Saturday, December 31, 2011

Friday, December 30, 2011

a queer austrian
how great it would be
if we all were just friends
the good lookers
the nice

as a young man
the scream
in overcoat
a dream grabbed the man
ah but in love
he was an absolutist

living by judgment
not plea or need

a leaper
chief of the tribe
over the cliff

And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect.
It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential--their one illuminating and convincing quality--the very truth of their existence.
The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts--whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism--but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies, with the attainment of our ambitions, with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.
It is otherwise with the artist.
Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal.
His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities--like the vulnerable body within a steel armour. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring--and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect endures forever.
The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition--and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation--and to the subtle but invincible conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts, to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity--the dead to the living and the living to the unborn.
And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk a little about the aim--the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult--obscured by mists; it is not in the clear logic of a triumphant conclusion; it is not in the unveiling of one of those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature. It is not less great, but only more difficult.
To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile--
-such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve. But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is accomplished--behold!
--all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile--and the return to an eternal rest.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

hollerin in the hollow

the trick is not pleasing
the body
but controlling then using

most lost the sense
of their own body
don't know where it is
just in there

stretch the muscles
around the bone
massage the  guts
with the abdominals
the spine in the cavity
all the while relaxing
the body from concerns
and pressures
from the brain

museic is body speech
the serpent inside you
is the body and you are the

making music should be
your body will make it
and that wild music
is what you need weekly
not a host

its  as natural as thinking
or speaking
what makes your race
not the toolmaking

and it is a race-you're losing
but  ahead of the others

move the race forward
get everyone to
in color
and with pipes
for their bodies

we do not make instruments
the body does
and we get in the way
by selling that
with cream

is it a coincidence
that the piano
is so good for stretching
the bow the string
your body in waves

dance is the body

the love is devastating

due to the absence
of any education
it can only be learned
then spread

and at the end
the fire of your body
should be kindled
by the breath of a friend
and relation

it is always the escape


Monday, December 26, 2011

the connection to the stars is under the trees

sun shining
through my asshole today
singing stephen
singing arthur

look like hell
but still together
in front of everyone

with neal


      dont answer
 my prayers

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Saturday, December 24, 2011


so again
fire blowing
thoughts on the way over
looking healthy
so maybe
it will go to 90

(Occupy the spring)
subject vs object
whats so dangerous
about changing the subject
could it threaten so

if it leads to loss of work ethic
             what good is it to me
             if I have to house
            a nonworking man
isnt that a good thing?

listening to vincente
talking of how prohibition
which exists nowhere else
is destroying
americas border nations

looking at martini's annunciation
where did all the beards come from
is that a jewish thing

so this is my house
cant fucking be
joys wine glass
from the summer
on the mantel
on the box instrument
so this is my house
and this is my dog
changing me

animals don't seek union
like us
or right openness
which we can only
safely recognize
in the other

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

continuity of identity
is a myth

you are a constellation
of spinners
a group
for that millimicronanosecond
to be followed by an unrelated

if you are open  to being all
all infinite possible yous
which are random frames
to appear and later
perhaps organize
in temporary orders

if  you are open to the white noise
dim memories
are never a reality
ride your wave
face the sun

Friday, December 16, 2011

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

sheets of code
drape my form
ladder me up
and the codes
in forms original
rough coarse
and gain sensation
in thalamic scapes

river touches sun
touches all
in us

we express relation
more curiously
we are relation
between everything

a pale art
yet at all times
everything singing

light into magic
space into time
meaning into void

Monday, December 12, 2011

aubrey's dots
divides of error
to luminate
the grotesque
in fun

the serpent
inside you
is the body
and you are
the woman

Monday, December 5, 2011

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Walking was the only exercise that really appealed to Adolf. He walked always and everywhere and, even in my workshop and in my room, he would stride up and down. I recall him always on the go. He could walk for hours without getting tired. We used to explore the surroundings of Linz in all directions. His love of nature was pronounced, but in a very personal way. Unlike other subjects, nature never attracted him as a matter for study; I hardly ever remember seeing him with a book on the subject.
Here was the limit of his thirst for knowledge. Details did not interest him, but only nature as a whole. He referred to it as "in the open."
This expression sounded as familiar on his lips as the word "home." And, in fact, he did feel at home with nature. As early as in the first years of our friendship I discovered his peculiar preference for nocturnal excursions, or even for staying overnight in some unfamiliar district. Being in the open had an extraordinary effect upon him. He was then quite a different person from what he was in town. Certain sides of his character revealed themselves nowhere else. He was never so collected and concentrated as when walking along the quiet paths in the beech woods  or at night when we took a quick walk on the Freinberg.
To the rhythm of his steps his thoughts would flow more smoothly and to better purpose than elsewhere. For a long time I could not understand one peculiar contradiction in him. When the sun shone brightly in the streets and a fresh, revivifying wind brought the smell of the woods into the town, an irresistible force drove him out of the narrow, stuffy streets into the woods and fields. But hardly had we reached the open country, than he would assure me that it would be impossible for him to live in the country again. It would be terrible for him to have to live in a village. For all his love of nature, he was always glad when we got back to the town. As I grew to know him better, I also came to understand this apparent contradiction. He needed the town, the variety and abundance of its impressions, experiences and events; he felt there that he had his share in everything; that there was nothing in which his interest was not engaged.
He needed people with their contrasting interests, their ambitions, intentions, plans and desires. Only in this problem-laden atmosphere did he feel at home. From this point of view the village was altogether too simple, too insignificant, too unimportant, and did not provide enough scope for his limitless need to take an interest in everything. Besides, for him, a town was interesting in itself as an agglomeration of houses and buildings. It was understandable that he should want to live only in a town. On the other hand, he needed an effective counterweight to the town, which always troubled and excited him and made constant demands on his interests and his talents. He found this in nature, which even he could not try to change and improve because its eternal laws are beyond the reach of the human will. Here he could once more find his own self, since here he was not obliged, as he was in town, eternally to be taking sides.
One day when we were taking a walk he suddenly stopped, produced from his pocket a little black notebook -- 1 still see it before me and could describe it minutely -- and read me a poem he had written. I do not remember the poem itself any longer; to be precise, I can no longer distinguish it from the other poems which Adolf read to me in later days. But I do remember distinctly how much it impressed me that my friend wrote poetry and carried his poems around with him in the same way that I carried my tools. When Adolf later showed me his drawings and designs which he had sketched -- somewhat confused and confusing designs which were really beyond me -- when he told me that he had much more and better work in his room and was determined to devote his whole life to art, then it dawned on me what kind of person my friend really was.
He belonged to that particular species of people of which I had dreamed myself in my more expansive moments; an artist, who despised the mere bread-and-butter job and devoted himself to writing poetry, to drawing, painting and to going to the theatre. This impressed me enormously. I was thrilled by the grandeur which I saw here. My ideas of an artist were then still very hazy - probably as hazy as were Hitler's. But that made it all the more alluring.
I cannot conclude this chapter without mentioning one of Hitler's qualities which, I freely admit, seems paradoxical to talk about now.
Hitler was full of deep understanding and sympathy. He took a most touching interest in me. Without my telling him, he knew exactly how I felt. How often this helped me in difficult times! He always knew what I needed and what I wanted.
However intensely he was occupied with himself he would always have time for the affairs of those people in whom he was interested. It was not by chance that he was the one who persuaded my father to let me study music and thereby influenced my life in a decisive way. Rather, this was the outcome of his general attitude of sharing in all the things that were of concern to me. Sometimes I had a feeling that he was living my life as well as his own.
His nose was quite straight and well proportioned, but in no way remarkable. His forehead was high and receded a little. I was always sorry that even in those days he had the habit of combing his hair straight down over his forehead. Yet this traditional forehead-nose-mouth description seems rather ridiculous to me.
For in this countenance the eyes were so outstanding that one didn't notice anything else.
Never in my life have I seen any other person whose appearance - how shall I put it- was so completely dominated by the eyes. They were the light eyes of his mother, but her somewhat staring, penetrating gaze was even more marked in the son and had even more force and expressiveness. It was uncanny how these eyes could change their expression, especially when Adolf was speaking. To me his sonorous voice meant much less than the expression of his eyes.
In fact, Adolf spoke with his eyes, and even when his lips were silent one knew what he wanted to say. When he first came to our house and I introduced him to my mother, she said to me in the evening, "What eyes your friend has!"
And I remember quite distinctly that there was more fear than admiration in her words.
If I am asked where one could perceive, in his youth, this man's exceptional qualities, I can only answer, "In the eyes."

a friend,  august kubitzek