Friday, January 31, 2003


The White House cancelled a literary symposium set for next month in Washington over fears it would become too politically-charged.

see Poets Against the War

Thursday, January 30, 2003


". . . Storey and Richards take up a unique position in Canadian research establishments. They will become artists-in-residence at two National Research Council facilities and in so doing will bring artistic sensibilities to the science . . ."

Art does not reproduce what we see. Rather, it makes us see. - Paul Klee

Wednesday, January 29, 2003

I knew that it would soon be my turn. Choosing the right song seemed impossible until someone whispered "Morning Dew." Of course, it made perfect sense. "Morning Dew" by the South Korean folk singer Kim Min Gi has been the song of protest demonstrations in the South for decades:

When sorrow collects in my heart
bead by bead like morning dew
finer than pearl between each leaf
after a long, wakeful night,
I climb the morning hill
and attempt a small smile.
The sun rises red over the graves.
The midday heat must be my trial.
Here I come, to that wild field.
Here I come, leaving behind every sorrow.

The New York Review of Books: A Visit to North Korea by Suki Kim

:: comment :: . . . know the truth . . . whose truth . . . know that there are only many ways of seeing/being . . . give knowledge meaning . . . still i have a voracious appetite for the truth . . .

Tuesday, January 28, 2003


there's two faced alienated witnesses
living together in semi-permanent former bliss
as long as each avoids the agreed.


Everyone cares if the balance of power shifts
just don't read about it
what is heard can be ignored
Cared and have been caring and will continue to care
to go forward
when the snow melts
"What are you looking at?" groans the scratched eye.
Shout above the playing video.
(Is that you talking?)
This is my life
what were you thinking
when you embraced me . . . it meant something . . .
You destroyed my life!
(Who is speaking?)


Trying to take away the anger, the violence I am.
Wrath wraps over central park hanging from steel gates.
Visit the virtual mapblast and paint it red
the geo-url bookmarked
police storm the door
a programmer is with us
The skins crack dry
"Don't touch" the terminal blinks.
Irritated coughs scratch inside bleeding -
spit death threats hollowing out.

Monday, January 27, 2003

- l(a






e. e. cummings

Sunday, January 26, 2003

Saturday, January 25, 2003


"When we start in our profession, our greatest dream is to till the soil of our craft, to cultivate its trees of knowledge and meet in a combat-embrace its familiar spirits as well as those spirits that invade it from remote corners of the globe. When we start, we hold a flame in our hands to cast light on a distant voice: our vocation. With the passing of the years our hands clutch ashes, and all of our energy and experience strain to keep alive the ember that still glows. We have not landed on the island of freedom. We have been swallowed up in the guts of the monster. Theatre is a monster that slyly suffocates our original necessity with habit, repetition, excuses, and dull weariness. Theatre simply becomes a job, a familiarity with a craft that has lost its magic, its ethos, its ideals. At suppertime we sit down and eat. At bedtime we yawn. We see a tree and we pick its fruit. Theatre survives and helps us to survive enveloped in a healthy fatalism of indifference and tepidity. Only revolt can protect us, a revolt against ourselves, against our small temptations and compromises, against our acquiescence, our natural impulse to choose ingrained solutions and the least arduous path. The way of refusal, of anonymous and incorruptible work, every day, for years and years, transforms the monster into an island of freedom. We must not nurture excessive ambition. We must realize that inside the guts of the monster we are only a grain of sand. We must be sand, not oil, in the machinery of the world."
A Chosen Diaspora in the Guts of the Monster - Eugenio Barba/TDR: The Drama Review Volume 46, Number 4 (T176), Winter 2002(access through Project Muse)

"GRAY: The monologues transitional objects? Yeah, absolutely. Thanks for bringing that up. What I realized about the monologue is that in order to live my life in a free and open way, I have to have a monologue going. That's my way into the world. That's my transitional object. If I have a monologue going I can relax and not watch everything in life as material because I'm not searching for the next monologue. But once I begin looking for a new monologue... After reading [D.W.] Winnicott, just within the last year, I clearly realized that for me my transitional object is the personal monologue. And when I have one going I have a life."

My Art in Life Interviewing Spalding Gray:Richard Schechner/TDR: The Drama Review Volume 46, Number 4 (T176), Winter 2002(access through Project Muse)

"I found Lepage's tone and descriptions of his process jarring for reasons I could not, at first, identify. Near the end of the book it became manifest: Lepage is a cheat. In the section called "Paradoxes": In my understanding, the whole art of theatre revolves entirely around cheating - knowing when to trick the audience, when to cheat and also when not to cheat. In life, we might ask ourselves where the line lies between making love with someone and screwing them. The same applies to the theatre [...]. (141) Here lies a hypothesis that is present throughout, because in the writing, in the conceptual depiction of Lepage's work, many of his tricks are necessarily absent; the trappings have been removed."

TDR: The Drama Review Volume 46, Number 4 (T176), Winter 2002(access through Project Muse) Book Reviews - Chris Mills

Friday, January 24, 2003


''Our art has absolutely no purpose, except to be a work of art,'' says Jeanne-Claude. ''We do not give messages.''
''It is absolutely irrational,'' says Christo,...
(The New York Times)

"What, more than art, can make us fully human? And what, more than art, can lead us to understand how tempting and disastrous it is to lapse into inhumanity?"
(The Spectator: Only art can make us human.)

Thursday, January 23, 2003


In Martyrs Murder, a new series of photographs with an installation by Diana Thorneycroft, the artist examines mechanisms that lead to public acceptance of violence and cruelty

Thursday, January 02, 2003


historian Rhiannon is so exotic looking this morning
painted eyes a dark blue shade of black
and a lot of side long forbidden glances
take her to the flats where the pubic stubble shows under the snow
abandoned rail cars burning, smoldering
smoked chinook trout or tanning hides or even chokecherry mixed with bear fat
my life has been shaped
by the petty rejections and stains of ejaculating on old carpets
adoration and false worship
observe the holy war
justice demands our rights

Y O U ' R E N O T P E R F E C T - is what the ego screams


I look up and shape the mouth to taste the hunger
you're the face of love I like you


Did you say you were leaving in your sleep -
can I overhear your dreams besides the pillow talk -
forgive but how could I, I know exactly how I got there
and when I die forgiving is a subtle act of unwanted mercy

Y O U ' R E N O T P E R F E C T
I want to
hope now.

I apologized for the roaring madness, genuflect
she shrugged "just look at you -"

we could meet in the tundra
where the treacherous boulders between the townsite
and the bay
gather stagnant water


Moved along the closed territories
security guards block ways


They break the day
search the accessible leaving the hidden
revealing their corruption
so close the door and pull the drapes in this tiny cabin
the Polish couple show no fear
men over all
a laughing salute from the demi-goddess messenger.


That foreigner, that dog
was so cruel and that never
occurred to her . . . Still

the bit lips saw stench passing the inside out

the mucous spittle streams
flushed away are stillborn
(aborted) silences

If you say you'll kill me, do
you really mean me

It has been foretold earlier.


Lift every voice
the same refrain
no chorus of many
solo wail


I have a cut on my lip
I kind of don't mind
This is the list of what we've done

destroyed the architecture of a conservative life
throw out all the mother's food putting mould in the refrigerator
ignore the sons as far worse than our own enslavement
cultural genocide pumping shit into the mind
manipulate the sickness clot love a
twist the truth chew
imagine the unreal we can because you're a historian


you're so desperate lie . . .

I'm sort of angry

there is no hope, talking

hope is a belief


and vacate, the most apathetic is Hope

vague deluded abstraction

tongue is a name.

Wednesday, January 01, 2003


No one cares if the world is a big fat America
as long as we've got our windows windows windows.
(Change immediate past)
Suddenly everyone says
they care and they have been caring, that would be an example
of changing the past in order to go forward
"Well that wasn't what I did because I didn't have a motive yet.
I was waiting for disaster itself."

...[Alice Notley. Circorpse in disobedience ]