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Monday, 06 August 2007 |
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Claude Michel Celse, Seaside Town, 1948
the reason that I am alive
By Boris Vian
the reason that I am alive
the reason that I am alive
for the tanned leg
of a blonde woman
propped against the wall
beneath the round sun
for the billowing sails
of a sleek schooner
at the mouth of the harbor
the iced coffee
sipped through a straw
for the caress of sand
gazing at the watery deeps
turning so blue
descending into the deeps
with the fish
the tranquil fish
they calm the bottom of the ocean
fly above the seaweed hair
like slow birds
like blue birds
the reason that I am alive
because it is beautiful
Translated from the French by Joseph Suglia, corrected by me.
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Friday, 31 August 2007 |
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Saturday, 25 November 2006 |
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Leisure Town
Tristan makes some of the funniest and darkest comic strips I've ever
seen, like a modern-day R. Crumb, using toy animals, great location
shots, superb photoshop skills, and, most importantly, a thoroughly
twisted sense of humor. Excellent writing. Particularly hilarious are
"Pussy Driven," "American Masturbator," not that I would have any
first-hand, so to speak, knowledge of either subject, and "QA
Confidential," an extremely insightful send-up of the computer industry
and Silicon Valley/Multimedia Gulch mentality. I have heard some
odd stories about him—he is a local boy well-known to some friends of
mine ... apparently, he mines his own life for much of his material.
Let us leave it at that.
A panel from American Masturbator
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Sunday, 10 December 2006 |
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Stop-action Super-fast Freeze-frame Bongo-beat Photography
A bullet piercing, penetrating, pulverizing an otherwise placid pear, from the IDF Tactical Logic website.
IDF Tactical Logic a bunch of cool bullet-going-through-things
pictures, along with panoramic shots of destroyer fleets and ads for
glock holsters. Definitely a Peace-Through-Superior-Firepower kinda site.
Now let's use the same technology for art. Alva Bernadine
's Slap
Not a bongo, but more fun to slap.
Which do you prefer?
"A friend phoned me one lunchtime and asked what I was up to. I
told her I was taking portraits of people bursting balloons, shooting
bottles and smashing panes of glass using a sound activated switch. I
could freeze the moment of impact rather like the famous Harold
Edgerton picture of a bullet passing through an apple. In a dark room
you attach the switch to the flash then open the shutter of the camera.
The sound of impact fires the flash freezing the action at several
thousandths of a second.
"She was a submissive and immediately offered her bottom for
experimentation. She already had a video of arses wobbling in slow
motion. She and her partner came round with a bag full of flagellation
implements and we tried them all.
"Subsequently, I decided I wanted to try it on a variety of different
shaped arses and asked female acquaintances and women I met at parties
to aid me in my objective scientific experiments by having there arse
spanked. To my surprise 50% agreed."— Alva Bernadine
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Saturday, 31 March 2007 |
I had the pleasure of attending a concert by the choral group
WomenSing. Martin Bienvenuto, the choir's Director, is a master of
unearthing little-known gems from the classical and modern choral
repertoires and bringing them to life with the enthusiastic cooperation
of the 55-women group.
From the WomenSing website:
"Believing that music is transformative and enlightening for both
singer and listener alike, WomenSing is devoted to the study and
performance of great choral repertoire and to sharing it with a broad
audience."
The evening's repertory did not disappoint, ranging from Vivaldi's Beatus Vir to Haydn's String Quartet in Eb Major to the Snow Birds—Words
by Sri Ananda Acharya (born 1883 to the Brahmin caste, later renouncing
the world and settling in Norway) and music by Michael Head
(1900-1976). The lyrics for the song cycle came from an early edition
of Sri Ananda's poetry, entitled "The Snow Birds."
The lyrics to "Only A Singing Bird" I found particularly wonderful.
I am not God nor His messenger.
I am only a singing bird.
I am not Poet nor his Muse.
I am only a singing bird.
I am not Prophet.
I am not Sage—
I am only a singing bird.
I fly in the heav'ns across the seas.
And come to sing at thy door.
Each dawn when the morning God
smiles on the ocean,
Each eve when the twilight God
sings at earth's end,
Each night when the God of thy heart
sits in silence alone with the God of my heart.
I am only a singing bird.
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