a list


library
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f moll
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k ite

Far Rockaway, detailed.

the nikolai tesla curve

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikola_Tesla

botas

a shipwreck of time
the boats went past
anchored and harbored
the sweetness to their bows

loveliness, i miss you
a dear tender wondering
of trust
built on the earth’s awakening

tomorrow the day lifts, and
tomorrow the day breaks.
it will gather with it
the best of all intentions.

darling, you are mine for
what is it now worth
tomorrow, i will give you
the earth and all its bearings.

21 September 2010

Потёмкин Potyomkin

The Battleship Potemkin (Russian: Броненосец «Потёмкин», Bronyenosyets Potyomkin), sometimes rendered as The Battleship Potyomkin, is a 1925 silent film directed by Sergei Eisenstein and produced by Mosfilm. It presents a dramatized version of the mutiny that occurred in 1905 when the crew of the Russian battleship Potemkin rebelled against their officers of the Tsarist regime.
The Battleship Potemkin has been called one of the most influential propaganda films of all time,[1][2] and was named the greatest film of all time at the Brussels World's Fair in 1958.[3][4][5]
The film is in the public domain in some parts of the world.

http://www.archive.org/details/BattleshipPotemkin

Wozzeck and Tomas -- Alex Ross eat Your Heart Out

The new polish documentary, a combination of a czech-polish love story mixed with deathly, stupid, polish overtones.


I don't know what he does on his days off. his nights off, because he's a polish immigrant who works seven days a week.



December 17th, I saw him outside, waiting to go to work, he was standing, waiting, as I walked towards him from McGolrick Park. He saw me. He crossed his leg. I had headphones on, but saw him mouth the words, "Hi Marie", and I kept walking.


He has a coolness about him. A kind of fuck-off-ness.

It's March now; he called me on St. Patrick's Day and I saved his number again. April. Sent him a text message, and then he called. We met in the park, walked through the park. He didn't want to talk about himself. He told me a story about hedgehogs. They are called "yesh" (jeze, j =y, z = sh) in polish. He told me he painted pictures of Jesus in Poland for tourists to buy. He was 25 then. He is quiet. It could be that he doesn't want to, or can't, speak English.


Passed by on McGuinness, today. Said hello, was wearing headphones again. I wonder if seeing him is just chance. I wish I did not care about it. But what else warrants meaning, or importance. Events. A bird shit on me today. I saw Voytek. Kundera wrote about two events happening, and when combined they create a new meaning. Or how the events are described: the order, the context, and the wording of each event, this is how the meaning is formed. I like Kundera's writing because he is so concerned with meaning.



I saw him today, Dec. 31st.


Tomas, Jan. 2

Litost. He told me that litost means mercy.
For Voyłec, it's the compassion, (or is it the litost?)
wspolczucie
litosc


I saw him a couple days ago -- The days and nights are all blending into one long day and night -- one extended day night to the day to the night and to the day.

Voytek is a dark wave.


I like Tomas, too; but in a different way. He seems more playful, almost childlike. Voyłec is serious, sad, and contemplative.


They are twins. It is hard to imagine. Firstly, they do not look alike. It is like opposites. Or like twins separated in the womb, different beings completely.





I saw a polish movie yesterday called Mniejsze zlo, the Lesser Evil. May 2, 2010. The director was there. It was at the Anthology Film Archives on 2nd Ave.


epilogue: I went to see Ligeti's opera 'La Grande Macabre'. It wasn't terrible. The opera was full of hand puppets and charged operatics; the grand scheme being nothing except to live, live, live, to take advantage of one's time on earth. The music full of sustained strings, basses, high harmonics in the violins. I thought of Voytek today maybe, yesterday, in passing. Perhaps it was nothing, or is nothing. It is nothing, to think.

Interview with the author (Anonymous) of Diary of an Oxygen Thief, and reflections on Fugitive Visions

I am late to the meeting -- I wake up at the ace hotel in the bottom bunk, fuzzy-headed, i had slept on my eyeglasses, the one arm curiously bent up, although when i put them on my face they are surprisingly not crooked -- I write to Anonymous and let him know of my whereabouts and that i still have to shower -- frank is still sleeping in the top bunk --
i walk over to his apt, trying to stay in the shade, smoking a cigarette on the way, my feet getting tired -- this is weekend i try to wear in my new clogs and i end up getting a blister on the top of my foot that is still there --

baader neimhoff -- not sure what this is in relation --some kind of theory of synchronicity ? red army faction in west berlin. just a reference to something. saw a book about it at sugartown and spoobill - terrorist group in germany in the ‘50’s?


"white nights, the third night, the one that you love who doesn't love you, the one who you think they went away with, but they still belong to you."


* i have to retain his anonymity -- for the reason of allowing people to identify/question their identities with the author/the person doing the deeds in the book -- the raw honesty of all, for all to read & experience without judging the author having a name/person

A quote: "The screen goes black after the introductory credits. We hear the Dante Symphony by Franz Liszt, the customary pretentious quotation in white lettering on black reads:
Through me you enter the city of sorrow
Through me you pass to eternal pain
Through me you reach the people that are lost
All hope abandon ye who enter here."


'"It's her eyes...that's what does it...they can't believe she could be so bad." I remember thinking it's a pity she's so fucked up because she's very tasty. But I also figured that who she was talking about had certainly put the fear of God into her. So I thought no more about it. Why would I? his appearance, a black t shirt with a spade on it
dark blue jeans with nice stitching, black dansko clogs


foreshadowing. so the book is about a kind of revenge --




he mentioned the fourth step, which is to write every [resentment] or fear or anxiety that you've ever had, dating from way back to childhood -- he talked about how things in childhood form -- an inch of a memory becomes a full-blown thing in adulthood -- I talked about orbits and knowing one's patterns -- there was mentioning of gender -- " a lot of women who come into the bkstore seem to like your book"

walking all day, walking over the bridge and whatnot.



he had funny speakers, like little ghosts, the white speaker shroud sat on the floor next to his chair -- i lounged on the entire sofa, with my bag and the contents of bag on the table, some girl had thrown gum in my hair at the show the night before and i cut most of it out at the ace hotel -- a piece kind of came loose and fell onto the coffeetable which was covered in a bright red pink and yellow flannel cover -- he said to me, after i had placed the assortment of things from the contents of my bag onto the table, "oh you like colors"

a synaesthete. we talked about soccer -- what positions we had played, fullback and half-back, although some of the wording he used was different than what i was used to --


i brought over mini chocolate wafer cookies (quattratini) -- the coffee he made was excellent -- we drank it out of milk bowls -- his bowl was bright blue, mine was brown with a chip in the side -- two rounds of coffee, i probably arrived @ 1:30 and stayed until almost 4 p.m., when he had to go meet a friend. we walked outside and the day was glorious, the banter beautiful, the walk to the coffeeshop & departing perfect.

blue eyes, copper red bushy eyebrows. a very pretty man. charming, very engaging in conversation and wit.


at one point he stretched his right leg to the arm of the chair in a beautiful back stretch of calf muscle. i admired it and watched his very body language the entire time. he showed me a poster of a woman with a gun, on which he had drawn tiny squiggles and spirals -- there was also a small framed picture of an egg shaped object, it was mostly decorated with the same spirals, like the ETA woman painting


i compared the small frame to the spanish woman with the gun -- he said something like "oh, you're very observant, i must be careful", as if he didn't know from the very inception about the observance.


i walked over the williamsburg bridge on the way back from manhattan -- i met up with frank after the interview and we walked all over the place and he got a hamburger and i got a veggie burger that tasted like curry and i put chipotle mayo on it, and it reminded me of Lem so I called him and we made plans to hang out (today, sunday) and i want to finish this today, this morning...
I walked over the bridge, slowly.

he has no pets, just many figurines, there was a shrine set up on the table across from the coffeetable, a large nun doll stood on top of the table, with small glasses and a hand up in the air, we contemplated what her name could be -- he said after a second of my thinking the nun was named Philomena, which is his mother's name.... father conversation, his mother's impression, she's seventy something still alive, will be alive until 95 at least or so, but wants to follow in her husband's footsteps...


i left my cd in his computer. we talked about hanging out in the future.

i said i liked the part in his book about kicking in the ice sculptures outside fort fuck-up. it really happened, most of the book.

other questions:


was the book reissued -- there was a hardback and then the paperback ---

aisling, is her name -- it's gaelic for dream





remembrances:

my mother's body, wax like, obviously the open coffin, the church in my town dwarfed by all the churches in new york -- the coffin sitting in front during the entire service, how i had been to this church my entire life, every fucking christmas, and now to have to be there for my mother's funeral --

here i am.

in being human all things happen, abnormal or dark or out of sorts, the idea is to perhaps guess when they are about to happen ==


if i really need to say it i will --










i need to rewrite a bunch of the harmonies --

second mvmt, needs more thirds -- harmonies. watch the transitions, conceptually and audibly, some of the transitions take too long, but this is a factor of the page turns --

it was a standard without a goal line -- which is time -- i guess I set myself to blow up the bridge, and I did --

- Robert Jordan rides away on his grey steed -- inspired by Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls.