'The only leftist politics are the politics of ego and personality.
The only rightist politics are the politics of conspiracy and greed.
Centrist politics are the politics of smug assassination.
Politics is the creation of the degraded dream, self-delusion and reasons for antipathy. It is to make false connections of cause and effect. A politician must be ill, pathological.
The answer to politics is opposition and association.'
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
re: blaine invasion cont'd
That was a wild thing I wrote for a noticeboard of Canadian and borderline poets. It may interest you as a manipulation of History. If I read it out loud it would be oral history. A friend says none of this happened as he thinks history revolved around the triumphs of his faction expessed as in strange philosophocal events of nine people and a two page newspaper. I say they did take place, and the flamingoes, the milky way freeway and everything else.
re: blaine invasion
I'm not quite sure what I'm talking about except that it has something to do with forming an object, How it is done.
An objective co-something or other of something, like a poem. An object, image or event which is based on rules that an enclosing narrative doesn't have so that what is there, invisible there beyond the narrative or frozen imaginaire is now seen and felt.
This also means beyond the limitations of senses but absolute in them. With Grassy Narrows, the Vancouver prison riot and the Invasion of Blaine as well as the Waterloo university occupation and the two times I was arrested - and as well as the Partisan Street program, I with others created something, an event evidently now gone from most memories as they were and have remained the news image, that were designed to signify one thing, a false thing, a thing meta and under or above reality, but was actually intended to get someone 'in lawful custody' out.
Enclosed warriors, tortured innocents like Student idealists, Communist anti-fascists released by a Caravan of false ethnic wanderers, an invasion of children and picnickers, a crowd of faux arsonists, and a phoney biserker.
That is what the difficulties caused by surrealism are intended to do, to get the reader or viewer OUT. It has an objective, or more like a compulsion or duty. It must be done. To get away from Ultreye (the god-thing beyond panoptic) and take the reader with you. Out.
I saw, when I was last in Vancouver staying in a Hotel on Granville, a history channel thing saying the invasion of Blaine was about the environment and atomic testing. No it wasn't. It was about Cambodia.
I wondered if I was ever there.
The set off of the Native People's caravan from the courthouse was said to be an abortion caravan which did take place but years earlier.
She did a voiceover of the film but it was of native dancers. And me.
'Surreal,' as they say.
An objective co-something or other of something, like a poem. An object, image or event which is based on rules that an enclosing narrative doesn't have so that what is there, invisible there beyond the narrative or frozen imaginaire is now seen and felt.
This also means beyond the limitations of senses but absolute in them. With Grassy Narrows, the Vancouver prison riot and the Invasion of Blaine as well as the Waterloo university occupation and the two times I was arrested - and as well as the Partisan Street program, I with others created something, an event evidently now gone from most memories as they were and have remained the news image, that were designed to signify one thing, a false thing, a thing meta and under or above reality, but was actually intended to get someone 'in lawful custody' out.
Enclosed warriors, tortured innocents like Student idealists, Communist anti-fascists released by a Caravan of false ethnic wanderers, an invasion of children and picnickers, a crowd of faux arsonists, and a phoney biserker.
That is what the difficulties caused by surrealism are intended to do, to get the reader or viewer OUT. It has an objective, or more like a compulsion or duty. It must be done. To get away from Ultreye (the god-thing beyond panoptic) and take the reader with you. Out.
I saw, when I was last in Vancouver staying in a Hotel on Granville, a history channel thing saying the invasion of Blaine was about the environment and atomic testing. No it wasn't. It was about Cambodia.
I wondered if I was ever there.
The set off of the Native People's caravan from the courthouse was said to be an abortion caravan which did take place but years earlier.
She did a voiceover of the film but it was of native dancers. And me.
'Surreal,' as they say.
the blaine invasion
I was a candidate in a Canadian Federal election. In that election, like the one just passing, the expression one heard a lot was `It's so surreal.' This may be a prism that many are seeing through not only the Canadian elections but life.
I have written elsewhere that I hate the ideology and practice of memoirism, that is, structuring narratives of the past in which the ego plays the starring role. I find memoirism an essential tool of fascism, child abuse, plagiarism and other unattractive coping mechanisms.
But
This idea of elections being surreal coupled with the sensation I have felt lately when people have wondered about my Canadianism, or even my actual existence (including my own family) got me remembering aspects of my political career.
And
I have assured myself that it is not memoirism I am doing because first of all I seem to be the only one who is the slightest bit interested in any of it anymore as something to enhance their own narratives with, and second because the memories always involve `we' not me. And they are surreal anyway.
I realised how surreal they were when I was drinking whiskey in a Vancouver hotel that used to be seedy but was now rather nice watching a political documentary on T.V. And there it was, scenes rendered into narrative historic fact wired into part of the official Canada easily replacing my surrealism. And there I was. Canadian at last! A ghostly image.
First scene was of the time we decided to invade the United States. This act, mentioned in U.S. media as the first time since the war of 1812 and in Canadian parliament as the work of anti-Canadian professional revolutionaries and poets was filmed and shown all over the world. It made, I know, the news in Denmark and was seen by someone who was once a girlfriend who contacted me again.
`We' decided to do it, the invasion of the U.S, originally called a peace picnic, because the U.S. had invaded Cambodia. We thought we would go twenty two miles into the U.S and exchange that for the Parrot's Beak, which is what they had. Twenty two miles. Very practical.
There was a good leaflet and `we' gathered in strength at the Peace Arch between White Rock and Blaine. Then, with a happy sigh, the picnickers, children, drummers and significant others that we were packed up lunches and marched past customs into Blaine and Amerikka under a sunny sky.
As the column of cheerful invaders diminished, people stopping to shop, or getting tired and going back to lunch, a large man ran out of a bar carrying a pistol saying `you fucking communists'. A woman, who I see was a candidate in the recent election, kicked it out of his hands. Some of us cheered. I think she is now billed as a reformist.
After a few miles in, just past a hotel, `we', the core who had ventured forth and a few who had joined us since, turned and went back to the border singing the Huron Carole and feeling very Canadian although some were just learning the words. We had gone only a mile. But it had been an act more literal than what most of the others had done. We took our threats and proclamations seriously.
It was surreal back there, there was a line of a thousand ugly looking, angry, scruffy Canadians, some bleeding, raging in and around the border flower beds who were faced across that border by a line of multi-uniformed American riot police and soldiers, dozens of whom had rifles. It was a lesson in what happens in the meantime if you are ever writing a short story.
Some of the troops had torn shirts, were Seattle Blue Asses, some were so called Indian Affairs, some were Army, some were armed customs officers and some were cowboy-hatted border guards. There was a Coast Guard guy. We went through their lines unnoticed and invisible as we were not actors in that classic confrontation and image. Cops against the people. We joined the Canadians. The Canadians were digging rocks from the flower beds and hurling themat the police. The gates of the Peace Arch had been shut and tied with booster cables. Under the slogans 'may these gates never be closed' and 'children of a common mother' they were closed and someone had defaced the 'mother' with spray paint. As I approached I saw a friend leaping way into the air (he became the founder of a great institution and his name rhymes with `leap') hurling a flower encrusted white painted rock. This photo was on the front page next morning.
The police finally attacked and broke a few arms. In fact they invaded Canada. It was also the first time since the last (but it was a near thing in the war measures act too). The police attack was prompted when a trainload of new cars, including Corvettes, went by on the railway parallel to the road and was enthusiastically stoned! Corvettes! No wonder they attacked. A few broken arms and counter charges later we all went home watched by two (yes, only two) Mounties sitting quietly in their car. As Mounties do compared to the Cavalry. Anyway on the documentary I saw years later in the hotel the voiceover said that the demonstration had been a very peaceful protest on environmental issues and nuclear testing. A prominent politician was interviewed associating himself with these traditional Canadian concerns. The voiceover didn't say `nice' or `boring' but you could hear it there with an invisible smirk. Later it showed the Native People's Caravan which went across Canada visiting reserves picking up demands to be taken to the Parliament where it was attacked on the steps by Mounties. I was beaten again there. But in the documentary some women were met by Trudeau. But I had seen myself leaving in the clip before! The voiceover said it was a caravan about women's rights, which in fact had taken place years earlier. A woman who I knew was interviewed mentioning the rights now won.
There was later the clip of our community human rights campaigningwhen `we' drove at night through the streets informing first nations people and kids about their rights giving them leaflets and numbers of lawyers as the were being rousted by the police during a periodic campaign. The shots were of the rain and the windshields. I complained about to the CBC as romanticising the situation when they were first shown at the time. And they showed again a staged event with police officers I had also complained about. I confess in a movie I made later about mobile clinics in Africa I used the same shot.
Further surrealistically, not in the shot, and more outside the narratives, and in more image defying memory was the guns we had hidden in the trunk of our human rights cars in case the police started a shootout as they had with some Native persons. In the town of Blaine a great number of deserters and some escapees from Camp Pendleton military prison were in the hotel and came back across the border with us. The Caravan went to Grassy Narrows where desperate and near suicidal warriors, some with mercury poisoning and some drugged to the eyeballs were effectively surrounded by Wounded Knee templated Mounties. We took them out.
Later on, following all that I mistakenly punched Chrétien in the nose in a small remonstrance (that should alone make me Canadian but was not in the history documentary).
Yup, 'we', the surreal picnickers, were an Underground Railroad, yup, `we' the barefoot lawyers were people's militia, and yup `we' the surreal gypsy social reformers were following a Clauswitzian dictum on encirclement and not Ghandi.
Get them out! Get them home! Feed them!
My active engaged political career was based on the same dictum I have now in writing. Get them out! Get them out for God's sake from that silly encasing narrative. That beginning, middle and end of the story. Get them out however you can. Get people away from the dead
end roles the official narrative has written for them. Deserter, Perp, Prisoner, Martyr. Use surrealism, use a joke, use the collective power, use the magic image. but get in somehow, anyhow, get out and take them with you.
Take them away from the invisible watcher, the author, the one way glass mirror all invisible but whose presence turns the whole of life into a prison. Take them away from the concocted farce, the tightly structured fiction, the escapist video that has been quietly substituted for Identity, Community Nation and Mind.
`We', it was always `we' (the group makes it possible) failed once during a liberal march for prison reform which was supposed to cover a breakout of some friends we knew were being tortured, some we knew to be very confused and very terrified bunnies indeed. The breakout
didn't work due to a love affair between one prisoner and a social worker.
`We' at midnight snuck out the occupiers of an eastern university building so that the next day when the police attacked there was no-one there (red faced or what, even their dogs). But the demands were forgotten unfortunately. Good demands. They all were good demands.
Most have been met. But not really.
My political campaign as a parliamentary candidate meant I could dress as a lumberjack (I actually was an automobile builder so still a genuine worker despite the costume). I wore lovely chequered shirts and steel toed boots. I spoke from the bottom of my mouth. I was against war, racism and denial of human rights. Who isn't?
In `all candidates meetings' the audience loved me more than any of my students ever did when I clowned around about Shakespeare. They loved a Looney. They saw I was outside of the deathly false earnestness of the cocoon of simple banalities (the west vs. the east, big government vs. little, old arguments and memoirs). My stooges asked the planted questions (some of whom became very serious academics, one of whom now tragically dead did as much for rights of the disabled as anyone on the planet). I answered well and got no votes. I should have read poems.
None of this has happened now. The official narrative has taken over. Canada. It's surreal.
Have to do something else be someone else.
I have written elsewhere that I hate the ideology and practice of memoirism, that is, structuring narratives of the past in which the ego plays the starring role. I find memoirism an essential tool of fascism, child abuse, plagiarism and other unattractive coping mechanisms.
But
This idea of elections being surreal coupled with the sensation I have felt lately when people have wondered about my Canadianism, or even my actual existence (including my own family) got me remembering aspects of my political career.
And
I have assured myself that it is not memoirism I am doing because first of all I seem to be the only one who is the slightest bit interested in any of it anymore as something to enhance their own narratives with, and second because the memories always involve `we' not me. And they are surreal anyway.
I realised how surreal they were when I was drinking whiskey in a Vancouver hotel that used to be seedy but was now rather nice watching a political documentary on T.V. And there it was, scenes rendered into narrative historic fact wired into part of the official Canada easily replacing my surrealism. And there I was. Canadian at last! A ghostly image.
First scene was of the time we decided to invade the United States. This act, mentioned in U.S. media as the first time since the war of 1812 and in Canadian parliament as the work of anti-Canadian professional revolutionaries and poets was filmed and shown all over the world. It made, I know, the news in Denmark and was seen by someone who was once a girlfriend who contacted me again.
`We' decided to do it, the invasion of the U.S, originally called a peace picnic, because the U.S. had invaded Cambodia. We thought we would go twenty two miles into the U.S and exchange that for the Parrot's Beak, which is what they had. Twenty two miles. Very practical.
There was a good leaflet and `we' gathered in strength at the Peace Arch between White Rock and Blaine. Then, with a happy sigh, the picnickers, children, drummers and significant others that we were packed up lunches and marched past customs into Blaine and Amerikka under a sunny sky.
As the column of cheerful invaders diminished, people stopping to shop, or getting tired and going back to lunch, a large man ran out of a bar carrying a pistol saying `you fucking communists'. A woman, who I see was a candidate in the recent election, kicked it out of his hands. Some of us cheered. I think she is now billed as a reformist.
After a few miles in, just past a hotel, `we', the core who had ventured forth and a few who had joined us since, turned and went back to the border singing the Huron Carole and feeling very Canadian although some were just learning the words. We had gone only a mile. But it had been an act more literal than what most of the others had done. We took our threats and proclamations seriously.
It was surreal back there, there was a line of a thousand ugly looking, angry, scruffy Canadians, some bleeding, raging in and around the border flower beds who were faced across that border by a line of multi-uniformed American riot police and soldiers, dozens of whom had rifles. It was a lesson in what happens in the meantime if you are ever writing a short story.
Some of the troops had torn shirts, were Seattle Blue Asses, some were so called Indian Affairs, some were Army, some were armed customs officers and some were cowboy-hatted border guards. There was a Coast Guard guy. We went through their lines unnoticed and invisible as we were not actors in that classic confrontation and image. Cops against the people. We joined the Canadians. The Canadians were digging rocks from the flower beds and hurling themat the police. The gates of the Peace Arch had been shut and tied with booster cables. Under the slogans 'may these gates never be closed' and 'children of a common mother' they were closed and someone had defaced the 'mother' with spray paint. As I approached I saw a friend leaping way into the air (he became the founder of a great institution and his name rhymes with `leap') hurling a flower encrusted white painted rock. This photo was on the front page next morning.
The police finally attacked and broke a few arms. In fact they invaded Canada. It was also the first time since the last (but it was a near thing in the war measures act too). The police attack was prompted when a trainload of new cars, including Corvettes, went by on the railway parallel to the road and was enthusiastically stoned! Corvettes! No wonder they attacked. A few broken arms and counter charges later we all went home watched by two (yes, only two) Mounties sitting quietly in their car. As Mounties do compared to the Cavalry. Anyway on the documentary I saw years later in the hotel the voiceover said that the demonstration had been a very peaceful protest on environmental issues and nuclear testing. A prominent politician was interviewed associating himself with these traditional Canadian concerns. The voiceover didn't say `nice' or `boring' but you could hear it there with an invisible smirk. Later it showed the Native People's Caravan which went across Canada visiting reserves picking up demands to be taken to the Parliament where it was attacked on the steps by Mounties. I was beaten again there. But in the documentary some women were met by Trudeau. But I had seen myself leaving in the clip before! The voiceover said it was a caravan about women's rights, which in fact had taken place years earlier. A woman who I knew was interviewed mentioning the rights now won.
There was later the clip of our community human rights campaigningwhen `we' drove at night through the streets informing first nations people and kids about their rights giving them leaflets and numbers of lawyers as the were being rousted by the police during a periodic campaign. The shots were of the rain and the windshields. I complained about to the CBC as romanticising the situation when they were first shown at the time. And they showed again a staged event with police officers I had also complained about. I confess in a movie I made later about mobile clinics in Africa I used the same shot.
Further surrealistically, not in the shot, and more outside the narratives, and in more image defying memory was the guns we had hidden in the trunk of our human rights cars in case the police started a shootout as they had with some Native persons. In the town of Blaine a great number of deserters and some escapees from Camp Pendleton military prison were in the hotel and came back across the border with us. The Caravan went to Grassy Narrows where desperate and near suicidal warriors, some with mercury poisoning and some drugged to the eyeballs were effectively surrounded by Wounded Knee templated Mounties. We took them out.
Later on, following all that I mistakenly punched Chrétien in the nose in a small remonstrance (that should alone make me Canadian but was not in the history documentary).
Yup, 'we', the surreal picnickers, were an Underground Railroad, yup, `we' the barefoot lawyers were people's militia, and yup `we' the surreal gypsy social reformers were following a Clauswitzian dictum on encirclement and not Ghandi.
Get them out! Get them home! Feed them!
My active engaged political career was based on the same dictum I have now in writing. Get them out! Get them out for God's sake from that silly encasing narrative. That beginning, middle and end of the story. Get them out however you can. Get people away from the dead
end roles the official narrative has written for them. Deserter, Perp, Prisoner, Martyr. Use surrealism, use a joke, use the collective power, use the magic image. but get in somehow, anyhow, get out and take them with you.
Take them away from the invisible watcher, the author, the one way glass mirror all invisible but whose presence turns the whole of life into a prison. Take them away from the concocted farce, the tightly structured fiction, the escapist video that has been quietly substituted for Identity, Community Nation and Mind.
`We', it was always `we' (the group makes it possible) failed once during a liberal march for prison reform which was supposed to cover a breakout of some friends we knew were being tortured, some we knew to be very confused and very terrified bunnies indeed. The breakout
didn't work due to a love affair between one prisoner and a social worker.
`We' at midnight snuck out the occupiers of an eastern university building so that the next day when the police attacked there was no-one there (red faced or what, even their dogs). But the demands were forgotten unfortunately. Good demands. They all were good demands.
Most have been met. But not really.
My political campaign as a parliamentary candidate meant I could dress as a lumberjack (I actually was an automobile builder so still a genuine worker despite the costume). I wore lovely chequered shirts and steel toed boots. I spoke from the bottom of my mouth. I was against war, racism and denial of human rights. Who isn't?
In `all candidates meetings' the audience loved me more than any of my students ever did when I clowned around about Shakespeare. They loved a Looney. They saw I was outside of the deathly false earnestness of the cocoon of simple banalities (the west vs. the east, big government vs. little, old arguments and memoirs). My stooges asked the planted questions (some of whom became very serious academics, one of whom now tragically dead did as much for rights of the disabled as anyone on the planet). I answered well and got no votes. I should have read poems.
None of this has happened now. The official narrative has taken over. Canada. It's surreal.
Have to do something else be someone else.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
from the former bektashi...psychiatrist
from the former Bektashi psychiatrist:
'Schizophrenia and paranoia evolved through the eons as healthy reactions to the condition of being human, which through time developed as being the species most displaced and vulnerable. First driven as stumbling fish slugs into the swamps by sleek creatures in the deep waters which were much more attractive and much smarter than us.
'We further evolved as we became humanoids, so useless that we invented containers to hold our food, our sexual objects and our dead. This was because we had so little that we had to save what we had for later. We used, unlike everyone else, sticks to poke with, especially as our teeth were bad and our hands and tongues useless for picking up ants, let alone fending off viscious tree slugs.
'Bi-polar reactions came as a mental disturbace to reflect when we had food and when we didn't, at which times we ate our relatives, loved ones and members of our gang. Mania was for when we had some. Depression for not any left. These coping mechanisms made cannibalism possible. They gave us the imagination and feeling for it. The soul. Other animals evolved none of this stuff. They have a different mental health.
'Anti-social feelings come about in people as a way of adapting to the fact that bigger animals in our species steal almost everything the group gets, screw you and shit in your space while the rest of the group snarls and laughs hysterically praising and stroking the big guy, but you have to belong because the tigers won't have you, in fact quite the reverse. When he was asleep you pissed on him.
'Sanity and vision are the real illnesses; they place mankind within the perfection of the rest of creation, where it never was. Only in its dreams. The job of the psychiatrist is to, through drugs and persuasion, enable sane disorders while overcoming realistic, genetically
determined, responses to the human condition.
'Schizophrenia and paranoia evolved through the eons as healthy reactions to the condition of being human, which through time developed as being the species most displaced and vulnerable. First driven as stumbling fish slugs into the swamps by sleek creatures in the deep waters which were much more attractive and much smarter than us.
'We further evolved as we became humanoids, so useless that we invented containers to hold our food, our sexual objects and our dead. This was because we had so little that we had to save what we had for later. We used, unlike everyone else, sticks to poke with, especially as our teeth were bad and our hands and tongues useless for picking up ants, let alone fending off viscious tree slugs.
'Bi-polar reactions came as a mental disturbace to reflect when we had food and when we didn't, at which times we ate our relatives, loved ones and members of our gang. Mania was for when we had some. Depression for not any left. These coping mechanisms made cannibalism possible. They gave us the imagination and feeling for it. The soul. Other animals evolved none of this stuff. They have a different mental health.
'Anti-social feelings come about in people as a way of adapting to the fact that bigger animals in our species steal almost everything the group gets, screw you and shit in your space while the rest of the group snarls and laughs hysterically praising and stroking the big guy, but you have to belong because the tigers won't have you, in fact quite the reverse. When he was asleep you pissed on him.
'Sanity and vision are the real illnesses; they place mankind within the perfection of the rest of creation, where it never was. Only in its dreams. The job of the psychiatrist is to, through drugs and persuasion, enable sane disorders while overcoming realistic, genetically
determined, responses to the human condition.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
from the former bektashi...economist
From the former Bektashi economist
The more you own, the more you lose. The more you grasp, the more gets away.
Wealth like desire is addictive. Any addiction is never to real things but to the declining sensations and increasing symbolism of the drug, a mental addiction to the style of the drug taking, to the ultimate abstraction and absurdity required to be the addict, to the theatre of it all. All the absurdity of economics is based on the reversal of values and laws of dreams. Death is good, scarcity is wonderful, war is opportunity, theft is clever, intellect is stupid, prudence and madness are interchangeable, contract is conflict, service is betrayal. A black magical world of carnival and misrule that everyone must live in.
The more you own, the more you lose. The more you grasp, the more gets away.
Wealth like desire is addictive. Any addiction is never to real things but to the declining sensations and increasing symbolism of the drug, a mental addiction to the style of the drug taking, to the ultimate abstraction and absurdity required to be the addict, to the theatre of it all. All the absurdity of economics is based on the reversal of values and laws of dreams. Death is good, scarcity is wonderful, war is opportunity, theft is clever, intellect is stupid, prudence and madness are interchangeable, contract is conflict, service is betrayal. A black magical world of carnival and misrule that everyone must live in.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
blog of revelations: from the former bektashi scientist
From the former Bektashi scientist:
'We must not confuse adaptation and evolution with susceptibility and devolution.
'The dinosaurs farted themselves into extinction by the result of their overwhelming dominance and the consequent ecological disorder caused by that. The methane gas they emitted caused a climatic catastrophe of imbalance. The lush jungles from hothouse methane warming were wiped out by a meteoric dust cloud. Adaptability and divergence had gone.
Humans are rapidly creating the conditions for their own extinction in a similar way through geometrically increased evolutionary susceptibility, through organization and harmonisation of everything to them. Having made the whole world over with their greedy unbalanced needs, humans have created the situation that a single virus or temporary shortage can kill them all. This should happen any time now. The last act in their devolution from sea toads.
(This excerpt is not in Re: The Dead Arts, soon to be published by BLUE ORANGE PUBLISHING.)
'We must not confuse adaptation and evolution with susceptibility and devolution.
'The dinosaurs farted themselves into extinction by the result of their overwhelming dominance and the consequent ecological disorder caused by that. The methane gas they emitted caused a climatic catastrophe of imbalance. The lush jungles from hothouse methane warming were wiped out by a meteoric dust cloud. Adaptability and divergence had gone.
Humans are rapidly creating the conditions for their own extinction in a similar way through geometrically increased evolutionary susceptibility, through organization and harmonisation of everything to them. Having made the whole world over with their greedy unbalanced needs, humans have created the situation that a single virus or temporary shortage can kill them all. This should happen any time now. The last act in their devolution from sea toads.
(This excerpt is not in Re: The Dead Arts, soon to be published by BLUE ORANGE PUBLISHING.)
Friday, March 10, 2006
imazhi
e ulur atje, e sigurt aq sa dhe vdekja është e butë, në vajtim
ajo nuk është prej fragmentë qelqi të thyera, por prej pasqyrash
mbi shami të shndritshme, prej fije argjendi
blu e theksuar mbi gurë të zinj, gati e shkrëmbuar
ajo është larguar, ka ikur, por gjithmonë e shndritshme dhe blu e theksuar
e lidhur nëpër vargje brisqesh
gjilpëra të holla mbajnë mishin e saj, si fluturat pas zemrës
filxhana të ndryshkur shënojnë kohën e saj dhe kuajt vallëzojnë rreth saj
një mbretëreshë në dritë dhe hije.
deri në gju të përmbytur, ata u ngritën
një nga një. dy nga dy, dhe vështruan
ëngjëjt vijnë nga zunkthi duke thëmbuar mbi re
gojë mbyllur, të rruar, gati për të ikur dhe kështu të ruajtur përmes
shelgjesh ndërsa bien nën ndritën e zbehtë.
të armatosur në ujë
mburoja vezulluese dhe bula shiu
dhe kështu shpëtuan duke rënë atje. Atje sipër dhe
në të ftohtë u mbështollën në
vellon e butësisë, fëmijë të përvuajtur
dhe drita e thyer ndriçon prej saj
ajo nuk është prej fragmentë qelqi të thyera, por prej pasqyrash
mbi shami të shndritshme, prej fije argjendi
blu e theksuar mbi gurë të zinj, gati e shkrëmbuar
ajo është larguar, ka ikur, por gjithmonë e shndritshme dhe blu e theksuar
e lidhur nëpër vargje brisqesh
gjilpëra të holla mbajnë mishin e saj, si fluturat pas zemrës
filxhana të ndryshkur shënojnë kohën e saj dhe kuajt vallëzojnë rreth saj
një mbretëreshë në dritë dhe hije.
deri në gju të përmbytur, ata u ngritën
një nga një. dy nga dy, dhe vështruan
ëngjëjt vijnë nga zunkthi duke thëmbuar mbi re
gojë mbyllur, të rruar, gati për të ikur dhe kështu të ruajtur përmes
shelgjesh ndërsa bien nën ndritën e zbehtë.
të armatosur në ujë
mburoja vezulluese dhe bula shiu
dhe kështu shpëtuan duke rënë atje. Atje sipër dhe
në të ftohtë u mbështollën në
vellon e butësisë, fëmijë të përvuajtur
dhe drita e thyer ndriçon prej saj
From The Beak's Poems.
Translated by Evis Carcani.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
blog of revelations XII: dis-gression
Dear Jean-Pierre,
Back from Paris. Went to a funeral of a bishop in Notre Dame; he was confessor to Latin Quarter in the '20's, a parish priest in the occupation and finally a kind of priest trainer. The choir were student priests robed in exquisite turquoise. Your interest would be that the hand movements to direct the singers and the congregation were perfectly co-ordinated among several boy conductors. The hands looked like spiralling birds.
It was a plain used coffin. But he must have lived like a king. Nice residence, the Seine, artists, song. And other rites. Lived across the street from Shakespere and company. Lived near the Nazi gestapo headquarters. He believed, according to the presiding Cardinal, that life was a vale of tears followed by paradise.
Then up the twisting streets into a blue sky to Sacre Coeur for the choir of nuns. I was startled by the same hand movements as they sang among candles, the soloists sounding like they knew the most frightful secrets.
I went next to Montmartre graveyard to get more shots of Nijinsky's tomb for my next book's cover. Lovely grave. The sad clown sprawled on it rendered gold by hands seeking blessings is me, I sometimes feel. Foucault has an anonymous grave nearby saying he is a physiscian. Zola has an asshole looking bust. My hands for the first time don't appear in the shots. But a black graveyard cat does, ruffled by a wind til swaying. Then a blue tin sepulchre and next a row of peaked tombs including that of an exiled romanov teenage princess. There is another tomb with an inner light. The row of tombs resemble exactly the roofs of Paris I had taken earlier from the steps of Sacre Coeur on Monmartre. Snow over blue and green. Perhps this is by design of some transcendental tourist board.
I also saw an exhibit of Coptic funery items at the Louvre. Some were from the Egyptian town of Dis near which I once lived in a town sacred to Annubis, about which I have written. Pictures of Annubis and Osiris helping a Christian into the grave. Lots of sculpture of sacred hands. There is a whole cult of these. Especially of John the Baptist of course. There are significant things about those number of fingers extended where are the ones not shown. There are municipal contests about where the 'missing ones' are (as three or two are extended for certain blessings). Pieces are dis-covered. One finger is supposed to be in St. Jean De Marianne in the alps where the Savoy's come from. I saw the church there last year. John's finger is there. I saw a skull of his at the Sultan's place in Istanbul. Post mortuary dis-membership must be so dis-concerting.
But enough dis-gression.
Back from Paris. Went to a funeral of a bishop in Notre Dame; he was confessor to Latin Quarter in the '20's, a parish priest in the occupation and finally a kind of priest trainer. The choir were student priests robed in exquisite turquoise. Your interest would be that the hand movements to direct the singers and the congregation were perfectly co-ordinated among several boy conductors. The hands looked like spiralling birds.
It was a plain used coffin. But he must have lived like a king. Nice residence, the Seine, artists, song. And other rites. Lived across the street from Shakespere and company. Lived near the Nazi gestapo headquarters. He believed, according to the presiding Cardinal, that life was a vale of tears followed by paradise.
Then up the twisting streets into a blue sky to Sacre Coeur for the choir of nuns. I was startled by the same hand movements as they sang among candles, the soloists sounding like they knew the most frightful secrets.
I went next to Montmartre graveyard to get more shots of Nijinsky's tomb for my next book's cover. Lovely grave. The sad clown sprawled on it rendered gold by hands seeking blessings is me, I sometimes feel. Foucault has an anonymous grave nearby saying he is a physiscian. Zola has an asshole looking bust. My hands for the first time don't appear in the shots. But a black graveyard cat does, ruffled by a wind til swaying. Then a blue tin sepulchre and next a row of peaked tombs including that of an exiled romanov teenage princess. There is another tomb with an inner light. The row of tombs resemble exactly the roofs of Paris I had taken earlier from the steps of Sacre Coeur on Monmartre. Snow over blue and green. Perhps this is by design of some transcendental tourist board.
I also saw an exhibit of Coptic funery items at the Louvre. Some were from the Egyptian town of Dis near which I once lived in a town sacred to Annubis, about which I have written. Pictures of Annubis and Osiris helping a Christian into the grave. Lots of sculpture of sacred hands. There is a whole cult of these. Especially of John the Baptist of course. There are significant things about those number of fingers extended where are the ones not shown. There are municipal contests about where the 'missing ones' are (as three or two are extended for certain blessings). Pieces are dis-covered. One finger is supposed to be in St. Jean De Marianne in the alps where the Savoy's come from. I saw the church there last year. John's finger is there. I saw a skull of his at the Sultan's place in Istanbul. Post mortuary dis-membership must be so dis-concerting.
But enough dis-gression.
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