More Random Thoughts:

James Mason in Bigger Than Life

from The Garden of CYRUS by Sir Thomas Browne:

“Nor will the sweetest delight of Gardens afford much comfort in sleep; wherein the dulnesse of that sense shakes hands with delectable odours; and though in the Bed* of Cleopatra, can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost of a Rose.”

[*Strewed with roses.]

My twenties are sweating. Photographic frontal eye-lid. Abstract’s compassion. Pilot of sound. The outrage of it. Tiny bird attached to a mirror. Reach, grab, cut yourself. Possible name-change: Pinkham Aizawa. ¹ - Whining sea urchins turning cartwheels in the deepest sea. ² - Marilyn Monroe, like Elvis, is everywhere we go. ³ - Earthworms harden like bayonets in the blistering sun. 4 - Mother, repeating herself, grows ill. The children, wincing.

I see digital as a two-sided phenomenon. The fact that pictures are free can lead to greater spontaneity. As I watch people photograph (with film), I often see a hesitation, an inhibition, in their process. I don't see this as much with digital. There seems to be a greater freedom and lack of restraint. This is analogous to how word processing affects writing: one can put thoughts down in writing, even tangential thoughts, with a minimum of inner censorship, knowing that the piece can be edited later. The other side of this lack of restraint is greater indiscriminancy. Here's a tautology: as one considers one's pictures less, one produces fewer truly considered pictures. [Stephen Shore]

Light enters the room to disappear. Particles of dust peeks in, peeks out of sight; the immeasurable and altogether forgotten wing we are created from, the dust; corpses of teeth, and I assumed that it was only I who was failing to see myself as if I had no sense in which to bury my head in the nearest heater as if to melt, Molten, preserved. I recognize poems as what they aren’t which reminds me of Sandy Dennis’s smile, or a chasm passing through nobody, straightforwardly, like meddlesome representation. Value in a poem is considered clumsy, a resurgence of the unforgettable populace. At what point should the notion be a notation of allowing all words to sink into the ciphered-eye of the mind? As distinguished as an antenna, as unstable as a contentious issue.

Is “action” unknown unless we partake in it? We are born into action, therefore human consumption, through action, is in the reaction. To think God-like, free and colourless. She found it shocking that I had cursed. She made it sound prolifically-apocalyptic, as if her life-long cat had just died...all because of me. While she was talking, I accidentally clawed over the small mole on my back, making me cringe, which then produced thoughts of cancer. To uproot a mole is like tampering with nature. Cloud seeding.

Stars blink conversely, a chatting nonsense – hiccups of the universe.

To state “I’m Other” is an attempt at being different, which is too transparent and overdone, thus there is no originality (no such anyhow!), nor justice, but instead is a faulty motivation, or desire, to get the viewer to tread through thorns as if there were a pursuit on unhappy hunting-grounds for a kind of madness in this individual. Perception of character needn’t be ‘visual.’

Writers are pathetic. Writers aren’t writers. Writers should never write a thing.

I’m a poet with a tongue of sharp blades, word-spikes directly into your soul the way that Ty Cobb played. As sterling as Rod Serling, I recreate my own script, endless wordplay, in a lyrical Twilight Zone is where I stay. God shook himself and mankind; a great roar in the sky – A great nation still awaiting, in history, with all its power.

To free-will excitedly, joyously, down a slippery street, writing poems, reciting poems, ducking paint-balls, physical firework to the body.

I believe that there are three levels of the subconscious mind. Example: Last night I went to bed with the thought that I had previously took the time to extract a piece of food from in-between my teeth, taking much longer than the normal procedure. This thought was “anew” as I ventured to bed, thus producing horrible dreams of my teeth loosening and eventually falling out (no one caring in the dream, as per usual). This particular alley of the brain was stuck. Is still stuck. I can’t locate it again. Drifts to sleep in the deepest core, the deepest valley, darkest cave, lightless areas “unknown to man,” the portion of the brain that “never gets used.” I think I’ve used that part of my brain once, but it’s vague.

I think of the fruits of thought with no avail. The peaches have molded. The Kennedy Curse is upon them. Who? [shrug] – Why do people want their own personal “world domination”? I have never really been able to understand this thought-process. Why would you give up running free-willingly through a beautiful meadow to want to “conquer the world”? Power is in politics. Don’t be fooled. Government is itching; they throw their rashes onto everyone else and pretend that they can’t see how pinkly-red everything has become. World Domination? Nah! I am a little more subterranean – just give me the fishes and the deep blue sea.

August Sander, Architect Hans Heinz Lüttgen and his Wife Dora, 1926

Sedmikrasky (Daisies) - 1966

Czech New Wave


Miroslav Tichý

Tichý: “Photography is painting with light! The blurs, the spots, those are errors! But the errors are part of it, they give it poetry and turn it into painting. And for that you need as bad a camera as possible! If you want to be famous, you have to do whatever you're doing worse than anyone else in the whole world.”

One of Tichy’s homemade cameras, fashioned from cardboard tubing, string, and thread spools: Here.

Miroslav Tichý and one of his homemade cameras


Television Foto, by Derrick Tyson, Woman With Opera Glass
(can anyone guess the film?)

My body is strikingly-clear, a breath of smog, a droplet in a gray shade. The opposite of a body is a clock, a timetable with no “playback.” Awry times and young flesh that looks older because of sunlight. I want to hide in the mind of trees, and not be engulfed by the crude energies of a chydaei bud or oculus. My image forms with many flaps, closed loops that still accommodate me the way that grammar school felt involuntarily wild, like childhood altogether; children like vicious hogs, but many like angelic junkies.

A Meaty-like figure walks through a damply forest of segmented trees pondering Lord Byron and developmental biology. He insults himself and finds a young man hanging from one of the trees. Later, he contemplates guillotines, and despite all of this, he returns home and thinks of reading children’s literature, but finds it silly and retreats those thoughts.

Today I saw a fat dog fantasizing about another dog. It’s in the eyes. I’m hitting my return key but nothing has been returned. I’m pondering stock footage of military war-jets and I find this to be a quality achievement. [Tip: to save time by hitting the return key, talk in a indeterminable voice of which one has never heard before.]

When I see a helpless beggar I stop and think about the audiences that were sitting in theatres watching “The Beggar and The King” with enormous smiles on their faces. “What does that have to do with anything?” someone blurts. Immediate response: “ ‘Anything’ is ever-green.”



i. Madonna: Stoichiometric anti-Barbie Doll in the ‘80’s turned into a belated distortion.


by Kiyoshi Koishi


Ponderances, rememberances, Diaries of the past and dimensions of life that shape our consciousness:

Woodcut by Rachel Weidkam

Mortality is a beetle, unevenhanded; something newly intoxicating. Neckly seepage where your touch is vampyric, wring me out with your soft hands, formulate a theory from my country-wide welling. Listen. What do you smell? Smell. What do you hear? Backscattering, I’m dead-locked in a void. Verse of fewer lip’d things. Fickle’d pastime. I live in a shelter of narrow togetherness. A worrier is thawing in my freezer and is multiplying like a force-fed essay. My cut-up generator is cutting up. Sounds of an incubator. How to get a suntan via moonlight? Bitter bricklayers should be thanked. A workhorse isn’t a horse. I’m a Pegasus, nevertheless. The “Foreward” is otherwise languish. I think of you all of the time. From now on, my poems will be as cliche’ as a Ballroom dancer. My imagination will be compartmentalized like an airport newsstand. Do turtles wear turtlenecks? I’ve just booted myself from my own head and now staring at myself is like looking at a mysterious bookshelf.

And for Ghazal: “Your mouth is a mirror of dialogue / bouncing back at me.” I wrote that; ignore the quotations. If you happen upon this someday, then you’ll already be aware of it. I will show you, you exquisite minimalist, mentalist, such an ample progression of every moment. We’re like dramatic paintings clashing in the outlines of science, in the fashions of a winter day. Our fertile steps’re untemporary – fixation “of eyes,” as we travel in an identical world, a universe that needs no interpretation.

I guess it could be considered a mosaic; cf. the shibbuts and iktibas found in the poetry of Al-Andalus: “poets employed [them] to such an extent that the verse frequently seems to become a web of quotation, with all the indirection, multiple meaning, and mirrored or magical effect that entails” (Peter Cole, introduction to his “Selected Poems of Shmuel HaNagid”, pp. xviii-xix).

The other morning, cold and rain”ily,” (Lily-white skies), I thought that my prayers had been slit. Ancestors will sometimes confront us later (typically at night). U.S. troops need exorcisms. Everything written begins with a kind of romance. Jane Eyre-like? SPAMMERS suck donkey! The difference between getting up on the right-side of the bed v. the left-side is absolutely useless, as long as one is “able” to get up on one’s own will.

I believe Quicktime is Voodoo.

Lacan: “When one is disappointed, one is always wrong. You should never be disappointed with the answers you receive, because if you are, that’s wonderful, it proves that it was a real answer, that is to say exactly what you weren’t expecting.”

Let’s build an Orgasm. Conversation remembers what-
e’er. So southernly simple.

Today I overheard someone say: “...because his penis was too short” and immediately following I looked to my left where I saw a woman holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums between her legs while she put away the things that were in her hands to give her room to actually hold the bouquet. Then, I heard a shopping cart roll by me from behind, which immediately struck a chord with a lyric: “and they say everybody steals somebody’s heart away,” which I couldn’t get out of my mind for the remainder of the day. ("You / who created the stars and the sea / come down, come down / in spirit, fashion / a new heart / in me, create / me again—" [Franz Wright]) —

Flummoxed. (is vieux jeu). “isn’t.” “I’m going through changes.” “Everything changes but the avant-garde.” (Paul Valéry) —

One warm, breezy day in a city that I did not call my own I saw a train speeding down the tracks while sitting in the backseat of a car. The car window reflected greens and blues from the sky and was like an endless river, flowing backwards. ___ pushed open the door where I was sitting, pulled me out and told me to watch while the train sped past us. We were standing in the middle of the road and people focused their attention on us more than the train, but I did not pay them much attention, except for a brief moment where I felt a bit embarrassed about the entire incident. After a few moments, I got back into the car and laid my head down on an orange-red pillow that was opposite of the side of my door. It was not long that I moved the pillow so that it leaned on glass, and I felt as though I could sleep quietly amidst the rumbling-sounds of the train's colossal energy. ___ started to grow annoyed, but was tolerable enough to get back into the car and take a phone call, but first raised both eyebrows after noticing that the passenger’s seat was suddenly empty. ___ shot me a look of brains, eye-to-eye, and I could only shrug a shoulder.

Some people, when they do not understand something, will immediately toss it away; finding it to be complete rubbish and invaluable to any degree of existence. These individuals’ minds are not opened, and will instead critically wash away whatever it is that they don’t understand into that churning pot of ash in their conscious and subconscious minds that all floats featherly away, like voice-over footsteps in a spacious hallway.

The great warrior did not duel, but deuil’d, instead.

Ideas of Atalanta living in Atlanta, 21st c. Where is the Urvogel?

Dear Photographer:

Please don’t shoot from the hip. Shoot to rip out one’s soul, to sip from that bowl with your camera lens mouth, and do it the old fashioned, gritty way; cling to that person like an ancient scroll; act as if they were put in your view for a reason and pamper, probe, whatever it takes- that particular “moment” and relay it to your brain with a fury. Signals are mobile, sent to index finger, shutter stutter; the lover of attentive witnessing!


Derrick Tyson

Love like mad bees and butterfly-waves.

Kid at heart. Kid at art.
Kid so tart, why did you fart?

Without failure, no one can pinch the “understanding” of what an image can or cannot “be” – and I see ‘be’ like a ‘bee’ will sting when it feels threatened, or any creature for that matter.

Paul Strand: “For the history of photography . . . is almost entirely a record of misconception and misunderstanding, of unconscious groping, and a fight. The record of its use as a medium of expression reveals for the most part an attempt to turn the machine into a brush, pencil, whatnot; anything but what it is, a machine. Men and women, some who were painters, others who were not, were fascinated by a mechanism and material which they unconsciously tried to turn into painting, into a short cut to an accepted medium. They did not realize that a new and unique instrument had been born of science and placed in their hands; an instrument as sensitive and as difficult to master as any plastic material, but requiring a complete perception of its inherent means and of its own unique approach, before any profound registration was possible.”

After someone had assumed my “limitations” posting things to Flickr: It’s not that I ‘limit’ myself to posting, but I personally don’t feel it necessary, nor do I usually have the time, to post 94859405 images per day like some people choose to do (which is quite fine, too – the whole floating of the boat simpleness). I try to keep the fertile lands as barren as possible, relieving me of the many stresses that are often placed upon the proximities of Expectations. Like Viktor Shklovsky said: “Art develops according to the technical possibilities of the time (...)” and sometimes I find myself walking that tightrope without an equilibrium...

The masturbating hand

decay, rotting o

Bizarre, eccentric and unexpected behavior in the likelihood of Charles Waterton.


dangled kindredly.

It is our curse, is it not — as artists, to become picturesque? We should live so long.

That’s why we need these folks, and every tool they can lay their hands on.

~Michael Gottlieb

The answer is an echo. Repeat after me:
The echo is an answer. Repeat after me:
An answer is the echo. Repeat after me:
Is the echo an answer? After me, repeat.

Joe Meek, Clara Rockmore, John Vanderslice {“Time Travel Is Lonely”), The Conet Project, Luc Ferrari (“Far West News (Episodes 2 & 3)”), Plastikman (“Sheet One”), James Whitehead, Andrew Chalk (“The Rivers That Flow Into The Sands”), Klimek (“Milk and Honey”), Air Liquide (“The Increased Difficulty of Concentration”), Elio Martusciello (“Unoccupied Areas”), Young People (“R & R” or “Ride On”), The Appleseed (“Mountain Halo”), Lilium (“If They Cheered”), The Tiny (“Closer”) —

“It takes a lot of imagination to be a good photographer. You need less imagination to be a painter because you can invent things. But in photography everything is so ordinary; it takes a lot of looking before you learn to see the extraordinary.” (David Bailey)

U R i & i R U

Repetición de Amores y Arte de Ajedrez con ci Iuegos de Partido

Caedmon record of Stein. — Harold Norse “Beat Hotel” — As a man thinks in his heart, so is he. [Proverbs 23:7] — “All great art has line—painting, poetry, music, dance. Without line (and here, it’s Wright who is ventriloquizing that ghost of Pound—JL) there is no direction. Without direction there is no substance. Without substance there is nothing (which seems a terrible falling-off of the oracular, akin to ending with a whimper—JL).”

“Form is finite, structure is infinite.” (Wright)

xxsy xxsy xxsy.

from A Patch of Blue