if . . .

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

". . . 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

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 . . .

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 ble...

- l(a l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness e. e. cummings

MICHAEL KENNA : JAPAN : robert mann gallery

"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...

''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.)

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

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 ...

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 ]

Overlaid patches of the past filtered through the white slats of a venetian blind stop the light enter the tunnel a young girl, Anna picks nettles in the Vienna woods without gloves her hands soon redden and swell hundreds of tiny bites tatoo marks from the sting of the furies protect yourself Is the will just a movement repeated, an addiction? ______________________________________________________________________ In time present the snow drifts a truck spins out of control crashes towards the ditch piles of white explode a motionless avalanche faces of shock disappear two children can't forget the horror yet the thrill becomes a survival legend it is that way with the edge of near death or playing in the ditch. ______________________________________________________________________ Tunnels. Corridors breathing with no writing on the walls sometimes all the people pass by into unseen realms the crowds around me blankly stare into the beyond "How was your holiday?" the fait...

During the attacks I feel a coward before the pain and suffering . . . and it may be this vey cowardice which, whereas I had no desire to get better before, makes me eat like two now, work hard, limit my relations with the other patients for fear of a relapse - I am now trying to recover like a man who meant to commit sucide and, finding the water too cold, tries to regain the bank. . . . I reproach myself with my cowardice, I should have defended my studio, even if I had had to fight with the police and the neighbours. Others in my place would have used a revolver, and certainly if as an artist one had killed such rollers, one would have been acquitted. - St. Remy , July 1889

The historian stumbles out puking and crying storms into the raging night & sinisterly growls "You," stabbing the air with a pointed finger - "You get our of here." Then moves cautiously back to her drink breathing deliberately Better than honesty. END OF VIOLENCE GLARE ... Is the will just a movement repeated, an addiction? Here, in the black box no audience but a silent witness an angel in white and gold the cloud of unknowing hanging a see through cocoon to crawl into Dare to touch or kiss the gossamer cloth Yeats speaks: "I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." ______________________________________________________________________ I've now named the historian Rhiannon ______________________________________________________________________ ..... Don't, don't blame. But don't , don't surrender. ______________________________________________________________________ Each moment quivers a...

In the fourth and fifth centuries the three days following Christmas Day were established as festivals of martyrs: December 26, St. Stephen, martyr both in will and in deed, December 27, St. John, martyr in will but not in deed, December 28, The Holy Innocents, martyrs in deed but not in will. (via Dan's Page ) "Happy Boxing Day but, more to the point, St Stephen's Day : "St. Stephen was a Christian martyr who was stoned to death for his belief in Jesus. He is the patron of stoneworkers and also is associated with horses. This day 'drew in' other more ancient traditions. In Ireland, boys go from door to door gathering money for a 'dead wren' they carry, supposedly stoned to death, but really a remnant of ancient Druidic wren sacrifices for the winter solstice. In Poland, people throw oats at the priests and walnuts at each other - things supposedly symbolic of the stoning, but in reality these things were done long before as fertility rituals." ...

Downstairs in the temple kitchen the water is turned off. A pipe burst. Little other than a cold storage now. An unknown attempted a break-in, twice gave up as the iron bars held fast. The lonely roomer left unwelcomed over a year ago a row of tea candles mark his departure. The rotary dial phone became a theater prop. No calls to record the comings and goings. The sleeping historian shuts the door. Take down the decorations. Give them away a pile of gold You journey to the east sitting among old women watching them sleep or gossip waiting time out till breath to us depart everlasting life amen. Mounds of crushed powder ground by teeth pressed tight till jaws shatter. Forgive not the pain. Forget not the wound. The historian declares the voices of the unspoken rise up in the early morn. Take to the streets - smart mobs texturing, urinating on the face of authority. ______________________________________________________________________ Define will: a sort of violence. Look to the graves...

Stupor All around the earth opens to endless tunnels a man digs collapsed on the kitchen table a drunk, arms reddening she's a weary historian from afar barks commands into an empty room the round table an altar you leave out scraps of food for the hungry ghosts & drink. She is the will. ______________________________________________________ A vase of dried flowers point to the deep, dark paneled ceiling a varathened shelter the birch chairs passed on from generations older than the historian (measured in lunar years) I must go to sleep leaving you unconscious. Look up through the floor. A white horse crashes through the ice flailing swims underneath blue ice, is it a death?

Second sound A cough/choke shatters the skull pitch black night sky no moon cloudless. A child at church runs away from his guardian. I wish I were him. hide and seek, peek-a-boo, tag illusion of liberation by night The games not yet imagined. The running away patterned so sleep in the bedroom of your youth the white walls, crosses and icon borders not even a hint of the past turmoil shut the door underneath the stairway shut out the breathing above into no visible light wounded escape to nowhere, dripping blood. ________________________________________________________________ Loves lost in darkness. ________________________________________________________________ It over I mean, empty It had to the universe leaving traces exist There is nothing to request at the time of parting lighter than unknown wrongs carrying weight. Fall from grace on the land of black snow shivering death chatters to echo life that thou must accept me, exactly.

THRENODY REPRISE moved out for no reason. didn't change any place It's no better. & the dreams uprooted the ancient tree rotten no strength required What you must accept, fully A man with the black wool high up the neck for protecting the throat. (E)motional ______________________________________________________________________ I had left the temple waterless and frozen fatigued and peeling. On the edge of no return at least that's the case this winter solstice thousand two. how many years later? ______________________________________________________________________ It's cold outside ______________________________________________________________________ Golden light shadows the face On wall (through blinds, glass window, everywhere) "Schwarze Milch der Frühe" crisis doesn't lie lost daylight (anger doesn't see the many deaths) uprising into her burial zone No . . . ten footsteps . . . to the left future nights collapse (I had created more loss) Bea...

"The dancing Shivas, lent by museums in Dallas and Amsterdam and an unnamed private collector, lead off a succession of works, many of which are well known and widely reproduced, that are rarely, if ever, seen in one another's company. A collaboration between the Sackler and the American Federation of Arts, this exhibition has been organized by Vidya Dehejia, a professor of art history at Columbia University and formerly the chief curator and deputy director of the Sackler. It is the first in the United States to concentrate solely on the bronze temple sculptures created during the nearly four-century reign of the devout, munificent and innovative Chola emperors." nytimes:arts /Displaying Hindu Ritual With Reverence and Graciousness