Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Theme: Nicholas Rombes

  • As we move deeper into the twenty-first century our world seems evermore bifurcated between the known and the hidden, and this visible divide characterizes our own psychotic state. On the one hand, as the Snowden documents show, we are all of us watched by groups whose names we don't even know, for purposes that remain obscure. Read more
  • This is not another obituary, another retrospective, another "Lou Reed's songs were the soundtrack to my life" essay. It is instead an attempt to find, in the small, quiet pockets of air in Lou Reed's 1975 album Metal Machine Music trace elements of the less obvious ingredients that made the music possible. And here is a sample of that music.Read more
  • A letter from X. Read more
  • The bleeding edge, Mr. Pynchon, give it back. The way way leads on to way. Out goes the pilot light. I have watched The Passenger too many times. Help me, Kathryn says, help me decipher the mix-tape code of my desire.Read more
  • The President folds and unfolds Aleppo. He has made a decision.Read more
  • Right at the phrase “…Black beads and broke” – I felt the sharp kick of recognition and, putting The Glimmering Room back down on my desk, understood that Cruz's words activated a dark mechanism whose soft gears I could feel turning within me. They would tear me apart from the inside out, I knew, and to stop them I had to go back. To Anne Sexton. And to Bald James.Read more
  • You, the industrial intelligence complex of the mind, the thought that escapes no thought. Who watches the watchmen whose leaking brains become the subjectRead more
  • You sink your teeth into history and it bleeds. The disheveled heads of the headless. The split open pink grapefruit.Read more
  • Let me press yourself into your fucking self until you disappear completely. You are the executive of unmanned hateRead more
  • It’s true that I worked for them during the second purge. It’s not my intention to excuse what I’ve done, though God knows my crimes, if crimes is even the proper word, are far less grievous than those committed by others, the ones now called patriots. As for those maimed by our activities, they will have to speak, if they are still capable of speaking, for themselves.Read more
  • Throughout his career, but especially in writings from the 1950s gathered together as the essay “The Evolution of the Language of Cinema,” film critic André Bazin praised the potential of the cinematic image “not according to what it adds to reality but what of it reveals of it.” And, a bit later: “Is not neorealism primarily a kind of humanism and only secondarily a style of film-making?”Read more
  • You can’t go back. And yet here I am going back, to house zero, to the beginning. I can’t remember anything. I remember everything. These are how my thoughts run now, in contradictions that bark against each other. I remember what Evelyn’s face looked like. I can’t remember what her face looked like. The world before the removals began wasn’t like this. Read more
  • It’s my voice, but not my voice. And yet how to be sure? I myself have used the voice putty, but it requires training and practice. “Come in,” the voice says again. I hesitate. “Oh for God’s sake, Bronson, you’ve come this far. This is what you wanted.”Read more
  • They took you to the first house, and then, later, to the second. By the time they had removed you to the third house you knew the process was underway. Each house presented its own puzzles and, ultimately, its own terrors. They tried to make the windows thick enough to obscure the sound of the drones, but you could always hear them.Read more
  • I, Bronson didn’t see the note—hand scrawled in red ink on one of my hospital discharge papers—until a few days later, after I had settled back into my apartment. I had been asked (yet again) by my agency to provide documentation of such-and-such a nature about my condition, treatment and release. Read more
  • Mark Perry, the founder of one of the earliest punk fanzines Sniffin' Glue, has said, “Although [punk] was entirely connected to the hippy politics, it was entirely the natural progression of hippies' 'anti-establishmentism,' I think. You couldn't wear bells and flowers to freak the powers out anymore and there was a perfectly logical line from the San Francisco hippies to the London punks."Read more
  • My life, in those days, was to be defined by three female poets: Dana Levin, Olena Kalytiak Davis, and Brigit Pegeen Kelly. Where lies the fault in that? Could I be blamed for seeing darkness in everything? Or for feeling, at some point of no return, that it was not I who had chosen them, but rather they who had chosen me?Read more
  • A sense of outsideness. Buildings turned inside out on 9-11, and people outside in the streets of Manhattan. The mind, outside of itself with disbelief. The brutal and temporary restoration of the natural world in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities.Read more
  • The first in a series of liberated-book-jacket-set-to-music videos, this is Haruki Murakami's IQ84 and "Angels Sing," driving down Livernois Avenue in Detroit, December 13, 2011.Read more
  • I am close enough to Katherine to be burned by her radiant sorrow the summer her brother dies, the summer I save her from . . . from what? In the end, it wasn't her who needed saving. After his death she disappears. For two whole months. As if grief could be locked away. Read more
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