Archive for October, 2014

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Home

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Know

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Nude

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Folk

His weariness with things was frightening; it smacked of obliteration, a wall of anger and fatigue that felt as though it might sweep him into nothingness. Worst of all was loneliness.

There were times when he was capable of rejoicing in himself as a singularity—a man without a story, secure from tribal delusion, able to see the many levels. But at other times he felt that he might give anything to be able to explain himself. kernTo call himself Jew or Greek, Gentile or otherwise, the citizen of no mean city. But he had no recourse except to call himself an American and hence the slave of possibility. He was not always up for the necessary degree of self-invention, unprepared, occasionally, to assemble himself.

And sometimes the entire field of folk seemed alien and hostile, driven by rages he could not comprehend, drunk on hopes he could not imagine. So he could make his way only through questioning, forever inquiring of wild-eyed obsessives the nature of their dreams, their assessment of themselves and their enemies, listening agreeably while they poured scorn on his ignorance and explained the all too obvious. When he wrote, it was for some reader like himself, a bastard, party to no covenants, promised nothing except the certainty of silence overhead, darkness around. Sometimes he had to face the simple fact that he had nothing and no one and try to remember when that had seemed a source of strength and perverse pride. Sometimes it came back for him.

—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Vote II

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Fuku IV

The very most interesting thing about the United States is that it died even as it was born.

As expressed in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, which must serve as the “great American novel.” For there shall never be another:

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

furthur=>

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Fuku III

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Fuku II

F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.

No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until yesgradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.

The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.

 

 

 

the little bird; all there is

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Here II

They saw wild pigs running near the lake, and a soaring osprey. The mountains drew closer. Papyrus grew beside the water. Pelicans made their geometric, card-trick pterodactyl dives.

They had reached the edge of the Paz petrol roadmap Lucas had been using to navigate. Its corner sections were worn awayinto the great wide open and missing.

“Do we have a decent map?” Lucas asked.

“Just this,” said Sonia.

She handed him the rental car company’s map. It was not very detailed.

“This is the kind of map that killed Bishop Pike,” Lucas said.

“The one for us,” said Sonia.

—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Fuku

for mi Anacaona

They say it came first from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved; that it was the death bane of the Taino, uttered just as one world perished and another began; that it was a demon drawn into Creation through the nightmare door that was cracked open in the Antilles. Fuku americanus, or more colloquially, fuku—generally a curse or a doom of some kind; specifically the Curse and the Doom of the New World. Also called the fuku of the Admiral because the Admiral was both its midwife and one of its great European victims; despite “discovering” the New World the Admiral died miserable and syphilitic, hearing (dique) divine voices. In Santo Domingo, the Land He Loved Best, the Admiral’s very name has become synonymous with both kinds of fuku, little and large; to say his name aloud or even to hear it is to invite calamity on the heads of you and yours.

No matter what its name or provenance, it is believed that the arrival of Europeans on Hispaniola unleashed the fuku on the world, and we’ve all been in the shit ever since. Santo Domingo might be fuku’s Kilometer Zero, its port of entry, but we are all of us its children, whether we know it or not . . . .

—Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

Much about the Admiral is not known. Where he was born, and when: these are not known. The arc of his early years, when and what he studied at the University of Pavia: these, too, are not known. Where he obtained his ideas of geography, this is not known. The Admiral, it developed, did not know geography: he believed, to the end of his days, that where he landed in 1492 marked the far eastern fringe of Asia.

What is known is that when the Admiral stepped ashore on Hispaniola, he brought original sin to the New World. For the policies he pursued there exterminated that island’s people, the Taino. Every one.

All the Indians of these islands were allotted by the Admiral . . . to all the settlers who came to live in these parts; and in the opinion of many who saw what happened and speak of it as eyewitnesses, the Admiral, when he discovered these islands, passed sentence of death on a million or more Indians, men and women, of all ages, adults and children. Of this number and of those since born, it is believed that there do not survive today, in this year 1548, 500 Indians, adults and children, who are natives and who are offspring of the stock of those he found on arrival.”

Today, “the Taino survive in the shape of one’s eyes, the outline of one’s face, the idiom of one’s language.” All the rest, is gone.

furthur=>

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: News II

“News” is here to make you afraid. To fill you with Fear.

Ebola eye-bleeding the president on TV ISIL beheading drought policeman truncheon big black buck knife foam-fleckedold-man-laughing Mesicans streaming cross the border anti-abortion vaginal probes even up your anus all the water through climate change gone Chinese descending in parachutes Mongol Russians roll tanks polar bears howl on icebergs there Are No Jobs burger-meat this week $5 a pound Someone Looked At Me Nasty probably They have an ebola or sarin bomb This Means for sure The End Times.

Shut the shit off.

In your own life, away from the “news,” are people trying to kill you? Steal away your domicile? Extinguish all of you and yours? At least even, even mildly, dis you?

Or does the world look mighty much finer, when you just regard what is, around you, rather than get sucked into the “news” room, which is dedicated to gathering up and spewing, non-stop, each day, the very worst that human beings are doing to each other, from and on and atop each four corner of this here earth?

Truth is, here in the real world, everybody is pretty much okay.

Everybody is pretty much this guy:

A man has two legs. He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands. He’ll put seeds in the ground. He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work. He’ll take a woman to bed. He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day. You’d think that man deserved a little something. You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration. You’d think that maybe someone would say, Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

But what “news” does, is concentrate on the aberrants, the bad mutants, the freakazoids, the let’s-eat-brains people, the serial killers of the various worlds’ armed forces, to try to make you all fear fear fear.

Fuck that.

The world is a nice place. And so are the people in it.

Except the people, you find in the “news.”

Duality is such bullshit: there are, in truth, in reality, so many shades.

But here, in this world, on this planet, at this present time, people want most often to see it, all of what “it” is, in opposing twos.

That is why, in all your finest songs poems literature art etc, you see it—all, the world—in terms of “love” and “fear.”

But hey: dividing it like that: if you have to have twos: into “love” and “fear”: I guess that’s a good start.

I guess. : /

Then you go “furthur,” as the Kesey bus did—always—say.

When we did the show up in Portland—to give you an idea of someone who passed—some businessman, just walkin’ around on the street, came in; we charged a buck, and for a buck you got to see us make all our noise, and the Dead make all their noise, and anything else that happened.

This guy was in a suit, and he had an umbrella. He got the customary cup of stuff. And about midnight, you could see him really get ripped.

Somebody who’d probably never been anything but drunk on beer. But he looked around, and he saw who he isall these strange people, and he looked down, and the spotlight was showing down on him, and he saw his shadow.

And he stands up straight, puts that umbrella over his shoulder, and he says:

“The king walks.”

And:

“The king turns around.”

And:

“Now the king will dance.”

William Blake, wandering in his garden, nodding to the angels, he did say, that the problem, here on this Earth, was that the doors of perception, they have not been cleansed.

Yeah, well, mine: they’ve been cleansed.

As have yours.

I see you, as you really are. As you also, when you really look, see yourselves.

All of you are naked. All of you are alive. All of you are awake. All of you are without fear.

And all of you—kings, queens—are dancing. Into the great wide open.

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Vote

The Melancholy of Anatomy: Gate

In Feerie pour un eautre fois Celine has taken the plunge. Instead of stopping at the gates of the spirit world he has marched in.

Prose has been left far behind, so has ordinary reality. Celine is making a conscious attempt to exhaust the possibilities of language. Alongside his linguistic exuberance runs the sense that language is inadequate and must give way to music and dance. Numbers are an alternative to words. The shapes and lines which the planes trace in the sky are yet another form of expression. Celine is showing a world full of signs that the artist must decipher. He can only express it by becoming a musician. The bars of music that recur in the closing pages are proof of this. All of Celine’s linguistic innovations are an attempt to reach the other reality that those few notes contain.

In doing so he lays bare the forces that shape the universe—the cry of pain, the web of time, the dance.

furthur=>

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Holy

Florentino Ariza listened to him without blinking. Then he looked through the windows at the complete circle of the quadrant on the mariner’s compass, the clear horizon, the December sky without a single cloud, the waters that could be navigated forever, and he said:

“Let us keep going, going, going, to La Dorada.”

Fermina Daza shuddered because she recognized his former voice, illuminated by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and she looked at the Captain: he was their destiny. But the Captain did not see her because he was stupefied by Florentino Ariza’s tremendous powers of inspiration.

“Do you mean what you say?” he asked.

“From the moment I was born,” said Florentino Ariza, “I have never said anything I did not mean.”

The Captain looked at Fermina Daza and saw on her eyelashes the first glimmer of wintry frost. Then he looked at Florentino Ariza, his invincible power, his intrepid love, and he was overwhelmed by the belated suspicion that it is life, more than death, that has no limits.

“And how long do you think we can keep up this goddam coming and going?” he asked.

Florentino Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months, and eleven days and nights.

“Forever,” he said.

—Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love In The Time Of Cholera

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Here

The interesting thing about Vertigo was how it started working its way into [Twelve Monkeys] far more than originally planned. What was in the script from the start was the scene in Vertigo where Jimmy Stewart goes to the redwood trees—which, of course, comes realfrom La Jette. There were a couple of references to the original dialogue from Vertigo, but when we shot the scene we kept strictly to [screenwriters] David and Jan [People’s] dialogue.

When Mick Audsley started cutting it together, he made a different scene from what was written because there was more on the actual Vertigo soundtrack that started working in a quite magical way. Mick created an extraordinary dialogue between the script and the film.

In the script Katherine was a blonde and she puts on a black wig as disguise. Since Madeleine [Stowe] has dark hair, we gave her a blond wig and put a trenchcoat on her, with the result that, when Bruce [Willis] sees her in the lobby of the cinema, it’s a totally Hitchcockian moment . . . with a Hitchcock blonde to boot.

You mean it recapitulates getting Kim Novak to dress up like the woman he thinks he’s lost?

The music in the background is from Vertigo and Mick had grabbed a piece that seemed to work. Then we needed a better version of it, which involved going back to the film to find where exactly it came from. None of us had looked at the video while working on the film, and we discovered that this music came from the scene where Judy has been remade as the blonde realMadeleine and appears before Jimmy—and the scene is cut exactly as we had cut ours, even up to the end where they embrace and the room starts spinning. I’d actually done a shot in the cinema foyer and, because it was circular, I’d put Madeleine and Bruce on a turntable so that they floated while the room spun around them. Was this not Vertigo remaking itself without us realizing it? We sat in the cutting room and couldn’t believe it. It was spooky. If I had left in the spinning kiss, it would have been the exact Vertigo scene—and people would have said I was just stealing from it—but, since it was unnecessary, I left it out.

I suppose David and Jan had foreseen that these would begin to interact, even if you weren’t mimicking Vertigo consciously.

No, they hadn’t. Vertigo was purely and simply a reference in the script; and the fact that Katherine would be blonde wasn’t predicted—it only happened because of casting Madeleine Stowe. You begin to think there must be Platonic scenes already in existence, which just have to be remade.

—Terry Gilliam and Ian Christie, Gilliam On Gilliam

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Anus

Once upon a time, there on the blog of ol’ Marky Mark, there be’d a passel of fierce feisty gals, who weekly posted Diaries on Criminal Injustice.

These wimmins therein tracked the ravages of markosthe police state, as it affected citizens of these United States, particularly those citizens of people of color.

Marky Mark hisself never deigned to enter these diaries.

No.

Not even one.

White racist trolls did, though. And every week.

To there weep and moan that mebbe black/brown/weird prisoner people should be there, in the prison, and that anyway too many of them were pretty much animals, roaming wild and way too free, with big buck knives, seeking to drag frail pale wildwood flower white women into the bushes, to there commit upon these young lovelies Unspeakable crimes.

The fierce feisty Criminal Injustice gals tried every which way but bombs to deal with these nimrods.

But, every week, still, they came.

A mammoth spirit and soul drain.

Occasionally, when one of these idjits would enter a Diary with an actual cross or swastika carved upon his or her forehead, Meteor Pokey, the some-time Indian, would at last ban the bugger.

But by that time the gals were usually so enervated that, if made of weaker stuff, like me, they would have long since been permanently hooked up to an opiate IV.

See, there was a problem with the Marky Mark blog. It was white as a Klansman’s robe. And a lot of the people on it were Klansmen. They just claimed they were “left.”

Marky Mark eventually dealt with this problem by unleashing his banned Armando (and, as always, sancho pitiful panza, faithful at Armando’s knee, the nebbishy knee-muncher Turkana), to take out his site’s black people, all 23 or 24 of them—specifically, his site’s uppity Bigger Thomas, Adept2u—and, thereby, drive into exile anybody who there gave a damn about black people . . . except Denise Oliver Velez, whom he, craftily, boosted onto the front page.

Where she has served as the target of white-hot racist white-rage, ever since.

And Marky Mark’s way of saying: see! I have on my front page a feisty Negro! Like that Indian! What’s his name? The Blades guy? Yeah. Meteor Blades! Feisty! Indian!

The women of Criminal Injustice, while not formally blackballed from the site, were nevertheless, in this Purge, made to feel very unwelcome.

And even if that had not been so, they were not going to stay there anyway. Not after the Marky Mark-through-Armando white-purification project. So they up and left. And they never have been back.

And, in the course of things, when stay-behind nebbishy white boys started creeping in on little cat feet, to try and flich the diaires the CiJ women had left behind on dKos, the fierce feisty CiJ women went in and erased those, too.

Time passes. And, in time, comes Michael Brown, and Ferguson.

Suddenly, the nation comes awake to the fact that white motherfuckers with badges and guns are just shooting down black men michael-brown-1because they can and they want to, and all the doo-dah day.

The sort of thing the CiJ women had been saying, there on the Marky Mark blog, years before. When Marky Mark couldn’t be bothered.

In the news, now, day by day, come boiling, one upon another, white-hot tales of white-ass badged and gunned motherfuckers shooting down black men, for no sane reason.

And, from the news—because the people on the Marky Mark blog are lard-ass cheetos-stained wanking basement-dwellers who do nothing on their own, but just grab from somewhere some news, and then screech about it—these stories come to dominate the pages of the Marky Mark blog.

And, lo, eventually Marky Mark gets a revelation. He will appoint to his front-page a writer who shall specialize in the very subject that the CiJ feisty females covered like a blanket, on his site, years ago, before he drove off his blog the very same sort of black people now getting shot in the street that he suddenly decided to care about.

Yeehaw.

So what does he do? Marky Mark? He soberly intones that “police-state excesses are issues that we as a community have embraced,” and then hires for the position, the position of righteous crusader against the police, and police state, “Shaun King,” a five-star five-alarm glow-in-the-dark shameless con-man who is some kind of three-fisted combo of Elmer Gantry, Huey Long, and Wile E. Coyote.

I mean, the dude steals from sick kids.

He wildly beats his meat for people to “sponsor a beautiful child in need,” but then, once you click through, you are assaulted by a demand that you vomit forth $49.99 per month to enroll in his “Full Access To Life Goals University.”

For, you see, he would “like for you to consider making me your coach and guide through life.”

Presumably, as your coach and guide, he will teach you how to raise $500,000 for Haitians devastated by an earthquake, but somehow only pass $200,000 along, shaunwhile meanwhile securing a nice fat paying job for yourself.

He might also, in this coaching and guiding, tell you how to hoover up money from people on the intertubes by telling them you’re going to write a book, and then give those people the back of your hand as they scream till their lips bleed that they want a refund, because you haven’t delivered . . . but you have meanwhile tried, repeatedly, to shuck them for even more cash.

He might also, in his coaching and guiding, shucking and jiving, teach you how to move, through the magic of the intertubes, three times in two days.

After spending just a couple hours on this person, I would not believe him if he told me the sky was blue, lest I checked it for myself. But I will note that he does say he hails from Kentucky. Which is the state of Rand Paul. Mitch McConnell. And people who violently and repeatedly fuck pigs. And then call it love.

The only question now is whether Shaun King’s inevitable king-hell mammoth bring-down probably wrist-cuffed scandal occurs while he is sucking at the teat of Marky Mark, or whether Marky will be spared, by King having, before the boom does fall, flitted elsewhere.

What we do know, for sure, is this: Marky Mark is dumb as dirt.

Sure, he sucked after King, because King the con man passes himself off as some social-media genius, and that’s where Marky Mark wants to take his empire . . . to keep it an empire.

But can the man, Marky Mark, do no vetting? Does it bother him at all that people are screaming all over the tubes that King owes them money?

Maybe not.

What do I know?

Maybe, all over the tubes, people say Marky Mark owes them money.

For I don’t know. I haven’t looked.

What I really don’t like, is, as I review the above images, before publishing: Marky Mark, Charlie Armando McCarthy, Shaun King: they all look the same.

And he who don’t look the same, is Michael Brown.

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Rain

School’s out & my 5 yr old is explaining #OccupyCentral to me: “People are angry because they don’t want China to be the boss of Hong Kong.”

Except it’s not #OccupyCentral.

It’s Occupy Central With Love And Peace.

Which shows that these people know what it’s all about.

lightning will

Beijing and the tycoons have, in effect, recolonized Hong Kong for the second time.

So: let it rain.

let it rain

A city’s death is mostly attributed to its citizen’s apathy; the end of an era is marked by the abandonment by its people.

Beijing has removed the right for Hong Kongers to determine their future, and handed it to a committee of Beijing loyalists and tycoons with vested commercial and political interests. Hong Kong is doomed to be one of the cities in the world with the most ridiculously wide wealth gap. Millions of our people would live under the poverty line, and the enactment of universal retirement security or standard working hours policies would be nowhere in sight. The insatiable MTR Co. Ltd. would increase the transport fee every single year. The North-eastern New Territories would become the financial plaything of mainland and local speculators, while Hong Kongers have to spend the rest of their lives waiting for a vacancy in public housing estates. The brainwashing national education would return to turn our children into ignorant patriots. The government would forcefully legislate Article 23 on national security so as to keep us silent and obedient. Mainland tourists which are beyond our city’s population capacity would flood into Hong Kong. The costs of living would continue to surge, while the labour protection and welfare policies would never be implemented to give us a decent life.

Once an authoritarian election method passes, the HKSAR government would only speak for Beijing and the capitalists. But who will speak for us? 

We, the people, have a dream, a dream of dignity and for a better future, a future which honors the efforts of our past generations, a future give to our present generation and to leave for our future generations.

The Hong Kong Federation of Students
10 September 2014

Soyez realistes, demandez l’impossible
Be realistic: demand the impossible

—Paris, 1968

—Hong Kong, 2014

—Everywhere, all the time.

The protests will spread like blossoming flowers, because the government is so cold.

umbrella girls

“We are going to inherit the earth. There is not the slightest doubt about that. We carry a new world, here in our hearts. That world is growing in this minute.”

—Buenaventura Durruti

Because love is lord of all.


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