epoetica: an electronic literature symposium organized by davin heckman
my participation was grounded in the exploration of mallarmé's 'pour un tombeau d'Anatole'.
chris died before i could close out my comments.
Showing posts with label angel of history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label angel of history. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
expulsion
Writing theses under death.
Dissertation at Middlesex:
Thesis here. not really here or there or this or then...
Soft sounds and the smiths. Music which sounds like places. Morrissey that sounds like new kings road.
Forward ever backward never – but I want to write the past out.
Writing and history destroys memory. Is that the intention? I think it is sometimes. To displace it – replace it. Make room. Make space. And other spatial metaphors.
To land it elsewhere. To countrify.
Reliving the past relieving it.
To get to death I have to move through desire. To get to desire I have to get through what I’ve had (who) and where we’ve been. what I want back.
I do not want what I havent had I want again. Bringing the past back – because we are never there as we are now. And now is always looking forward looking back. And even when I am there – that moment – thinking Be Here Now it is because I know I won’t be long.
But sometimes – and those times – it’s feeling nothing but being there then. No space for ‘feel this.’ Just.
So we live – I live – seeking those moments. Abdications of anxiety – being in the body times so much there is no corporeality to fixate on, just breathing.
I used to feel like that when I rode my bike, but now I smoke too much and the corpus intakes sharp and mental.
At diamanda galas next to heidi at some point (one wail) I closed my eyes and what I felt then was loss of enni, more than chris or kelsey even. Because he lives on and change has killed us, not killed our changing. Because we killed we and no others. Because we live. And the living loss sometimes aches more. Ache. Ache. Ache.
Backache.
Brighton. When we got fever from the cold and the rain the wind and the waves coming up on us at the end of the point where the sculpture sits.
Scotland. Where we hunted for mushrooms hunched over and I sang camp songs the whole time because it helped me focus on the task at hand. And hands so cold I had to alternate.
Wales. For valentine’s day. Walking home from the restaurant talking about sex and back to the b+b to sound off and sleep. Before the pub the next day (the day before?) I said I think I’m leaving. But I didn’t. til I did. (but perhaps I shouldve)
And Ireland. For the last time. In and on the beach that day: ‘let’s get married. I want to have your babies.’ Give me a year, he said. I have. Did. And didn’t. but ireland was beautiful – all those islands were. But there was also the country in the middle of europe, not european, or unionized. And I never never felt like home was there. Although it was, of sorts. Like casa creativa, and the patio. The courtyard.
Remember the first time: there’s the stone wall, the little alleys, and there’s the gate. There’s the wind and there’s enni, key in the lock, opening. And I’m expecting something else- a hallway, I suppose, a room. We move inside and there’s the covered space, as I expected. An entryway, supposed. Or something. But around the corner the light comes on and then – mosaic’d stone ground, and a fountain. Grape grown walls and a full stone table. Home all around. This here? Yes, this castle. Welcome home, will you?
And so I got to know rapunzel.
Casa creativa was a haunted house. Still full of furniture. Paintings and sewing. And a swallow with a broken wing, sitting on my head and on my shoulder, the day we closed the door. When a door opened behind us banging and we just figured those were ghosts (good ghosts) giving us a ciao goodbye.
California calls because of family – ocean – blue and warmish winters.
Europe calls because
Well why because.
Because I found what I was and wasn’t there
I see us growing old… and growing old… and growing old.
And before that bong hits. With devo to hip hop and roots rock reggae. In the house on may by the high school.
And before that high school
School
And school
And years of schooling
Cooling it cutting it
Doing homework.
Rocky horror and I was magenta always. Had that loud lascivious kinda flip the hair dark eyes thing going on. Not quite so sexy but I tried.
Hip hop. A california thing. Bong hits and shows at palookaville, elijah driving. Elijah on my ipod bringing what I wouldn’t do. Musical phases and stages …
“do you go to parties?” said matt. Meaning do you rave? And I didn’t but I did with him.
The first and the last time at homebase in oakland. When the lights came on and everyone still dancing.
But devo’s truck’d been stolen.
Sleeping with a guy whose only tattoo says s h u t u p on his bicep.
And me I want many many.
Shallow days … hollow nights
Can’t write about chris, see.
Just telescoping the past into my moments here, reminding me of them and him and him and her. Expelling my memories – from retention to detention.
Like if I could get them all out then I’d be for now again.
But now is not important – impotent. But isn’t. but I’m enamoured with who and where and what who with I’ve been. wanna tell all y’all
I’ve been her
And here
And there and
It’s always been like this, since I began remembering. Don’t wanna theorize memory wanna live it again.
And he said she said I did we did what then.
I took my bike to brighton on the train. I walked it through gatwick on the way back cuz I needed to pee so bad. I’d crashed and drank a couple pints alone. I took photos and then I rode home. From london bridge... to chicago avenue. biking in the dark.
I want to turn it all out, histories.
I always have.
I don’t know what that has to do with studying.
But it’s true, it’s to lose my memory.
A cliché but: living out loud(ly).
Dissertation at Middlesex:
Thesis here. not really here or there or this or then...
Soft sounds and the smiths. Music which sounds like places. Morrissey that sounds like new kings road.
Forward ever backward never – but I want to write the past out.
Writing and history destroys memory. Is that the intention? I think it is sometimes. To displace it – replace it. Make room. Make space. And other spatial metaphors.
To land it elsewhere. To countrify.
Reliving the past relieving it.
To get to death I have to move through desire. To get to desire I have to get through what I’ve had (who) and where we’ve been. what I want back.
I do not want what I havent had I want again. Bringing the past back – because we are never there as we are now. And now is always looking forward looking back. And even when I am there – that moment – thinking Be Here Now it is because I know I won’t be long.
But sometimes – and those times – it’s feeling nothing but being there then. No space for ‘feel this.’ Just.
So we live – I live – seeking those moments. Abdications of anxiety – being in the body times so much there is no corporeality to fixate on, just breathing.
I used to feel like that when I rode my bike, but now I smoke too much and the corpus intakes sharp and mental.
At diamanda galas next to heidi at some point (one wail) I closed my eyes and what I felt then was loss of enni, more than chris or kelsey even. Because he lives on and change has killed us, not killed our changing. Because we killed we and no others. Because we live. And the living loss sometimes aches more. Ache. Ache. Ache.
Backache.
Brighton. When we got fever from the cold and the rain the wind and the waves coming up on us at the end of the point where the sculpture sits.
Scotland. Where we hunted for mushrooms hunched over and I sang camp songs the whole time because it helped me focus on the task at hand. And hands so cold I had to alternate.
Wales. For valentine’s day. Walking home from the restaurant talking about sex and back to the b+b to sound off and sleep. Before the pub the next day (the day before?) I said I think I’m leaving. But I didn’t. til I did. (but perhaps I shouldve)
And Ireland. For the last time. In and on the beach that day: ‘let’s get married. I want to have your babies.’ Give me a year, he said. I have. Did. And didn’t. but ireland was beautiful – all those islands were. But there was also the country in the middle of europe, not european, or unionized. And I never never felt like home was there. Although it was, of sorts. Like casa creativa, and the patio. The courtyard.
Remember the first time: there’s the stone wall, the little alleys, and there’s the gate. There’s the wind and there’s enni, key in the lock, opening. And I’m expecting something else- a hallway, I suppose, a room. We move inside and there’s the covered space, as I expected. An entryway, supposed. Or something. But around the corner the light comes on and then – mosaic’d stone ground, and a fountain. Grape grown walls and a full stone table. Home all around. This here? Yes, this castle. Welcome home, will you?
And so I got to know rapunzel.
Casa creativa was a haunted house. Still full of furniture. Paintings and sewing. And a swallow with a broken wing, sitting on my head and on my shoulder, the day we closed the door. When a door opened behind us banging and we just figured those were ghosts (good ghosts) giving us a ciao goodbye.
California calls because of family – ocean – blue and warmish winters.
Europe calls because
Well why because.
Because I found what I was and wasn’t there
I see us growing old… and growing old… and growing old.
And before that bong hits. With devo to hip hop and roots rock reggae. In the house on may by the high school.
And before that high school
School
And school
And years of schooling
Cooling it cutting it
Doing homework.
Rocky horror and I was magenta always. Had that loud lascivious kinda flip the hair dark eyes thing going on. Not quite so sexy but I tried.
Hip hop. A california thing. Bong hits and shows at palookaville, elijah driving. Elijah on my ipod bringing what I wouldn’t do. Musical phases and stages …
“do you go to parties?” said matt. Meaning do you rave? And I didn’t but I did with him.
The first and the last time at homebase in oakland. When the lights came on and everyone still dancing.
But devo’s truck’d been stolen.
Sleeping with a guy whose only tattoo says s h u t u p on his bicep.
And me I want many many.
Shallow days … hollow nights
Can’t write about chris, see.
Just telescoping the past into my moments here, reminding me of them and him and him and her. Expelling my memories – from retention to detention.
Like if I could get them all out then I’d be for now again.
But now is not important – impotent. But isn’t. but I’m enamoured with who and where and what who with I’ve been. wanna tell all y’all
I’ve been her
And here
And there and
It’s always been like this, since I began remembering. Don’t wanna theorize memory wanna live it again.
And he said she said I did we did what then.
I took my bike to brighton on the train. I walked it through gatwick on the way back cuz I needed to pee so bad. I’d crashed and drank a couple pints alone. I took photos and then I rode home. From london bridge... to chicago avenue. biking in the dark.
I want to turn it all out, histories.
I always have.
I don’t know what that has to do with studying.
But it’s true, it’s to lose my memory.
A cliché but: living out loud(ly).
Monday, October 8, 2007
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
intention tension (rough)
This particular virtual space is intended as a drafting place to map out / put up (host) / put down (insult?) ideas / notes / research / links / writtens towards the thesis for my someday-MA in Visual and Critical Studies at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago...
a thesis which contains multitudes, while containing nothing but lack and space...
a rhizomatic exploration of mourning, loss, and desire - masquerade, play, and the trickster - personal narrative, affect and theory - authorship, memory, and text...
a work in progress
that wants to work backwards
muse'd by the Angel of History...
for epoetica this summer i wrote:
the first video work i made, i made from footage of kelsey’s funeral set to a soundtrack of billy idol.
My mom comes and brings a vhs recorded with Kelsey’s memorial service. Why do we call it hers? Ours, about Kels (’over my dead body’). None of us have ever watched it. I take it to school, turn off the monitor and dub it to DVD. Then watch it one night in my basement studio, lights off, lying on the futon, blanket on.
i didn’t know - and couldn’t be bothered to learn - how to rip right from the DVD. so i filmed it again on my (cracked) computer screen, mini dv camera balanced on a beer bottle and a stack of books - as am, often, i. an aesthetic was born: lo-fi, rascuache and hand-made-for-youtube style.
Editing. The more I clip and playback the further the distance between the white-faced 23 year old with the hollow eyes and skeletal shadows and the me that’s like, ‘hey Chris can you do me a favor? Film me dancing around and singing to billy idol? It’s kinda weird but it’s to edit over the film from the funeral… you know, ‘hey little sister, what have you done?’
i'm into all the the youtube tropes - the music videos, the narcissistic (self-conscious) metubes, the i.movie edits, the bedroom girls - and i can claim my interest’s academic (it is - somewhat - so i do) but the youtube context (which is a separate theatre from the one i set to screen these works in) also works to disable any academic reading (comments & responses).
one of the most intriguing aspects of contexts such as youtube - such as livejournal, myspace, blogspot and so on - is the publicizing of ‘the private.’
death is a private affair. aren’t most affairs private? don’t they often start and end in public, though? i upload the evidence of my romance with death to explore the connections between ‘our’ fascination with voyeurism (personal, pornographic, violent or vitriolic), ‘our’ exhibitionist, group-therapy think-out, ‘our’ cathartic acts of record and replay.
to revisit death by video, to edit loss, reflects my process of memory and memorial, and speaks to and about the process itself. it repeats and it distances. reminds and cuts out. i work with little intention (just make something, anything, from this) - rely on chance encounters with timing, tuning, imagery. there are moments when two tracks (or more) align just-so, seemingly at random, and sense is made, momentarily. that sense-making, meaning-making moment, motivates the next motion taken.
how to describe a process? to play it, and/or play it out.
To refer to death as a creative process does not imply that it is attractive or even ‘artistic.’ We humans have an instinctual aversion to the sweet, sickly effusions that decomposition produces. Yet this stage is necessary before the cleansed, aesthetically comfortable ‘bare bones’ state can be attained…
Mary Bradbury writes that the split between what is real and what is theatre is patricularly hazy in the social organization of death, as certain aspects of this organization are highly ritualistic in character: the funeral, the burial, even the embalming of the body are all performative traditions…
Academic attachment became elusive - instead, we reverberated, echoing the emotions of loss and reclamation that we purported to investigate impassively, and performing exuberant grieving as playfulness infiltrated the pathos and sadness that had marked our individual mourning practices…
a thesis which contains multitudes, while containing nothing but lack and space...
a rhizomatic exploration of mourning, loss, and desire - masquerade, play, and the trickster - personal narrative, affect and theory - authorship, memory, and text...
a work in progress
that wants to work backwards
muse'd by the Angel of History...
for epoetica this summer i wrote:
the first video work i made, i made from footage of kelsey’s funeral set to a soundtrack of billy idol.
My mom comes and brings a vhs recorded with Kelsey’s memorial service. Why do we call it hers? Ours, about Kels (’over my dead body’). None of us have ever watched it. I take it to school, turn off the monitor and dub it to DVD. Then watch it one night in my basement studio, lights off, lying on the futon, blanket on.
i didn’t know - and couldn’t be bothered to learn - how to rip right from the DVD. so i filmed it again on my (cracked) computer screen, mini dv camera balanced on a beer bottle and a stack of books - as am, often, i. an aesthetic was born: lo-fi, rascuache and hand-made-for-youtube style.
Editing. The more I clip and playback the further the distance between the white-faced 23 year old with the hollow eyes and skeletal shadows and the me that’s like, ‘hey Chris can you do me a favor? Film me dancing around and singing to billy idol? It’s kinda weird but it’s to edit over the film from the funeral… you know, ‘hey little sister, what have you done?’
i'm into all the the youtube tropes - the music videos, the narcissistic (self-conscious) metubes, the i.movie edits, the bedroom girls - and i can claim my interest’s academic (it is - somewhat - so i do) but the youtube context (which is a separate theatre from the one i set to screen these works in) also works to disable any academic reading (comments & responses).
one of the most intriguing aspects of contexts such as youtube - such as livejournal, myspace, blogspot and so on - is the publicizing of ‘the private.’
death is a private affair. aren’t most affairs private? don’t they often start and end in public, though? i upload the evidence of my romance with death to explore the connections between ‘our’ fascination with voyeurism (personal, pornographic, violent or vitriolic), ‘our’ exhibitionist, group-therapy think-out, ‘our’ cathartic acts of record and replay.
to revisit death by video, to edit loss, reflects my process of memory and memorial, and speaks to and about the process itself. it repeats and it distances. reminds and cuts out. i work with little intention (just make something, anything, from this) - rely on chance encounters with timing, tuning, imagery. there are moments when two tracks (or more) align just-so, seemingly at random, and sense is made, momentarily. that sense-making, meaning-making moment, motivates the next motion taken.
how to describe a process? to play it, and/or play it out.
To refer to death as a creative process does not imply that it is attractive or even ‘artistic.’ We humans have an instinctual aversion to the sweet, sickly effusions that decomposition produces. Yet this stage is necessary before the cleansed, aesthetically comfortable ‘bare bones’ state can be attained…
Mary Bradbury writes that the split between what is real and what is theatre is patricularly hazy in the social organization of death, as certain aspects of this organization are highly ritualistic in character: the funeral, the burial, even the embalming of the body are all performative traditions…
Academic attachment became elusive - instead, we reverberated, echoing the emotions of loss and reclamation that we purported to investigate impassively, and performing exuberant grieving as playfulness infiltrated the pathos and sadness that had marked our individual mourning practices…
All we may expect of time is its reversbility. Speed and acceleration are merely the dream of making time reversible. You hope that by speeding up time, it will start to whirl like a fluid...
The imagination is scarcely any better equipped to appreciate reversibility than the person who has never slept would be to appreciate dreaming. And yet we experience in it that electrocution of time we call predestination. The signs exchanged in the process are instant conductors unaffected by the resistance of time. Certain linguistic fragments run back along the path of language and collide with others in the witticism, dazzling reversibility of the terms of language. In this they fulfil an unexpected destiny, their specific destiny as words, conforming to the predestination of language.
-- Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories
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