The afternoon of May 2, 2009 (and others):

Levan Tchogoschvili, Mischtechnik

I love pin-pointing my “living space” on a weather radar map and viewing where rain exists or doesn’t exist during a thunderstorm, and as of this moment, the ground is silver, or the concrete, rather, and clear-sky is hiding behind ominous-cloudscapes, and the stars are shuffling their feet, a “touching tale,” a “particularly memorable” non-cynical season of May (Actionscope!) — and the rain tumbles and mumbles and slips and slides (water parks of nature — I miss swimming) and in the meantime, my glasses slip off of my nose; my head peels with dead skin, sun-burn has ceased, skin browner, tanner, obscure conglomerates, probably slept in a puddle of my own dead skin. I say a prayer of thanksgiving every morning as soon as I wake. Nothing is ever vivid anymore (thunder growls in the distance). Nothing to worry about (thunder moans, as if echoing, in the distance). Coffee has traveled to deepest core (BM already pleasure’d) and Hmm, the hum of a ‘calling’ and my soul, spirit and body has been loosened up, like a tie of a man who has come home from a hard day’s work. Every day is an Eisenstein feature. The animated fruit of my existence sings with joy; an indescribable sensation. Inexplicit film-action, this is. No describing words, nothing. Nothing, no, nothing. Unique segments identified only by the riches of my eagerness. I sing and sing and sing.


Interesting quotes:

“Since our awareness of others is considered our duty, the price we pay when things go wrong is guilt and self-hatred. And things always go wrong. We respond with apologies; we continue to apologize long after the event is forgotten — and even if it had no casual relation to anything we did to begin with.” (Nancy Chodorow)

“I shatter everyone who hates you.” “Train your mind to confess what you see as poetry.” Obsession over one’s body is a dead end. “The Word of God is offensive to the world.” “Integrity has no rules.”

* “Do you see anything outrageous?”
* “I wouldn’t say outrageous. It’s more like ironic.”

Woman on the Moon about to be swept off her feet by a Flying Bald Man
By F. Lennox Campello