Monday, May 31, 2010

d'un cinéma obscurci

Frank: "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."
Dorothy: "Mommy loves you."
Frank: "Baby wants to fuck. Get ready to fuck. You fucker's fucker. You fucker." (He slugs her in the face.) "Don't you fuckin' look at me!" (After another gasp of gas, Frank begs and whines menacingly:) "Baby wants blue velvet."


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

- In Flanders Fields - John McCrae


Remorse is Memory awake,
Her companies astir, -
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.

Its past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless, -- the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 'tis His institution, --
The complement of Hell.

- Remorse - Emily Dickinson

quoth the madman

“We are so vain that we even care for the opinion of those we don't care for.”
- Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach

quoth the madman

Only the shallow know themselves.
--Oscar Wilde

Sunday, May 30, 2010

attack of the homophobic orange


“By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last.
I have seen some of the best ones melt and run down the sky.
Since one can melt, they can all melt; since they can all melt, they can all melt the same night.
That sorrow will come—I know it. I mean to sit up every night and look at them as long as I can keep awake; and I will impress those sparkling fields on my memory, so that by and by when they are taken away I can by my fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky and make them sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears.”

- Mark Twain - The Diary of Adam and Eve

ladies cultural awareness day

“Self-portrait” (1840) Hippolyte Flandrin (Lyon, 1809 – Lyon, 1864)

Friday, May 28, 2010


The demon lay down on the way with a view to devouring them with an expanded mouth
like the cave of a mountain. The lower lip extended to the earth and the upper touched the
clouds and the ends were like expanded mountain caves. The teeth were like the summits
of a mountain; the interior of its mouth was like darkness and the tongue was the road
thereof.… Krishna, thinking how the life of this wicked one may be taken and those of the
boys saved, himself at last entered into the mouth of that demon.… Being desirous of
destroying it, he speedily increased his own form in the throat of [the demon]. Thereupon
the throat of that huge-bodied demon was obstructed and his eyes burst out of their sockets.
The wind inside his body was obstructed and being choked in full in no time it issued out
riving the head of the demon.

-The Bhagavata Purana, 800–1000

quoth the madman

“Essence is what is born in you, personality is what you acquire.
Essence is your own, personality is not your own.
Personality is too heavy, too strong;
it surrounds Essence like a shell,
so nothing can reach it directly,
everything has to pass through personality.
Essence cannot grow in these conditions,
but if personality becomes more transparent,
impressions and external influences will
penetrate through it and reach Essence,
and Essence will begin to grow. ”

—PD Ouspensky


“No, no, there is no going back.
Less and less you are that possibility you were.
More and more you have become those lives and deaths that have belonged to you.
You have become a sort of grave containing much that was and is no more in time, beloved then, now, and always.
And so you have become a sort of tree standing over the grave.
Now more than ever you can be generous toward each day that comes, young, to disappear forever, and yet remain unaging in the mind.
Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away. ”

—Wendell Berry - The Sabbath Poems

quoth the madman

“What we are pleased to call illusion may be for the psyche an extremely important life-factor, something as indispensable as oxygen for the body.
… Presumably the psyche does not trouble itself about our categories of reality; for it, everything that WORKS is real. ”
—C. G. Jung


ladies cultural awareness day

The Bodies Of The De Wit Brothers, Hanged At Groene Zoodje On Vijverberg In The Hague
- Attributed to Jan de Baen, C. 1672-1702


La France brûle


quoth the madman

"We know that the wildest and most moving dramas are played not in the theatre but in the hearts of ordinary men and women who pass by without exciting attention, and who betray to the world nothing of the conflicts that rage within them except possibly by a nervous breakdown.
What is so difficult for the layman to grasp is the fact that in most cases the patients themselves have no suspicion whatever of the internecine war raging in their unconscious.
If we remember that there are many people who understand nothing at all about themselves, we shall be less surprised at the realization that there are also people who are utterly unaware of their actual conflicts."
- Carl Jung - New Paths in Psychology

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Les indiens sont morts


When adults say, “Teenagers think they are invincible” with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don’t know how right they are.
We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken.
We think that we are invincible because we are.
We cannot be born, and we cannot die.
Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations.
They forget that when they get old.
They get scared of losing and failing.
But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail.

- John Green - Looking for Alaska

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

quoth the madman

"One can't found a novel theology on Nothing, and nothing is so secure a foundation as a contradiction. Look at the great successes of the past---they say their deities are the masters of all the universes, and yet that they require grandmothers to defend them, as if they were children frightened by poultry.
Or that the authority that punishes no one while there exists a chance for reformation will punish everyone when there is no possibility anyone will become the better for it."
~ Gene Wolfe ~
Shadow of the Torturer, pp. 62–3

quoth the madman

"Hysteria is a chaotic and irrational emotional state caused by seeing how the world really operates."
-Robert Anton Wilson - The Earth Will Shake, p. 124

quoth the madman

"Horsemen who hold the reins of their horse have no seats in the grandstand at the race course."
-Mu'ammar al-Qadhafi

quoth the madman

"Offer them what they secretly want and they, of course, immediately become panic-stricken."
-Jack Kerouac


corporate occult


"That is my face," said Rhoda, "in the looking-glass behind Susan's shoulder - that is my face.
But I will duck behind her to hide it, for I am not here.
I have no face.
Other people have faces; Susan and Jinny have faces; they are here.
Their world is the real world. The things they lift are heavy.
They say Yes, they say No; whereas I shift and change and am seen through in a second.
If they meet a housemaid she looks at them without laughing. But she laughs at me.
They know what to say if spoken to.
They laugh really; they get angry really; while I have to look first and do what other people do when they have done it."
— Virginia Woolf ~ The Waves

Tuesday, May 25, 2010


Siesta time is hot in Hell !
Down the glittering shutters fell
With a noise Arabian
Like the rustling pearls that fan
The eyes of rajahs when they hide
Beyond the incense-flowing tide
Their majesty, all lonely save
For the hot Nubian sun, their slave.

And like the lovely light gazelles
Walking by deep water- wells,
Shadows past her mirrors fleet
Through bright trellises of heat.
Through the shutters fawning crept
A barber zephyr, cringing stept
Through the shutters fallen like water-
Hiding Hell's most lovely daughter.

The sun, a ripened apricot,
Still made the flattened roof-tops hot,
And at her table preened and set
Myrrhine sits at her toilette.

" Madame Myrrhine, if you please,"
Fawning said the barber breeze,
" I will coiff as light as air
That Arabian wind your hair.

Never had the perfumed seas
Such bright grape-black curls as these
Fallen like rustling pearls that run,
Burnt by the hot Nubian sun,
From each elephantine trunk
The waterfalls rear." Myrrhine shrunk,
But now the barber zephyr curls
Black cornucopias of pearls.

Upon the dressing-table, heat
Is flaunting like a parokeet,

And in the street dust-white and lean,
Two black apes bear her palanquin.
Through the shutters see those apes'
Eyes like green and golden grapes . . .
Their falsetto voices made
A false simian serenade.

The negress Dinah through unheard
Shutters like the sun's gold gourd
Bears her powder-puff the breath
Of an angel, a swan's death.
Never once Myrrhine replies
To those apes with slanting eyes . .
She died a thousand years ago
From dust her beauty ripened slow.

But Fanfreluche her parrot closes
With the ballerina roses
Pecks them, Dinah longs to snatch
The night to make her beauty-patch.



Now music fills the night with moving shades ;
Its velvet darkness, veined like a grape,
Obscures and falls round many a subtle shape
Figures that steal through cool tall colonnades,
Vast minotaurian corridors of sleep;
Rhythmic they pass us, splashed by red cascades
Of wine, fierce-flashing fountains whose proud waves
Shimmer awhile ; plunge foaming over steep
Age-polished rocks, into the dim cold caves
Of starlit dusk below then merge with night,
Softly as children sinking into sleep.
But now more figures sway into our sight ;
Strong and bare-shouldered, pressed and laden down
Stagger across the terraces. They bear
Great cornucopia of summer fruit
And heavy roses scented with the noon
Piled up with fruit and blossoms, all full blown,
Crimson, or golden as the harvest moon
Piled up and overflowing in a flood
Of riches ; brilliant-plumaged birds, that sing
As the faint playing on a far sweet lute,
Warble their tales of conquest and of love ;
Perch on each shoulder ; sweep each rainbow wing
Like lightning through the breathless dark above.
Heaped up in vases gems shine hard and bright ;
Sudden they flare out gleaming red like blood
For now the darkness turns to swelling light,
Great torches gild each shadow, tear the sky,
As drums tear through the silence of the night ;
Breaking its crystal quiet making us cry
Or catch our sobbing breath in sudden fear.
A shadow stumbles, and the jewels shower
On to the pavers with a sharp sweet sound.
They mingle with the fountain drops that flower
Up in a scarlet bloom above the ground,
A beauteous changing blossom ; then they rain
On to the broad mysterious terraces
Where sea-gods rise to watch in cold disdain
Before those vast vermilion palaces,
Watch where the slumbering coral gods of noon,
Drunk with the sudden golden light and flare
Of flaming torches, try to pluck and tear
That wan enchanted lotus flower, the moon,
Down from its calm still waters ; thus they fall,
Like flowing plumes, the fountains of our festival.
Slowly the torches die. They echo long,
These last notes of a Bacchanalian song,
Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep,
Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep.
In thanksgiving for shelf ring summer skies
Still, far away, a fervent red light glows.
Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes,
Caress them like a laughing summer rose,
And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight.
A harp sobs out its crystal syruppings ;
Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings,
Fragile yet radiant, of a butterfly
Beating against the barriers of night.
Then from the Ocean came the Syren song,
Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh,
Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong
Chaining our limbs ; making our bodies seem
Inert and spellbound, dead as in a dream.



The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

~ After Death ~ Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)


Thanksgiving, dark of the moon.
Nothing down here in the underworld but vague shapes and black holes,
Heaven resplendent but virtual
Above me, trees stripped and triple-wired like Irish harps.
Lights on Pantops and Free Bridge mirror the eastern sky.
Under the bridge is the river, the red Rivanna.
Under the river’s redemption, it says in the book,
It says in the book,
Through water and fire the whole place becomes purified,

The visible by the visible, the hidden by what is hidden.

Each word, as someone once wrote, contains the universe.
The visible carries all the invisible on its back.
Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses, what touches me
As though I didn’t exist?
What is it that keeps on moving, a tiny pillar of smoke
Erect on its hind legs, loose in the hollow grasses?
A word I don’t know yet, a little word, containing infinity,
Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.
Under the tongue is the utterance.
Under the utterance is the fire, and then the only end of fire.

Only Dante, in Purgatory, casts a shadow,
L’ombra della carne, the shadow of flesh— everyone else is one.
The darkness that flows from the world’s body, gloomy spot,
Pre-dogs our footsteps, and follows us, diaphanous bodies
Watching the nouns circle, and watching the verbs circle,
Till one of them enters the left ear and becomes a shadow
Itself, sweet word in the unwaxed ear.
This is a short history of the shadow, one part of us that’s real.
This is the way the world looks
In late November, no leaves on the trees, no ledge to foil the lightfall.
No ledge in early December either, and no ice,
La Niña unhosing the heat pump up from the Gulf,
Orange Crush sunset over the Blue Ridge,
No shadow from anything as evening gathers its objects
And eases into earshot.
Under the influx the outtake,
Leon Battista Alberti says,
Some lights are from stars, some from the sun
And moon, and other lights are from fires.
The light from the stars makes the shadow equal to the body.
Light from fire makes it greater, there, under the tongue, there, under the utterance.

~ A Short History of the Shadow ~ Charles Wright

Monday, May 24, 2010


words and music

We're in the building where they make us grow
And I'm frightened by the liquid engineers ...Like you
My Mallory heart is sure to fail
I could crawl around the floor just like I'm real ...Like you
The sound of metal - I want to be... you
I could learn to be a man ...Like you
Plug me in and turn me on
Oh... everything is moving
I need my treatment- it's tomorrow they send me
Singing "I am an American" ....Do you?
Picture this - if they could make the change
I'd love to pull the wires from the wall ...Did you?
And who are you and how can I... try?
Here inside I like metal ...Don't you?
All I know is no one dies ...
...I'm still confusing love with need

~ Metal ~ Gary Numan

quoth the madman

“There is an alchemy in sorrow.
It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness. ”
—Pearl Buck

quoth the madman

“Nurture the darkness of your soul
until you become whole.
Can you do this and not fail? ”
—Tao Te Ching


Sunday, May 23, 2010

overheard on bourbon street

Girl, looking at friend's cell phone: "What is that?"
Friend: "A baby!"
Girl: "Oh, I thought it was chicken. It looks like a barbecued chicken."

Friend: "Hey thats sounds good! are you hungry?"
Girl: "Yeah, where should we go? I don't know this area well..."
Friend: "Me either, lets ask that guy over there that looks like Jesus..."
Girl: "Cool, yeah, he'll know."

overheard in a bourbon street bar mens room

Bourbon Street cop to young white dude: "Sir, have you been drinking today?"
Young white dude pretending to be Jamaican: "Me love you lately."
Bourbon Street cop: "Sir I need you to stand up."
Young white dude pretending to be Jamaican: "I got a bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb!"
Bourbon Street cop: "Sir I need you to stand up please."
Young white dude pretending to be Jamaican: "Hoot hoot! Yo! I got your brownie! I got your brownie in the ass!"
Bourbon Street cop to partner: "It is way to early for this."
Young white dude pretending to be Jamaican: "Come Mr. DJ song pon de replay BYE, BYE, Miss American PIEEEEE...Hoot, Hoot!"


Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd—
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us... is love.

~ An Arundel Tomb ~ Philip Larkin

Saturday, May 22, 2010


What on Earth deserves our trust?
Youth and Beauty both are dust.
Long we gathering are with pain,
What one moment calls again.
Seven years childless marriage past,
A Son, a son is born at last:
So exactly lim’d and fair,
Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air,
As a long life promised,
Yet, in less than six weeks dead.
Too promising, too great a mind
In so small room to be confined:
Therefore, as fit in Heaven to dwell,
He quickly broke the Prison shell.
So the subtle Alchemist,
Can’t with Hermes Seal resist
The powerful spirit’s subtler flight,
But t’will bid him long good night.
And so the Sun if it arise
Half so glorious as his Eyes,
Like this Infant, takes a shrowd,
Buried in a morning Cloud.

~ Epitaph ~ Katherine Philips
On her Son H.P. at St. Syth’s Church where her body also lies interred


Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Something else
Hauls me through air –
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
Godiva, I unpeel–
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.

~ Ariel ~ Sylvia Plath

quoth the madman

"Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business."
-Tom Robbins

May 22 337

Today in history:
Emperor Constantine dies. Although quite dead, his embalmed corpse continues to act as head of state, receving state dignitaries and daily reports from ministers as if nothing had changed. Constantine's macabre leadership continues through winter.


Friday, May 21, 2010


Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,
Deal on your cakes and your wine;
For whatever is dealt at her funeral today
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine.
–Maria Edgeworth, 1810

objets trouvés

found on st. philip at burgundy

helping johnny remember

body remix

Thursday, May 20, 2010

words and music

"Maybe you can keep me from ever being happy, but you're not gonna stop me from having fun."
-Ani DiFranco

objets trouvés

found on chartres at barracks street

quoth the madman

Their art is one side of them. There is so much more. What you are getting is one tiny iota; the art, the document, the after-effect of what led up to a person becoming what they are.

— Lydia Lunch

quoth the madman

"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."

— Friedrich Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil

quoth the madman

"Most of the trouble in the world has been caused by folks who can’t mind their own business, because they have no business of their own to mind, any more than a smallpox virus has.
Now your virus is an obligate cellular parasite and my contention is that evil is quite literally a virus parasite occupying a certain brain area which we may term the RIGHT center.
The mark of a basic shit is that he has to be right. And right here we must make a distinction between the hard-core virus-occupied shit and a plain, ordinary, mean no-good son of a bitch.
Some of these sons of bitches don’t cause any trouble at all, just want to be left alone and are only dangerous when molested, like the Brown Recluse."

— William S. Burroughs

quoth the madman

"Talents are best nurtured in solitude. Character is best formed in the stormy billows of the world."
— Goethe

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


“This isn’t about what is. It’s about what people think is. It’s all imaginary anyway. That’s why it’s important. People only fight over imaginary things. ”
American Gods - Neil Gaiman

objets trouvés

quoth the madman

"If Jesus had been killed twenty years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses. "
-Lenny Bruce

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating.
The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure.
That is all.
It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.
Some never awaken.
They are like the people who go to sleep in the snow and never awaken. ”

—Anais Nin -The Diary of Anais Nin, Volume One


The wave breaks
And I’m carried into it.
This is hell, I know,
Yet my father laughs,
Chest-deep, proving I’m wrong.
We’re safely rooted,
Rocked on his toes.
Nothing irked him more
Than asking, “What is there
Beyond death?”
His theory once was
That love greets you,
And the loveless
Don’t know what to say.

~ Descriptions of Heaven and Hell ~ Mark Jarman

quoth the madman

“What an absurd amount of energy I have been wasting all my life trying to figure out how things “really are” when all the time they weren’t. ”
—Hugh Prather

quoth the madman

"I prefer an interesting vice to a virtue that bores"
-Moliere 1622-1673


No, the serpent did not
Seduce Eve to the apple.
All that’s simply
Corruption of the facts.

Adam ate the apple.
Eve ate Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.

The serpent, meanwhile,
Sleeps his meal off in Paradise -
Smiling to hear
God’s querulous calling.

~ Theology ~ Ted Hughes