you hide
away, honing your pinball-skills – two lips and two shiny,
plasticized filets – like your grannies’ gigantic clits – the
cat with its hair standing on end —- like a cumbersome
anxiety – you don’t smoke the joint with me – I am here –
I am there – not here – the wet figs eat themselves – they
eat the other figs, the dates – the cherries – as thieves
tug at the policemen’s sausage – The cops stand around,
mutely eating horse-meat – they never speak – of their
own mythology – but pass into it like the legend of the
hidden airplanes – flying on a train somewhere –
preferring the rhythm of the tracks, passing under – you
wish a Happy Anniversary to the Israeli War – MAO is
becoming younger, bowed at the feet of his great AGE –
China advances – say it – the color-television hen agrees,
in Italian – sometimes mumbling in French or in English –
how at all times they will never love the men they are
saying they love here – the suns’ pin knows that when
the moon fills its basket that the other side of the basket
will be empty – speed’s superb and grandiose
demonettes – are their translucent green – and a trance –
and LUCID – and the winking green eyes’ confessions –
and I am persuaded by – the crisis of phosphorescence –
the 9 black arts of language will turn the palm trees in on
themselves – like conches turned to music – the same
palms feed the air – their exotic makings – each fruit the
color of television – each color for the color blind – a
constant green – little changes in the blue range – and
the red range – a little acid in the orange’s fluorescent –
something’s turning it yellow

Argentina, Norah Borges, painter



30 June // World Cup // Women Artists

June 30th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

France/Algeria, Hélène Cixous, writer

tumblr_lmc48qGTRy1qzn0deo1_1280“I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst-burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn’t open my mouth, I didn’t repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! What’s the meaning of these waves, these floods, these outbursts? Where is the ebullient infinite woman who…hasn’t been ashamed of her strength? Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-adjusted normal woman has a …divine composure), hasn’t accused herself of being a monster? Who, feeling a funny desire stirring inside her (to sing, to write, to dare to speak, in short, to bring out something new), hasn’t thought that she was sick? Well, her shameful sickness is that she resists death, that she makes trouble.”  — Laugh of the Medusa (pdf)

“The only book that is worth writing is the one we don’t have the courage or strength to write. The book that hurts us (we who are writing), that makes us tremble, redden, bleed” 

France, Sophie Calle, my favorite artist of all time

SophiecalleportraitSuite Vénitienne / Please Follow Me (pdf) (1983), Sophie Calle with Jean Baudrillard

For months I followed strangers on the street. For the pleasure of following them, not because they particularly interested me. I photographed them without their knowledge, took note if their movements, then finally lost sight of them and forget them.
At the end of January 1980, in the streets of Paris, I followed a man whom I lost sight of a few minutes later in the crowd. That very evening, quite by chance, he was introduced to me at an opening. During the course of our conversation, he told me he was planning an imminent trip to Venice.

29 June // World Cup // Women Artists

June 29th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Greece, Sappho, Goddess of everything

sapphoSappho, fragment 3

excerpt from To Constantia, Singing
by Percy Shelley

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick,—
The blood is listening in my frame,
And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
Fall on my overflowing eyes:
My heart is quivering like a flame;
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies.

Mexico, Silvia Tomasa Rivera, poet

silvia_tomasa_riveraQué diera yo por saber

qué hago aquí

sobre este raído sofá masturbándome,

con un amante ausente

que me pega –y que amo.

En la calle es lo mismo.

Me duelen los hombres que me dicen

alguna palabra creyendo que es obscena ,

son como pájaros heridos que se estrellan

en una ventana sin cristal.

Soy mujer fuera de época.

Justo cuando deseaba ser locamente amada

por un estibador, o revolcarme con un asesino

sobre un costal de papas, decido guardar mi sexo,

mis pechos, mis cabellos, en un cuarto a medialuna,

y salir con la pura alma a corretear gorriones.


28 June // World Cup // Women Artists

June 28th, 2014 § 1 comment § permalink

Brazil and Chile held onto each other until during the penalty kicks one of the Chilean balls hit the post. Both bring so many women artists that do sorrow so well. I missed the Colombia game later that day.

BRAZIL, Clarise Lispector, writer

Clarice-LispectorI’ve hidden a LOVE for fear of losing it, I’ve lost a LOVE because I tried to hide it.

I’ve held someone else’s hands because of fear, I’ve felt so much fear, to the point that I could not even fell my hands.
I’ve send away from my life people who loved me and I’ve regretted that.
I’ve cried myself to sleep many nights, and I had nights where I was so happy that could not close my eyes.
I’ve believed in perfect love, I’ve learned that they do not exist.
I’ve loved people that disappointed me , and I disappointed people who have loved me.
I have spent hours in front of the mirror trying to figure out who I am, I’ve time where I was so sure of me, to the point of that I wanted to disappear.
I’ve Lied and I regretted later, I’ve spoke the truth and also regretted.
I’ve pretended that some people did not matter, so that I could later cry quietly in my corner.
I’ve smiled crying tears of sadness, I’ve cried from laughing so hard
I’ve believed in people that did not deserve, and I did not believe in some that deserved
I’ve had bouts of laughter when it was not appropriate
I’ve broken plates, cups and vases, out of anger.
I’ve really missed someone, but never told him.
I screamed when I should shut up, shut up when I should’ve scream.
Many times I failed to speak my mind to please some and other times I spoke what I did not believe in just to hurt someone
I’ve pretended to be who I am not one just to please, as I pretended to be what I am not to displease others.
I’ve told jokes, just to see a friend happy. I have invented stories with happy ending to give hope to those in need.
I dreamed so much, to the point of confusing with reality … I’ve been afraid of the dark. Today in the dark, I find myself
I’ve fell many times thinking I would never get back on my feet, I got back on my feet many times thinking that I would not fall again.
I’ve called who I did not want just so that I did not have to call who I really wanted. I’ve ran behind a car leaving, for whom I loved.
I’ve called for my mother in the middle of the night running from a nightmare. But she never showed up and that was an even a worse nightmare.
I have called people close “friend” and discovered that there were not… Some people never needed anything to call and have always been and will be special to me.

Do not give me formulas, because I do not expect get it right all the time.
Do not show me what you expect of me, because I follow my heart!
Do not try to make me what I’m not, do not expect from me to be equal, because honestly I’m different!
I do not love in half, I can not live with lies, I can not fly with my feet on the ground.
I will always be myself, but certainly not be the same forever!
I like slow poisons, I like the bitter drinks, the more powerful drugs, the most insane ideas, the more complex thoughts, deeper feelings.
I have a voracious appetite and the wildest delusions.
You can even push me off a cliff , and to that I’m going to say:
– So what ? I LOVE TO FLY!
Clarise Lispector

COLOMBIA, Myriam Montoya, poet

from Huellas


I feel your pulse with soft fingertips
A repeated gong
I count millennia of gestation
The wanderings of continents
A drop repeating itself
Making its way in memory
A wealth of images of the animal that sitting erect
Looking at the horizon throws the javelin
And listens to the echo of its shout.


In your foreboding come days of penury
Incessant births populating the world
Punctual years of migrations and forgetfulness
Trotting of droves
Rivers bursting their banks
The apprehension of stampedes
Abductions and incests of theogonies
Ascents on craggy cliffs
Hunger and thirst in the dog days
The fire and the clepsydra
The high tide announcing nights of shipwrecks.


Hoarse drums
Of your blood come close to me
Empires built on the slave back
Preludes of war and death
Shoed hooves and shining manes
Harbingers of the god of vengeance.


Your throbs announce
Anvils and hammers
Gears and pulleys
That do not cease multiplying
Bursts of battles
Breathing of survivors
Retrospective reduction of the end
The sound
The silence
Multitudes loving themselves in the last risk
The mutation of bodies
Searching for the accord
The passage to infinity.

Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún

16 June // World Cup // Women Artists

June 16th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Even though Ghana played a better game, had more possession, USA beat them. Of course the USA & its concomitant brands didn’t fail to show brand power, racism, negligence & a patriotism that trumps all of Europe’s nastiest threads.

GHANA, Ama Ata Aidoo, poet, scholar, playwright


This afternoon,
I bolted from
the fishmarket:

my eyes smarting with shame
at how too willingly and sheepishly
my memory had slipped up
after the loss of my taste buds.

– Just like an insecure politician creaming up
to his boss.

Familiarly in an unfamiliar land,
so strong and so sweetly strong,
the smells of the fish of
my childhood hit hard and soft,
wickedly musky.

All else fall into focus
except the names of the fish.

While from distant places in my head
The Atlantic booms and roars or
calmly creeps swishing foam on the hot sand.

But I could not remember their Fantse names.

They were labeled clearly enough
– in English –
brought no echoes…

One terrifying truth
unveiled in one short afternoon:

exile brings losses like
forgetting to remember
ordinary things.

when next we meet,
I shall first bring you
your truthspeaker’s stone:

the names and tastes of fish are also
simple keys to unlock
secret sacred doors.

And I wail to foreign far away winds:

Daughter of My Mother and My Father’s Orphan,
what is to become of me?

And Those like me?


GERMANY, Sarah Kirsch, poet

In the Country (tr. Peter Lach-Newinsky)

Mornings I feed the swans evenings the cats in between
I walk over grass pass by the ruined orchards
Pear trees grow in rusty ovens, peach trees
Collapse into grass, the fences have long surrendered, iron and wood
Everything rotten and the woods embrace the garden in a lilac bush

There I stand with wet feet close to the bushes
It has rained a long time, and I see the ink blue umbels, the sky
Is spotty like blotting paper
I’m dizzy with colour and smells but the bees
Stay in the hive even the gaping mouths of the nettle blossoms
Don’t pull them over, perhaps the queen
Suddenly died this morning the oaks

Breed gall wasps, thick red balls will probably soon burst
I’d love to lighten the trees but there are too many little apples
They effortlessly reach the crowns and cleevers
Grab me, I distinguish reeds and sedges so much nature

The birds and black snails and everywhere grass grass that
Moistens my feet fat-green it squanders itself
Even on the tip it hides glass grows in broken mattresses I flee
onto the artificial cinder path and will presumably soon
return to my concrete city here you’re not in the world
spring doesn’t let up in its bottomless greed, stuffs
eyes and ears with grass the newspapers are empty
before they arrive here the wood is in full leaf and knows
nothing about fire


World Cup // women artists

June 15th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

We (yes, I’m implicating you!) watch soccer on the backs of others. World Cup. Of course not all of us, but many of us. Many of us who acknowledge soccer tournaments as examples of capitalism par excellence make scoresheets and download calendars to keep track of upcoming matches. My critique of the world cup, the euro cup, olympics, organized sports, is long, but there’s already enough researched work on it. I have decided that, instead, I will post up pieces from women writers/artists of the countries that win or lose starting today. #readwomen2014

ARGENTINA, Alejandra Pizarnik, poet

Alejandra Pizarnik, from Uncollected Poems (1962-1972) tr. Cole Heinowitz

Wanted: Dead or Alive

I forced myself

kicking and screaming

into language

SWITZERLAND: Alice Rivaz, feminist, writer

Schlossman, Beryl. (2001). Alice Rivaz and the Subject of Lost Time MLN 116(5), 1025-1044.

From Jette ton Pain (1997): “After reading a book, she is left with a taste, a fragrance, colors, images, beings, a kind of aura, or a feeling of horror, beauty, or pity (or all of them at the same time), an immense desire to create a universe by herself. A renewed love of others, the ravishment and the anguish of being alive. (…) The most important thing . . . is intangible. (…) something unknown that looks like the multicolored dust of butterfly wings. A source that remains hidden.”

HONDURAS: Blanca Guifarro, poet

I don’t see any English translations of her poetry, which is all in Spanish. I only know this book, unavailable at my library, Poetry by Contemporary Honduran WomenIf you know of any of her work translated, please send it to me… or if you know Spanish, perhaps you’d be willing to translate some of it?

Writing creates experience.

June 9th, 2014 § 4 comments § permalink

I’ve stopped writing here because I write best one-to-one, usually early in the morning or late at night. Moments of anticipating emails waving to me & then replying to several of them, 1000 words each, are moments of triumph. I receive so many thoughtful emails & hardly anyone responds to blog posts, despite my reader list climbing in numbers. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who loves to read blogs.

Rates of engagement.1

I’m also focused on my numerous Twitter accounts & most importantly affective imaginary, a series of vignettes, moments of affect & perhaps a kind of cruel optimism.

Yesterday I joined an online INSURGENT ALCHEMY workshop with, one of my idols, Anne Boyer. All the participants agreed with our distaste of the word workshop and instead are trying to come up with a more appropriate term of what we are becoming and un/doing — a sawmill of fire/moon/serpent-worship. We were asked why we joined the workshop & what we want to get out of it & my immediate response was “To conceive through immaculate conception”.2 Anne sent along some instructions later & seemed eager to help me. A collective bourgeoning of my womb through poetry. I won’t write too much about it here, publicly, for now, because it’s in a notebook & I want to be in it for a while. One thing Anne did say that I keep repeating in my head (which has become, now I realize, part of the ontology of my affective imaginary project):

“Writing creates experience, as well as describes experience.”

  1. please say hello?
  2. I told j about this afterward, and how maybe it is possible for me to conceive through immaculate conception because I’m (Mary) Magdalene. Of course I had my stories wrong & it wasn’t Mary Magdalene that gave birth to Jesus but Mary of Nazareth. Mary Magdalene was his lover. J reassured me that my err is, anyway, much more in line with myth & I should hold onto it.

Maya Angelou

June 2nd, 2014 § 1 comment § permalink

Courageous and badass poet visionary Maya Angelou has written things like this:

 “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” 

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” 

“Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.” 

“Everything in the universe has a rhythm, everything dances. ” 

“I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t laugh.” 


Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.


Quotidian Materialisms, 2013

May 24th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

also a subconscious ode to Anne Sexton’s The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator

There is so much thunder in my heart, 2013

May 22nd, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

Go after her.

May 18th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

I am so glad I know so many women that feel.
My friend Helena Kvarnström wrote this many years ago:

“Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call, go after her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait for them to give you a sign cause it might never come, don’t let people happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.”


May 15th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink

reaching heights of happiness
& no i’m not falling in love either.

Although maybe it’s because summer has finally managed to begin after 7 months of winter and confusion?



& also 2pac.

musical dream trio — 0=0, loops haunt & boxcutter

May 8th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink


j has left Toronto for another EU tour. Some of the dates are posted here. I heard some of the components he’s working with and I wish I could be there and let my body go. He also put together a night with a magical musical trio I have been wanting to see on the same line up since years. LCL presents: loops haunt, boxcutter, & 0=0. At least I designed the flyer. =^.^=


The first time I ever heard Boxcutter (Barry) was j playing Mossy for me in his studio in early 2006:

… When I listen to Boxcutter all of the cells that make up my existence re-articulate their existence and open up to infinite possibilities. This all sounds cliche because it is how I always describe him, because his musical output’s great vastness permeates me that much.

I was in J’s music room in 216. It was early 2006. It was really bright outside. I was sitting in his lap on his gray oversized office chair that always swung back a bit too much and I was sure we’d both die this way. He played “Mossy” and I fell to the floor on his rug, closing in on my face with both hands the way I do when I hear music that overtakes me. I started crying and demanding the song be put on lifetime repeat. It was one of those moments that everything changed, that I heard something so new and so exciting that it made me want to keep being alive so I wouldn’t miss moments like these. I have those moments. They are rare, but they occur and when they do all of pessimistic insecure me seems implausible.

Mossy is one of the songs on Oneiric, Boxcutter’s first album on Planet Mu. When I hear oneiric in my head, I remember Mary Anne Hobbes talking about it when he did an exclusive session for the Breezeblock, and I managed to get myself in on the shout out as “Miss Riot” because that’s my handle on DOA from many many years ago. It mattered to be part of that moment so much then.

I got to see Barry play in Paris in 2011. I got colitis and ended up in the hospital for four nights after which I extended my trip to see Barry play. Coincidentally, Scott (loops haunt) was playing the night I got sick and I had to miss his performance. I’ve seen j play many times, and been lucky enough to VJ for him a few times also, but I haven’t seen him play live since 2011 and so much has changed. I am so grateful I got to see Scott perform at Bangface Weekender in 2011.

I discovered Loops Haunt in Brighton on our three day bender last year on Red’s laptop and there he was and just like that it happened. There’s always so much happening at Bangface. Seeing Scott preform live was like, yes, yes, this is how it should be. Like the Urban Tribe set, it was just so realized, even though he said it was some of him just trying out new things. I could insert some music journalist words here to describe his sounds, but not now, just listen.

At one point I took over Scott’s MacbookPro to judge him on his music taste and found a missing part of myself, a piece that I fell into but am now emotionally unable to make peace with. It came on and instantly I fell and fell and fell for three minutes and 22 seconds into the deepest well Murakami wrote about. “Rewind on that one.” I yelled from outside our chalet where I danced until I rushed back in to play it again. “Good call,” they all said. At that moment, I felt so much love. Fuck. Later the next night, everything was really intense and sharp (my heart is racing now!) I had to listen to it again. The stereo wasn’t hooked up properly and J + Scott managed to hook it up in no less than 30 minutes with full effort. “So I’m in a room with two music geniuses yet y’all cannot get a stereo hooked up to a laptop?!” And then it worked and then I found the deep well again. There was movement inside all of me, movement I hadn’t felt in a really long time. I was being opened and aired out (and yes, causing me to let it all out on the Monday early morning). I guess yeah, the song changed my life. Actually. “Don’t Make Me Over” was the first song Warwick recorded in 1964 and the lyrics, as it usually is with these things, couldn’t have come at a better time.

It was Medika and her crew that let j take over their night at The Dogstar in Brixton. Medika is a DJ/promoter/producer my age who left a wonderful impression on me. J introduced us over email because I wanted to interview and film her for my research on women electronic music artists. When I came to her show she was so generous with her time and made me feel at ease as the lonesome outsider. When people take extra effort to be inclusive it means so much, and it’s something I never forget, especially as someone who used to throw parties for many years in Toronto —be explicit in acknowledging how grateful you are for all the people that come.

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ps. if you know what LCL stands for, I love you.