“It’s a hard thing," Don Quixote instructed the saint, "for a woman to become a knight and have adventures and save this world. It’s necessary to pass through trials sometimes so perilous, you become mad and even die. Such trials are necessary.”—Kathy Acker, Don Quixote (via trans-atlantyk)
Silver rain at midnight, light on dark, flecks of red, glowing on the black road, moon hanging huge and low; a white china plate waiting to be smashed.
We drift, low and hard, hanging close to the road, our bike tires spinning silver and flicking water; cold, ice picks; onto bare legs.
The trees look purple, and their royal boughs shift and shudder, as secret creatures howl and jump, from nest to food. We push down on pedals, hoodies up, heads down, against the wind and rain, we sear a path in mercury droplets, across yellow lines, turning left, towards home.
Riding in front of me, he yells back to me. I see his face, light, glistening, a ghostly mask in the dark, but his words are eaten by the wind.
At the beginning of any text there is what remains closed, unseen. The text is born every time it’s read as we impose our own minds and ideas onto it. The text becomes a place of possibility, capable of infinite interpretation. Possibility is the child of this tension, which opposes a strict narrative thesis. Possibility is the antithesis, and without it there can be no opening. There is no-place we enter and enter at the same time, which becomes a utopia (the no place) or pure book—the book about nothing—as Jacques Derrida once noted.
“The ability of Blackness to travel to and be performed by non-Black bodies is supposed to be a triumph of post-racial politics, a feat that proves once and for all that race is not biological. Race does not have any biological basis, but I maintain that there is no triumph and no celebration when we embrace a white girl who deliberately attempts to sound like a Black girl, in a culture where Black girls can’t get no love.”—Black women are still being pushed to the sidelines. (via salon)
I should have sat in the front row at the NA meeting
I felt bad like it was my fault like i should have sat in the front row at the NA meeting not in the back That it was too hot that time we were coked and nearly-cooked-to-death-by-gigantic-outsourcer I’m almost dealing with it with my shoulders slouched In rehab there was a rock as big as a human head that you had to carry if you were hanging onto an issue like you had to carry the rock until you let go: you will enter at daybreak wheeling sunbathers weighted to diversion with do-gooders and all-knowers and the day will fade into faun while clanger counter-revolution worriers swim and hour the striplings of filth and empty overflowing rum birthdays
Odyssey Odyssey is a contemporary take on Homer’s Odyssey, performed for an audience of two in a Honda Odyssey. This work was included in The Machine Project Field Guide to L.A. Architecture, as part of Pacific Standard Time Presents: Modern Architecture in L.A., and originally performed from July 10–22, 2013.
"To build a better psych ward, a space unshackled from the inhumanity and stigmas of the "insane asylum", Kiyoshi Izumi would have to immerse himself in their world. He’d have to get on their level, the thinking went, to understand a patient’s struggles and, crucially, how those struggles could be inverted, blended, stretched, and exploded by various design quirks, ambient anomalies, temporal-spatial glitches, color schemes, light casts and any other features that to outsiders seemed mundane, but to whose grimmery existed only on wavelengths discernible to the afflicted. He’d have to conjure up not only hallucinations but also delusions and perceptual distortions distinct to psychoses. He’d have to eat acid. Or so he and Osmond and Hoffer thought. "
Brodie Lancaster is a shreddin’ staff writer for Rookie, an editor and copywriter at The Good Copy and a contributor to various print and online publications. In 2012 she launched Filmme Fatales, a zine on women and cinema. You can find out all about it here. We talked to La…
The N+7 procedure invented by Jean Lescure of Oulipo, involves replacing each noun in a text with the seventh one following it in a dictionary. (In French, it is also referred to as the ‘S+7’ procedure.) With this text generator you can enter an English text and 15 alternative texts will be generated, from N+1, which replaces each noun with the next one in the dictionary, to N+15, which takes the 15th noun following. It can create strange and surreal results. Pretty cool.
My text generated—
It’s almost dealing. I can feel it. I can feel it run-up and shuddering into experiment. I can smother it: the acrid and blackmail schoolgirl of Dude toil and International Role colitis. I can hear it: the metallic script of kilns in lofts, the silk of dossers cracked open. It’s almost dealing, the wanderings hundredweight with the gewgaw padre of early motel tramline, and the census creaks and tickles as the fiver transformers roost along their tragedies above us. Above us is Lonsdale and William St., in the central butterscotch divine, where a sacrament of boarder-suited and singer-haired leagues will enter at daybreak, wheeling sunbathers weighted to diversion with do-gooders in finders. In day fading faun, clanger counter-revolution worriers swimmer and hour the striplings of filth, and empty overflowing rum birthdays. Pillages swoop into hacks, pecking at lemon over tamp footprint. Beneath them, below leanings of cone and disclaimer, in an underground tactician of centennials: some slink, some sit, some shopper, some padre.
What speaks to us, seemingly, is always the big event, the untoward, the extra-ordinary: the front-page splash, the banner headlines. Railway trains only begin to exist when they are derailed, and the more passengers that are killed, the more the trains exist. Aeroplanes achieve existence only when they are hijacked. The one and only destiny of motor-cars is to drive into plane trees. Fifty-two weekends a year, fifty-two casualty lists: so many dead and all the better for the news media if the figures keep going up! Behind the event there is a scandal, a fissure, a danger, as if life reveals itself only by way of the spectacular, as if what speaks, what is significant, is always abnormal: natural cataclysms or social upheavals, social unrest, political scandals.
In our haste to measure the historic, significant and revelatory, let’s not leave aside the essential: the truly intolerable, the truly inadmissible. What is scandalous isn’t the pit explosion, it’s working in coalmines. ‘Social problems’ aren’t ‘a matter of concern’ when there’s a strike, they are intolerable twenty-four hours out of twenty-four, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
“Heroin was our badge,” said Red Rodney, a trumpeter who toured with Bird and was one of the few white musicians on the bepop scene. “Hipsters used heroin. Squares didn’t. Heroin gave us membership in a unique club, and for this membership we gave up everything else in the world. Every ambition. Every desire. Everything.”—“Birth of the Cool” by Lewis MacAdams (via johnbrandon)
The Golden Bough by Salman Rushdie (Short story -1983)
"As the interview progressed I became convinced that I would not get the job. My considerable experience of such events had made me almost preternaturally sensitive to the unspoken truths that lay behind their neutral formality, like snipers behind a battlement. In the early days, I had blamed myself for my failures: I must have been wearing an unacceptable jacket, there was a spot on my tie, I had interrupted a question on two occasions. I did my best to overcome my faults – careless dressing, over-eagerness, a certain insolent air of being too good for what was being offered." (Read full Story)
n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.