“My lover is an obstacle. Many think I must overcome him but I do not want to overcome him. I don’t remember my dreams, but once I was in the ocean & it was blue like what a bomb feels & above me two whales swam lazily & I could see how every muscle worked in their bigness & their singing was the biggest door creaking on the biggest rusty hinges & also the biggest & most beautiful boy sighing the biggest sighs of receipt. I think this is why I like the universe & books & roots & computers & mountains & riots & the-river-after-it-rains: I don’t go much for beauty without condition—everything impossible is part of me. My obstacles are true commas.”—
“one does not write for the other,..these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the other).. ..Writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing,..it is..there where you are not”— A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments - (via alterities’twin adieulacan) - Roland Barthes (via alterities)
“We can no longer sit idly by as others steal our mouths, our anuses, our genitals, our nerves, our guts, our arteries, in order to fashion parts and works in an ignoble mechanism of production which links capital, exploitation, and the family. We can no longer allow others to turn our mucous membranes, our skin, all our sensitive areas into occupied territory – territory controlled and regimented by other, to which we are forbidden access.”—Félix Guattari, “To Have Done with the Massacre of the Body”, trans. Jarred Becker (via golodomor)
Hurry up, the guest will be here
any minute…we hold our
breath, bat our lashes.
shake hands — me too…
Again. Fireworks. Not
like “Love American Style”
as I remember it. Classicism sustained….
Ruined by Speculation (this is where the title really is)
I’m being kind, for once, here are all the tools…
Carry the day me too…
By any means necessary me too…
& don’t insult me me too…
By (inferring?) content me too…
A line drawing epic
sound tracked w/ Beethoven.
A film to hear, words to see.
Oh, nothing special.
My books are not signs of any truth
I subscribe to, they only
add speed to you viewing me.
It’s easy to stay fresh…
Don’t you like American art?
No, that ended a long time ago.
Very well, silence then.
(did I avoid the poem,
did it become something else?)
We always take time to reach each other.
Finally, we put a hand on a knee.
One can hear the cashier in all five exhibition rooms. While she speaks into the handset, which she holds away from herself, as if doing this for the first time, the sole museum guard shoves her head between the handset and her ear. They both stare, mouths open. Their years continually call them into retirement, but amid their chatter they are just thirteen years old again, locked in a wardrobe with a telephone. There is no one, only a voice. For them, the one from the handset, for me, the one who is responding. Nene, we have one inside, I can’t now, I’ll gladly let you know if I love you, when he goes. Stereo giggle. In this way they probably were revived by sugar, arranged by cases, the carnality of images of black slaves, painfully bent over sugarcane, shadowy Prussian factories of sweets, statistics and specimens of sugar beet, floating forever in formaldehyde. Keepers of bulletproof art, eunuchs of catalogued knowledge, sphinxes on the lookout for visitors’ terrorism. The only museum that in this city of museums is still missing, not flaunting portraits or statues, audio installations, minerals, preparations, chocolate or star charts. The museum of all museums would display the museum guards. In the long periods of existence between exhibits, their bodies internalized what was on display. Their cheeks grew for decades after Schinkel’s plans, the guard’s pupa-head à la Schad and neck guard, which looks like it has mingled with Nefertiti since kindergarten. To enter the museum of guards would be to enter all museums. The guard in the Ethnological Museum, who had fallen asleep with his head leaning on a case of Peruvian ritual tumi, was, if one judged by his pose, already decapitated a few times while asleep. In the first room of the museum of all museums, a sleeping head would be displayed separately in one case and the snoring in the second. In other rooms there would be guards displayed in continual action. A young girl, who walks with goose steps through the small exhibition rooms full of Menzel. After four steps, which she takes like a periscope eye turning, at the fifth she opens a book, which she carries high in front of herself, with her thumbs dug into it. As if she, closed in a shell, is for the moment the exhausted spasmodic muscle of a mussel. After a step and a half she ducks a glance into the book and at the sixth step again dives with her head to the surface. The book is closed like a shell again and the counting of four steps begins anew. As if swimming breaststroke through the gallery. When she splashes through the air around me, I notice that she is learning Chinese characters during the demonstration of highly original guard kinetics. But still other exhibits would belong to the museum of museum guards. Instead of the hunched figure of the guard from the Märkisches Museum, only an empty chair, which quivers during the jingle, would be displayed. As if summoning crucial judgments for a proclamation, every twenty seconds the bell of the Royal panorama rings. The century before, circular wooden structures with twenty-four small windows still stood next to one of Berlin’s promenades and cheered up small Walter Benjamins with three-dimensional photographs. While eyes stared motionlessly, and with sweaty hands, propped against red plush, the world revolved. A bell announced every turn. A beginning was everywhere, and although these times and beginnings are past, the ringing has not stopped yet. As if she would have to pay for all who once enjoyed the panorama, she sits depressed in the corner, a poor tortured creature, a guard with corks in her ears in the Märkisches Museum. For the grand finale of the museum of museum guards, perhaps even for the encore, it would have to be a guard from the third floor of the National Gallery. Between attempts to bring the Italian Renaissance and German Romanticism closer together, it resounds, so that the marble in the columns starts to shake and the faces of boys and girls on the paintings flush. The museum, in which the exhibits protect themselves alone, will end with a room with a display of the fart of a guard, an act inspired by classical art, a gesture of pure, organic creative expression, without restraint and without apology.
“In my cell, little by little, I shall have to give my thrills to the granite. I shall remain alone with it for a long time, and I shall make it live with my breath and the smell of my farts, both the solemn and the mild ones.”—Jean Genet, Our Lady of the Flowers (via golodomor)
“Intimacy cannot be expressed discursively. The swelling to the bursting point, the malice that breaks out with clenching teeth and weeps; the sinking feeling that doesn’t know where it comes from or what it’s about; the fear that sings its head off in the dark; the white-eyed pallor, the sweet sadness, the rage and the vomiting … are so many evasions.”—Georges Bataille, Theory of Religion (via golodomor)
Think about who the average movie critic is. Most (90%+?) of them are leftist progressives, thus in sympathy or outright in love with communism, something this director is famous for and which stains everything he ever made.
These critics love mental illness, something the left is ALSO famous for — the left never fails to turn some emotion or condition into a mental illness if it helps them get off from being responsible for their own lives.
The film is from a classic era of Italian films, something most critics drool over, and it represents a ‘first’, namely this director’s first use of color.
The film, as well, won a Golden Lion (Venice) and is a classic time capsule of that era.
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Wax dithyrambic, rave
Last first poem
You will stand
In line to
See. It’s stupid
To die for
Status with such
A deadpan arrogance,
Such tired insolence.
I switched love
With status because
I was embarrassed
And now it’s
A diary and
Not a poem.
That’s how you
Know I’m Nothing.