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Friday, October 11, 2013


I ate half a bird yesterday
and it (the eating, not the bird)
led me to contemplate,
if poems are gentle, compassionate?

Let me explain, I stake
no claim in kindness banks;
but death is not always,
a matter of unkindness

And we are trapped in 
bodies flawed. The goat it
bleats, the cows fidget
And I will never figure out a widget.

Are we vulnerable to precision?
The killing machine is the same for me
and you and all the animals
(do you think they think they're free?)

I've toed the line of agency to 
practice the art of the possible.
Still the world has failed to well show me
how bacon can be the smell of evil.

Sunday, July 21, 2013


Trust slipped loose, and the shingles
sprinkled like salt on the open wound.

One by one all day we hear
the faultlines crack and wait, look around;

for the crash that will always take you by surprise.

Thursday, June 06, 2013

Outside The Box

It gets stranger in the night,
a time of cold, suspended sight.
the nub of my wrist in your strong embrace,
and the taste of summer rain.

We burn by the candle's wick,
drown in the swirling intrigue.
You hold me by the nape of my neck
and fear chokes my gullet.

Strangers love like stowaways,
hungry and funny by turns.
Hysterical. The red is from the wine.
Oh, but some of it is mine.

I bear no scars from secret trysts;
I play well known outsider's tricks.
I go where strange friendships are found,
and return like clay, unmade.

Break your own heart and mourn it well;
the love of self is a lesson in hell. 
And tortured souls arrive at the place, 
none too soon and a little too late.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Words don't count for much, except when they come along like this

The Crime is Never Perfect, Jean Baudrillard

To contemplate our face would be madness, since we would no longer have a secret for ourselves, and would therefore be wiped out by transparence.

The mirror does not give me my true appearance. I only know myself in reflection, such as inside me I will never be. But it is like this for every object, that only comes to us definitively altered, including upon the screen of our brain. All things thus offer themselves without hope of being anything other than the illusion of themselves. And it's good this way.

Luckily the objects that appear to us have always already disappeared. Happily nothing appears to us in real time, any more than the stars in the night sky. If the speed of light were infinite, all the stars in the universe would behere at once -- in real time -- and the vault of the sky would be of an unbearable incandescence. No more night -- perpetual day. Happily nothing takes place in real time, otherwise we would be subjected, through information, to thelight of all events, and the present would be of an unbearable incandescence. Happily we live in the mode of a vital illusion, in the mode of an absence, of an irreality, a non-immediacy of things. Happily all things, the world and others, come to us definitively altered. Happily nothing is instantaneous, nor simultaneous, nor contemporaneous. Happily reality doesn't take place.Thankfully the crime is never perfect.

Monday, December 12, 2011

The Business of Theatre in the Attention Economy

Last weekend I watched a Hindi play. Although I’m very interested in theatre activity, my work hours and time management prevent me from watching all the plays I would like to. But last weekend, I watched the same play, twice, Saturday and Sunday.
Several years ago, or what feels like it, I could contemplate the world for hours, drifting between incomprehension and acceptance. But it doesn't really bother me that I can hardly sit still without having to resort to using the internet, or a phone to constantly re-engage and connect with other living elements of my world.
Somewhere I read, a guy had correctly pointed out that we now live in the attention economy where human attention is a scarce commodity. Our reserves of attention and attention spans are getting shorter and shorter, the further we’re exposed to instant gratification and an assault of data and information every way we turn. So something that holds our attention for really long is what will be prosperous in this economy.
So when the internet is where-its-at, when your marriage is validated when you update your facebook status, and most of these public and data-rich activities are performed for the public eye, it behooves one to hold the precious and rare away from the scrutiny of jaded, cynical eyes roving through the cesspit these beholders believe the internet to be.
I have been living without a functioning computer at my flat for a few months now, and I find that while I’m sorely missing out on the music I want to listen to, I am getting so many other things done that I would never get the chance to do if I would be glued to my twitter timeline every night, or bouncing off the wikisphere or blogosphere drowning in a flurry of hyperlinks. Cooking, reading, talking to friends on the phone once in a while. Yeah, this is not a bad deal.
Perhaps at a time like this, an art form like theatre is the most relevant. For art to exist, for artists to survive and interest in art to sustain, it must adapt. But maybe the inability of an art form like theatre to adapt to this age of easy accessibility, unavailability in a virtual form like an e-book or a music album or a film turned into bits, keeps it real. And pure. Theatre remains something to be experienced, in the moment, and is no less visceral in its approach and execution than it was a thousand years ago on the ancient Grecian podiums.

Friday, September 09, 2011


Taste is a series of sensory information bits we interpret into an experience. By adding salt to activate our salt receptors, we increase the number of information bits considerably, and in so doing create a fuller tasting experience.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

What's your Story?

My friend, Sorjin*, is a guitar player. He loves to play the blues, and can seduce you with a few notes on the slide. He told me once that he decided to go the way of music because it is a free-flowing, real-time expression of you. Who you are, then. Not a distillation, a derivation or a rationalization of what you think your character is. That things like books and movies need a narrative - a beginning and an end. cause and effect. so if you start with one thing, you end up with another. music doesn't rely on that narrative formula, or any kind of rationalization. Take Merzbow. or Lustmorde. What they do is play subliminal 'noise' music, which cannot be brought down to a scale and moves (I think - I don't have it figured out) intuitively, like a mood changing through a landscape. 
Music has the ability, as Huxley said, second best to silence, to express the inexpressible. You can never know who you really are, maybe because there is no you; maybe because it is beyond our perception; or an elusive combination of both. But you will find that music - whether listening and appreciating, or singing or playing - can talk to the you inside. In a way that books, paintings and movies never can. And he played me a song the other day, called 'Untitled', in an album that was untitled - maybe to ensure that nothing more than the music itself could be inferred from that piece. 
#nowplaying Brian Eno - Taking Tiger Mountain

It's a good lesson for life. We've often thought about the OST for the 'movie of our life', that captures in glitzy cinematic detail the trials and travails of a day in our lives. Even autobiographies that don't tell you how the writer became who she became, are decried for lack of a gripping storyline. 

But we don't live our lives like that. There will be days and days together when you don't understand what you're doing, but you know you're doing it because something is making you do it, guiding you in that direction. When/if it ends successfully, people call it motivation, a killer instinct. If it fails - well, it doesn't matter what you call it, nobody's listening. 

So for days like that, I think we'd all do well to think about something like this. I'm reproducing a quote below.
You will find that people love their narratives. They need for your life to have meaning; it must provide them a teachable moment, whether cautionary or aspirational. But you will never be who they think you are. 
The more you allow their expectations to dictate to you what you should be, the more unfamiliar you’ll become with your own reflection in a mirror.
I found this through my subscription to Andrew Sullivan's the daily beast, by the way. Whattay blog. It's a blessing in these days of mindless diversions. 
*name changed. But it would be pretty cool to have a friend called Sorjin.