Anodyne
Saturday, May 23, 2015
 
"The very idea that one could become a musician without first being deeply struck, being branded, altered, by another’s work: impossible. Psychotic."
 
Critical reevaluation: that lot may in fact not be location X, but it sure rings all my JW-radar.

&, even if it isn't, that little tree, the one with the couch beneath it, sure looks like it needs its portrait made, maybe even more so than that fears'come excavation on Magnolia Boulevard, or that unrewarding Pearblossom crossroads.
 
LA Open Acres -- useful!
 
12:46am: found a workaround, even higher resolution than before.
 

Not claimed as art, more as evidence of my frustration level with the new Google Street View as a mechanism for autonomous art, as opposed to remotely snooping on others' art.  The little tree in the foreground, if still present in early fall, deserves a picture of its own.

Q: How many parking garages are there in metro LA, CJB?

A: Fewer than there are public parks (qv. previous iterations of this game), but still, enough.
Friday, May 22, 2015
 

" [I]n the area under the big tree there was a couch with tan-coloured cushions on it, as well as some garbage and beer cans. She also testified that there was a green Save-On-Foods shopping cart in the parking lot under her window. That cart had been there when she moved in two years earlier and had flooring tiles in it. After she heard about the body of a woman being found in a shopping cart, Ms. Debeck noted that the cart was no longer beneath her window and that the flooring tiles had been piled on the ground where it had been."

(This whole text's multiple overlapping voices, but esp. the testimony of Mark Tonack)
 
Foul Play Suspected in Nanaimo Death
30 June 2010

"Police in the Vancouver Island community of Nanaimo say foul play is suspected in the death of a woman whose body was found in a bushy area near the city's downtown core.

The woman's body was found at about 11 a.m. Tuesday in an undeveloped lot between Millstone River and the Greyhound bus station, at the end of Prideaux Street.

The woman has not been identified, but witnesses say she was found partially clothed in a shopping cart near a homeless camp.

Police say they have not established the cause of death, but foul play is suspected."
 

Perpetually on the edge
of the polis' frame,
proud skink or pufferfish
who falls in & out
with everyone, returns
reports of the island's
mirror-world to those
still caught in the city's
flopping  jaws, slow cadence
of clashing teeth
the tap   tap   tap
of Foster's drum, or
sneakered E&N crosstie
footfall.
 

There's a splinter in your eye and it reads R-E-A-C-T.
 

Contemporary lyric verse?     Fuck
that.


I'm just profoundly frustrated by all this. So, fuck you, man. (Fuck 'em)

[....]

If they weren't there we would have created them. Maybe, it's true,
But I'm resentful all the same. Someone's got to take the blame.
I know that this is vitriol. No solution, spleen-venting,
But I feel better having screamed. Don't you?
Thursday, May 21, 2015
 

Everyone wants to take selfies, or close-ups of the equipment. No one can supply a simple panning shot or street signage.  Fortunately the clear sky supplies a crucial piece of information.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
 

Dude here's not helpful.  But the background?  Super helpful.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
 

"GOLDEN STAR ATOP A TREE FOR TAKING AN INTEREST IN BIG-NAME THIRD WORLD WRITERS (MULTICULTURAL FIBER OPTIC LIGHTS FOR BOLAÑO)

GOLD STAR SNOWFLAKE PRIZE FOR NEVER EVER EVER SHUTTING UP ABOUT GERTRUDE STEIN AND/OR ANDY WARHOL

GOLD STAR FOR YOUR DESIRE TO REACH COMPROMISE, TO SPLIT THE DIFFERENCE, REMAIN IN CHARGE: GOLD STAR FOR COMPROMISE!

GOLD STAR FOR YOUR INDIGENT AND PROUDEST WHITE FEMINISM. GOLD STAR FOR YOUR TWEEN EMPOWERMENT FANTASIES SHATTERING THE CEILINGS WHILE SOMEONE ELSE SWEEPS THE GLASS FANTASIES: YOUR HELLO KITTY STAND IN DELUSIONS: GOLD FUCKEN STAR FOR NO AWARENESS BUT GOOD INTENTIONS GOLD GOLD STAR!"
Monday, May 18, 2015
 
These Poems, cont.

A few here & there for a while.  The ones with titles "in brackets" are written quickly in the morning using a restrictive format & loosely autobiographical content, & will probably change for a while before finally settling down.
 
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by ee cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
as the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody ,not even the rain, has such small hands

(Taped to Bernadette's study carrel in Buchanan Tower c. 1992-5)
 
These Poems, She Said
by Robert Bringhurst

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   
who would leave his wife and child because   
they made noise in his study. These are the poems   
of a man who would murder his mother to claim   
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   
as elm leaves, which if they love love only   
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   
These poems, she said....
                                       You are, he said,
beautiful.
                That is not love, she said rightly.

(Taped to my study carrel in Buchanan Tower c. 1992-5)
 

"Many owners have seen their cats watching nature programs on TV. Most cats quickly put the TV into the same mental category as a window - they can see and hear the animals, but can't reach them. After one or two investigations behind the TV or the speakers, they learn that the animals stay inside the box. After that they don't bother checking for escaped TV animals again, or at least don't expect to find anything if they do check - when you are a cat, it can't hurt to be absolutely sure there isn't a snack-sized wildebeest behind the TV!"
 

 

"Pleading emails"

Pleading emails offering
what I once thought I needed.

Hallway object, boy's face on JVC,
window display glimpsed over lover's shoulder.

Young tree's skin,
its passage through time.

18 years since I saw it last,
night desert drive, north under stars.

Thinking it over, together;
letting it go.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
 
"...your blind, stupefied heart." (John Thompson)
 

Love You Madly
(as performed by Ella Fitzgerald)

Love you madly
right or wrong
sounds like a lyric of a song
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, love you madly
Better fish are in the sea
Is not the theory for me
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, love you madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
Good things come to those who wait
So just relax and wait for fate
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you, love you madly
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, madly
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, love you madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you madly

[Bridge]

Love you madly
right or wrong
sounds like a lyric of a song
But since it's so
I thought you oughta know
I love you, madly
Better fish are in the sea
Is not the theory for me
And that's for sure
Just like I said before
I love you, madly
If you could see the happy you and me
I dream about so proudly
You'd know the breath of spring
That makes me sing
My love song so loudly
Good things come to those who wait
So just relax and wait for fate
To let me see the day you'll say to me
I love you, love you madly
I love you
Love you madly
I love you madly
Oh, I got big eyes for you, baby

(PC portrait: Peter Cummings)
 

& Shasta, brindle catahoula,
'Best of' Used Nanaimo
by a country mile.
 

& really only ever visible
afterwards, as loss.
Columbia Studio B,
19 June 1974, where no
orchestra played, & yet
is heard, clearly, in the
recording, in the echoing
space above Miles' trumpet
& Harmon mute,
as if love for the departed
could conjure him back,
or some semblance of him
back, like Spicer's
spook voices--

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