6 Dec 2014

Manuel


~ Ecstatic Existence and also a little Exhaustion, Sadness and Anger Manual for the Over Emotional Self-Excruciating Absolutely necessary to the Saving of the planet and the Joy of everyday Human bean Sistabrother ~

In any given order and all together:
-Affect Yourself
-Fix Your Motor
-Don’t Wash Your Hands
-Save Lives (Yours too)
-Root your feet plants
-Water your Mind
-Follow the Heart drum
-Trust your Senses
-Dialogue your decisions
-Let people love you
-Let people go
-Cherish those who stay
-Economise
-Listen to others
-Listen to your body
-Listen to others’ bodies
-Listen to your body again
-Expand together
-E-co-create

8 Jun 2014

Line


But? I can’t. Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love. Ugh.

21 May 2014

K Grey KAppp


You know the things I mean, the grey stuff creeping to the bottom and around from who knows where, closer then further, closer again a little louder but soft too soft, terrible, a hundred witch whispers droning to your eardrums.

19 May 2014

Autopoiesis is a word composed of the Greek words for 'self' and 'to produce'


Lisible, Scriptible, & enfin, Risible

  1. Do not feel envious of the happiness of those who live in a fool’s paradise, for only a fool will think that it is happiness.

no more violence to blue


13 May 2014

Tant de changement

"Lorsque, grâce au froid qui traversait maintenant la couverture, Meaulnes eut repris ses esprits, il s'aperçut que le paysage avait changé"


mes esprits reprennent.

30 Apr 2014

Eu sou Estamira, a beira do mundo

Trocadillo Safado


I take my brain into my tender hands again,

and follow the direction of its light thought;

or is it following the movement of my hands instead?

My hands and my brain, my soul and my body are together in this task,

dancing a movement of seduction, walking a tightrope together.


I create meaning in my day and feel better. Much better.

(11.07.13, London)

19 Apr 2014

Easter coming


Open my eyes big again                                                                                   


18 Apr 2014

Pace



“El corazón tiene mas cuartos que un hotel de putas”


“The weak would never enter the kingdom of love.”


Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera  

9 Apr 2014

Force

Regrouper pour mieux Healer

31 Mar 2014

Providence

Social Gesture

27 Mar 2014

Provenience

Of mixed-class parents

Marcia Tucker

Humour is the single most subversive weapon we have.



26 Mar 2014

At Home

Symbolic Interactionism

Studded

Autonomist Brain Studies

10 Mar 2014

suite concerto

Adagio, Andante, Allegro non troppo, Allegro giocoso ma no troppo vivace, Allegro molto vivace,

 Allegrissimo

9 Mar 2014

2 Mar 2014

and on elinor wylie !

"I expected a ravishing and diaphanous dragonfly... and came tiptoe into the room to find -- a solid hunk; a hatchet-minded, cadaverous, acid voiced, bareboned, spavined, patriotic, nasal, thick legged American."

Woolf on Joyce paha

"I finished Ulysses, & think it a mis-fire. Genius it has I think; but
of the inferior water. The book is diffuse. It is brackish. It is pretentious.
It is underbred, not only in the obvious sense, but in the
literary sense. A first rate writer, I mean, respects writing too much
to be tricky; startling; doing stunts. I’m reminded all the time of
some callow board school boy . . . full of wits & powers, but so
self- conscious & egotistical that he loses his head, becomes extravagant,
mannered, uproarious, ill at ease, makes kindly people feel
sorry for him, & stern ones merely annoyed; & one hopes he’ll
grow out of it; but as Joyce is 40 this scarcely seems likely."

desultory

ˈdɛs(ə)lt(ə)ri,-z-/
adjective
adjective: desultory
1.
lacking a plan, purpose, or enthusiasm.
"a few people were left, dancing in a desultory fashion"
synonyms:casual, half-hearted, lukewarm, cursory, superficial, token, perfunctory, passing, incidental, sketchy, haphazard, random, aimless, rambling, erratic, unmethodical, unsystematic, automatic, unthinking, capricious, mechanical, offhand, chaotic, inconsistent, irregular, intermittent, occasional, sporadic, inconstant, fitful
"the Commission took only a desultory interest in humane slaughter methods"

The Emergent Self

"Only thoughts and feelings", Woolf wrote to Katherine Mansfield, "no cups and tables." 

1 Mar 2014

Ecco e rondini !



 
Basaglia: Signori, cala il sipario sul teatro della follia. Oggi il manicomio chiude...

Dario Matto Falegname: Sior Basaglia, la saluto! 

Basaglia: Non hai piu paura adesso? 

Dario Matto Falegname: No, fora e dentr x me e' la stessa minestra! E poi le rondini son tornate! 

Basaglia: Ricordi ancora la strada? 

Dario Matto Falegname: E come no! Zo' sempre dritto fino al mar!  


(La luce di dentro. Viva Franco Basaglia. Testo Gianni Fenzi, regia Giuliano Scabia, in collaborazione con Claudio Misculin e l'Accademia della Follia.) 





27 Feb 2014

20 Giugno 2006



Concorso letterario di Terre di Mezzo 
Tema: “Folgorazioni”


KOYAANISQUATSI


Tra tre anni penso”, aveva calcolato. Questo di biglietto lo avevano comprato gli organizzatori della mostra a Lisbona. Era un’estimazione realista, un po’ orgogliosa nel tono,  che metteva il puntino sulla i e negava la breve angoscia, a lei non sfuggita, passata in fretta nei suoi occhi teneri. 

Non era minimamente preoccupata per lui. Aveva 20 anni, viveva oltre oceano in una citta’ celebre per i suoi comici neologisti, gli parlava di Toccafondo, Tati e dei Wu Ming e sapeva guardare una ragazza che fà la bella. Non era preoccupata per lui. 
Koyaanisquatsi: 1. Vita folle 

Neanche Mauro si era preoccupato per lei. La chiamava principessa e la diceva matta, con affetto, ironia ed un po’ d’apprensione a volte. Era di quelle ragazze che si lasciano con leggero sollievo, augurandole tutto l’amore del mondo. Il mondo... Aveva pensato di sentirne l’intera passione l’estate scorsa, l’intero scambio, rovente, bollente, senza fine ed in continua trasformazione. L’eterno conflitto l’aveva attraversata dai capelli ai talloni, trafiggendole gli occhi e riempendole la gola, rendendola muta. Muta come un pesce, come quegli ambigui ambigui pesci che aveva amato tanto. Abbastanza da non vedergli le branchie innerite e forse troppo per non pensare ora che l’avevano tradita.  Carloburgo era in effervescenza a Luglio. In quel mese la città stendeva e dilattava il tessuto arteriale delle sue salite e discese per riuscire ad assimilare le migliaia di visitatori a caccia di cultura ed il battaglione di chi il pubblico se lo sceglie per professione. Camerieri, giocolieri, cuochi e scrittori, parolanti e giullari di tutte le sorte, tamburellisti ambulanti, luministi ed illuminati, elettricisti ed elettrizzati, donne, uomini e ragazzi assetati di birra ed affamati di contatto. Sarebbe rimasta un mese, forse di più, forse si sarebbe fermata lì per un po’, avrebbe deciso più tardi. Tutto si era risolto così in fretta. Non aveva più sopportato le strade di Brodo dipinte con l’ombra di Mauro, aveva trovato lavoro a Carloburgo, ed era partita.

L’autobus era stracolmo. Gente che tornava dal lavoro, ragazze con i pantaloni di nylon neri e le camicie bianche, i capelli di davanti piu corti che sfuggivano alla coda di cavallo allentatasi durante la giornata, uomini con l’occhio lucidato dall’alcol già preso o ancora da prendere, donne dalla pelle fiacca e lo sguardo rigido. Un gruppo di americane provinciali raccontava con entusiasmo la giornata alla capo gruppo, forse erano ballerine, anche se non ne avevano il fisico, attrici piuttosto, pensò. Si era seduta accanto ad un pakistanese di una trentina d’anni col quale aveva cominciato a chiacchierare, con l’accento raspo non suo, schiarendosi cosî dietro il bancone, là dove si sfotte chiaro. “Mmm.. E ti piace?

-Si mi piace Brodo, ci abito da due anni. E’ la prima volta che vengo a Carloburgo per il festival. -Beh, qui è molto diverso..” Gli aveva detto con il sorriso curvo di uno sconosciuto che ti crede persa. “Lo sò”, aveva risposto lei. Le due città rivali per abitudine e folkloro ormai, parlavano, vivevano e ridevano in modo diverso. La ginnastica esistenziale che caratterizzava la città una volta industriale si opponeva all’orgoglio posato e distante della capitale. Elena, Mauro ed i loro amici erano frutti di Brodo, delle sue notti selvaggie e senza vergogna. I suoi gatti randagi bagnati ed infreddoliti l’avevano adottata ed amata perchè non si era lasciata spiazzare, perche’ gli aveva regalato affetto senza porre domande, tanto quanto ne avevano bisogno, tanto.

Koyaanisquatsi: 2. Vita in fermento 

L’incontro col polacco un paio di ore prima l’aveva perturbata. Stava passeggiando sul porto lasciando curricula a qualche ristorante quando aveva notato un ragazzo alto ed elastico che entrava ed usciva dai locali anche lui, che di tanto in tanto si voltava a guardarla. Risalendo le scale di uno scantinato se l’era ritrovato davanti, gli chiese di poterla fotografare. Avevano simpatizzato, e camminare da sconosciuti col sole che tramontava sui loro entusiasmi era sembrato così piacevole per un po’. Ma le era difficile sostenere un dialogo per più di qualche battuta senza essere subito assalita dal sentimento di inciampare e di sgretolare sotto la punta pesante del piede quel cristallino che bisogna saper passare per conversare. Il cielo si era fatto sempre più scuro, finendo per scaricare su di loro la rabbia di un incontro spezzato, e a lei che tentava disperatamente di vedere nei suoi occhi l’ombra di un’ approvazione, lui rispose mostrandole semplicemente la macchietta nera che le era apparsa sul dito. Bagnati e stanchi, si erano lasciati all’incrocio di due strade augurandosi buona fortuna. “Ecco il policlinico”, le disse il dottore. Scendeva lì.  Il numero 11 era una porta blu. La spinse e salì al quarto piano; era un po’ tardi, più tardi dell’orario che avevano stabilito la mattina al telefono. Il ragazzo le venne ad aprire e le strinse la mano. Era magrolino, i capelli chiari e morbidi, un po’ a spazzola. Si sedettero in cucina dove lui stava guardando la televisione. Gli propose una tazza di tè. “ Così sei un’amica di Mario? -Si beh, non lo conosco poi così bene, ci apprezziamo molto.. Quando ha saputo che sarei venuta a lavorare a Carloburgo mi ha detto di Francesco che era partito in America per un mese lasciando la stanza libera.. -Mm, io non sapevo del tuo arrivo fino ad oggi quando hai chiamato.. Andrea e Claudio tornano tra un paio di giorni e avevano dimenticato di avertirmi.. -Ah.. Scusa, -Non ci sono mica problemi. -è vero che è successo tutto così in fretta, -Figurati, siamo più che felici di accogliere un’amica di Mario. ” Aveva cominciato a parlargli con un po’ di fretta, mollegiando il corpo e le braccia, girando spesso la testa e guardandolo solo di tanto in tanto con un sorriso e uno sguardo un tantino malizioso, creando quella sorta di ballo che aveva visto spesso fare ad Anna. Lui la guardava di lato, un po’ scettico eppure inquisitore dietro le ciglia cotonate da bambino.   “ La stanza è questa, io vado a letto, domani mi alzo presto. Piacere di averti conosciuta, dormi bene. -Grazie, anche tu.”

Sul letto c’era una lettera: 

Ciao Carla!

Benvenuta a casa nostra! Spero andrai d’accordo con i ragazzi e che te la spasserai durante questo folle mese a Carloburgo. Io torno il 6 agosto per poi ripartire per la Croazia, spero di incontrarti allora..

Puoi usare internet e lo stereo  quando vuoi ma non toccare NIENT’ALTRO, mi raccomando, sarò esigente su questo punto. 

Salutami tanto Marietto,

Bacioni e a presto spero, Franz  XX 

La stanza era ampia. Libri erano sparsi un po’ ovunque, poesie, un romanzo: “ La vittima”, un enciclopedia con degli appunti... I rami di una quercia altissima dall’altra parte della strada sfioravano di tanto in tanto il vetro dell’ampia finestra senza tende. Avrebbe potuto farsi dondolare.. Si sedette sul letto. Sopra la scrivania era attacata una tela di una faccia baffuta che fumava la pipa con mille dettagli e colori. Appoggiando la testa sul cuscino vide tra i battiti delle palpebre il poster di una mostra con un uomo che cadeva.. Si addormentò. 

Koyaanisquatsi: 3. Vita sbilanciata 

Era il terzo giorno che andava al centro. Si erano distribuiti le ore di permanenza tra loro per poter vedere il più gran numero di film possibile. Faceva caldo, Marte continuava ad avvicinarsi alla terra come non aveva fatto da anni. I polpacci le si stringevano per l’andatura rapida. Attraversare il parco stava diventando altrettanto difficile che prendere l’autobus. C’era sempre qualcuno pronto a lanciarle un rimprovero. Era troppo debole. Quando riusciva a sopraffare la paura era l’orgoglio a rispedirla tra i dannati. Stringeva il pass nella mano sudata mormorando al ritmo dei sandali sul’asfalto. Spinse la porta di vetro. La spagnola era al suo posto. Gli sorrise. “Ciao, come va? -Bene. C’è un caldo fuori.. -Si, hai visto, l’uragano in America stà prendendo sempre piu forza.. Trasalì leggermente. -Si..” Perchè glielo diceva così? Non sapeva forse che stava facendo di tutto per evitare la catastrofe? Non era forse dalla sua parte lei? “Beh allora io vado. Voglio beccare il film Iraniano. Se arriverò abbastanza presto non potranno rifiutarmi il biglietto. Non ne posso più di queste preferenze.. E ingiusto, non trovi? -Si.. Eccome.” Non ne poteva piu di quell’aula vetrata che puzzava di lucido d’acciao. La spagnola stava risalendo il marciapiede verso il cinema centrale. Neanche di lei si poteva fidare. Parlavano tutti in codice, come fosse un gioco, tutti sembravano mettersi alla prova a vicenda. Non potevano essere così crudeli da far sì che quell’occhio terrificante continuasse a rinforzarsi, non potevano lasciare che accadesse la strage. Il vento si era alzato di nuovo ed il cielo era nero. 

Koyaanisquatsi: 4. Vita in disintegrazione 

E’ tutto pronto per questa sera allora?” Un uomo si era avvicinato al bancone senza che lei se ne accorgesse. “ Mi scusi? -E tutto pronto per questa sera? ” Le chiese di nuovo l’uomo, con voce severa e scocciata. -Non sò.. Non capisco..” Si alzo dalla sedia alta, nervosa ed impaurita. Il vento gettava sul vetro le prime goccie. “ E quindi non mi puo’ aiutare? -Ma non lo so.. Ci sto’ prov... ” Le si era chiusa la gola. L’unica soluzione era arrendersi agli scienziati, loro avrebbero saputo come canalizzare quest... Fuori pioveva a dirotto di nuovo. L’uomo girò i talloni e si diresse verso la porta. Aprendola con difficoltà per il vento, si voltò di colpo e la interpellò un’ultima volta con odio: “Potresti almeno occuparti del tempo! ” La porta sbatte’ dietro di lui mentre lei stava là immobile, ma allora lo sapevano tutti veramente.. Preferiva essere esclusa a vita, bisognava finirne in fretta. “ Ti posso offrire un caffe’? ” Lo guardò attentamente. Era alto, e teneva la spalla sinistra un po’ più avanti dell’altra, come per mandarle meglio la domanda. Dietro le lunghe ciglia aveva lo sguardo calmo e deciso. “ Si. ” Le prese la mano e la tirò fuori. Risalirono la strada scura e bagnata correndo, sù, sù fino ai soppalchi della scena della piazza centrale. Si misero al riparo. Con una mano le teneva la testa appoggiata sul petto, il fruscio del suo palmo le avvolse l’orecchio. Il respiro profondo senza sforzo si dilatò sfiorando poco a poco tutto quello che li circondava. Guardava i cento tetti della città dietro di lui rialzarsi dopo la tempesta, pronti a specchiarsi all’infinito nei raggi del sole di Luglio. Una coppia anziana si scambiava frasi di yoga con gesti aperti e precisi. Quasi fossero lì da secoli.. Al largo, una nuvola sembrava avere messo le vele. Sentì le sue dita di nuovo strette dal suo pugno caldo. Tornarono in strada. 

Koyaanisquatsi: 5. Vita in bisogno di mutamento  


18 Feb 2014

5 Feb 2014

The Droof

 
She turned around and checked she wasn't being followed. The little gold rimmed watch with reddish lizard skin bracelet showed 12pm exactly. She was going to be a little late. She took wider steps, enjoying the balancing of her hips on the sunny pavement, her lanky composition, and how fresh and glam she managed to look today. Somebody had stuck a full size A0 digital lazer print of a monochrome oil painting of a table on the wall in front of her. As she passed it, she stopped and went back a few steps to check what it was exactly. Yes, it was the print of somebody's painting, they'd even signed it with their website on the side. She couldn't decide whether that was cool or weird or what. She stepped on, balancing more and trying to find that mojo back. She pushed more air through her nose when passing the two stinking fish shops not to get her stomach revolting and jumped over a puddle of blood. It was so funny how out of the whole street, these two had decided to set up just side by side. Surely to spread out a little would have made better customer sense. The idea of the painting kept coming back to her mind though. The work was alright. Colours were good, the angle, the very dim spot light, kind of eastern bloc, pre Berlin wall fall. Providing the brushstrokes were uncluttered and the canvas big enough, she would have probably quite enjoyed it in its original form. Something didn't sit right with the intent though, plastering it up that steamy wall just next to the pub. Or maybe it totally did. Maybe it was the font of the website. The signature was ridiculous.
She opened the door of the coffee shop with her shoulder and arched over the table to embrace Ana who was sat reading and waiting for her.

-hi, sorry I'm a little late.
-that's ok hun, I was just reading. It's so sunny now!
-what you reading?
-C.L.R James.
-what you having?
-a latte.

She walked up to the counter leaning on the corner of it and asked huskily with a short smile : “a latte and a cappuccino please, no chocolate please.”
As she was reaching for her money in the deep pockets of her coat, something heavy came to hit the glass window and it seemed to be happening in slow motion. Everyone looked up as a fat black woman was getting pushed by a tall white man against it in what looked like them having an argument. “Oh!”, squeaked Ana, as they exchanged a quick, a little frightened but amused glance. She looked back at the waitress who looked back at her then put the pot of froth down and started walking towards the window, on which the man pushed the woman harder a couple of more times. On the 2nd loud and heavy thrust, the waitress looked around the place and drew closer to the door lamenting: “Hey...,” then more quietly still, “be careful...”. The man and the woman walked passed, the man holding the woman's shoulder firmly and shoving her forward, saying abuse in her ear no one could hear in the shop. The waitress turned around towards her customers again, a little distressed, then attempted a faint smile and walked back to the counter shaking her head slightly, looking at the floor.

Anxiopolitic




The most frightening is the numb acceptance of an homologous global thought. As if that could ever be possible. It's so pernicious. What, just because The Voice shows in more than 40 countries, we all think the same now? A mass of producers and consumers with varying daily rates? When did we get so lost? Easy, around 1990. 1995 was the proper dive. I am finding I have to go back to basics of humanist ideals and ask myself out loud when does thought crime start?
If I stay calm it comes. The vision.. It's so hard for me to stay calm these days. I panic, the instant I feel alone. The moment I taste the emptiness, the future, the bleak realisation of the routine to come. The responsibility of returning to the same house every night. To wake up next to the same window. Decide wether I should water the plants. Then occupy myself until the evening. Find a boy to chat to, maybe spend the night with. Open tinder. If it's evening it'll be too late. If it's my brains it becomes a stage. For you. A show just for you. Will you listen? You only know me really. Everybody else is flawed. Everybody else is lying. You only can bear me. I despise them. Peasants. Filthy scum. What will they ever achieve in their life? How can we get anywhere with these pedestrian motives blurring the horizon? Where is the strength Utopians had? Where is the shame? Shameless scummy spineless crowd. Atrophied clueless worms. All they want is to slouch on the couch in front of the TV eating ice cream and drinking wine. If at least they knew wine. What I can't understand is their refusal to educate themselves. Become experts. I mean it's not that hard is it? Just do your research, learn what's best out there. I should maybe fish it out for them, ha. Flaunt the stink of it in front of their big potato noses. Just by being honest. Cut them deep where it hurts and let their putrid insides run dry. Line'm up against the wall and splatter their bloody chicken brains out. Splatter on the pavement the remains of this mediocre age. What kind of a nation are we building without any ethics or moral? How can there be morale? Where the fuck are the troops? This country that has stolen everything it owns, that never learns from generations and generations of foreign knowledge that bless its dry bosom. A dry slag this country is. An infertile bitch this raped land. They have let everyone run havoc. Instead of choosing the good ones, helping the strong, rewarding enterprise. Such cowards. Who can say they've had it harsh here really? Not one person. This country of assisted morons. Do they know how good they got it? The English and their government! Assisted benefits scroungers. Pretend punks. Do you want some wine babes? What's wrong with you, are you listening? Are you tired? Words can kill. I can be violent, I can push around, I can loose it a little, but if someone, if you were to tell me something so close to my heart that it would pierce it, I would just bleed to death. I would not want to come back. Or it would take me years to recover. Do you know that? Are you afraid of that? What would you do if I went completely? If I disappeared from your life? Do you believe I will one day? I would like to try a terrible female cry. The cry of revolt stampeding, of armed anguish at war, of demands. Like the complaint of an opened abyss: deep like the hole of the abyss, but who are the hole of the abyss crying. Neutral. Female. Male.
(Laughing, really nervously) Hahaha! don't look at me so intensely! Are you trying to break me or something? You're such a serious character! You're not judging me babe, are you? Do you really think you're better than me? Who are you to judge me? Why would you do that to yourself if it is so unpleasant to be around me? Huh? It's so easy isn't it, so convenient putting yourself on this pedestal. I put you there 1st. Such an idiot. Serves me right. Making you pristine and pure. Ridiculous. You're using my weakness! Do you know how weak I am, you slut?! How dare you play with my feelings like this? What if I snap! What if I break down and cry? What if I hurt you?! Do you know I could hurt you?! Are you not scared? Don't make me go there man! You cruel bitch. I put all my trust in you, my love, my self. I open up like a child, I put all my pride aside. And you trample all over my spirit. People like you should be locked up, you're the real danger. You get people by their trust and then you break them. With your snappy fingers. It's just, it's too much. Why did you come into my life? For what, huh? What is the point of this? And I should feel guilty too! Goddamn it. Goddamn you! Godfuckingdamn me! You're no better than me. YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME!!! What where are you going now? You're 'bored'? You're 'tired', you're not into this hahahaha. Do you think I care? I'm going out! I'm bored. You bore me you hear? My boring little angel ahahahaha. Look at you so proud of yourself. I'm off. Where's my keys. Laters! En route pour la joie! Ahahahha yes exactly en route pour la joie! You know? Lets fucking have it mate? Partaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyy. AAAhhhhhhhh let yourself gooooooo!!

(She slams the door behind her)

29 Jan 2014

Plead

 
Please let me hear crickets again
Astounding dirty loud scratching
crickets
Let me lie next to you, under the heat that will crush me and all my body
The weight of the summer sky pressing on my chest
Like Olympus mythologies. I am tired of being wet afloat
Let me dry
Droplet dripping Ophelia
Let me be the grains of sand
Let me be dunes rolling
Let me fall endlessly in the dry pit of our forgetting
Until I think I am lost forever
Until I think I will never find ground
Let me cross the desert backwards
Burning bushes catch my hair the air brushing my skin in the fall melts every gram of certitude cutting through the fat I accumulated for the ice age. And as I fall and inhale the heat that burns my eyes my nostrils my throat my oesophagus my stomach my uterus my vagina my legs my knees my ankles my feet my toes let the fall get to my bones.
Until I think there is not an ounce of liquid left in my members, until I bleed dry crystals of the blackest blood, until I've flicked each of them off and my body is a desert now too cracking whistling hissing for more hot wind. Let it push me down always more. Until it feels like fire. Until I think I will explode. Until I think there is no mercy. Until I cry salt. Until I'll know I'll have no words left.
Until I feel all power leave my carcass, let it freefall totally and a little more. Let my fall catch my fall into oblivion.
And maybe then only then maybe I will hit the stream the source of all water and dive into it hard soles flat and feel its might envelop my desiccated spirit and being enwrap every fold criesse and cut every hole hair lip bit my fingers grabbing onto nothing my lungs fill with dark water and I will breathe and simply bring my face to the surface again and feel the sun on it the surface of my face in the sun the sun and a breeze on the back of my cheeks and I will see you there. 



 

28 Jan 2014

Nous allons voguer


Heureuses qui comme Ulysses 

  

New Pseudo


Lefty Madone

23 Jan 2014

Title to follow

After 

Alien in the cranium

The Cold Daughters

La plaie, la peine, et un jour la plaine

Aujourd'hui je touche le pourpre de ma plaie du bout de mes doigts froids, glacee, a l'ecoute. Elle pulse et ne se retire pas. Elle attend que je la sente. Que je la reflete, la reflechisse. Elle me brule un tout petit peu, mordillant le reste de mon coprs legerement etranger, montrant bien que si j'exagere, elle plantera ses petits crocs profondement. 
Qui sait bien ces equilibres sait aussi qu'on y joue rarement, par peur que la plaie ne se vexe, et cesse de nous parler. On ne joue pas docteur avec son coeur, pour ne pas le banaliser, et continuer a mal comprendre les maux qui l'affligent et l'excitent.
La tour de Babel de nos emotions nourrit bien trop genereusement nos muses pour que nous voulions en sortir. Ses rayons miroitent une allure si attrayante que nous ne tenterons jamais de les retenir. Mais aujourd'hui je touche le pourpre de ma plaie du bout de mes doigts froids, glacee. Pour changer le cours. 
De la microchimie experimentale.. Voila qui est interressant. Voici ce dont on parle. Et la couleur de cette humeur est si loin de la passion que j'ai peur de la nommer. J'ai peur oui, j'ai peur de changer. De prendre le risque de te perdre. Et pourtant voila, je prends aujourd'hui ce chemin que nous avons choisis ensembles acceptant la profondeur de la peine s'il faudra qu'il nous separe.




22 Jan 2014

Koan Practice

Counselling & psychotherapy services in London: Our ethos

We are formed as a London counselling and psychotherapy service with three ideas in mind.
These have a weight on how this counselling service charges for counselling and psychotherapy in the London area.

(1) Around the year 2000, those of us who were working as counsellors or psychotherapists in the NHS and charitable agencies realised something had gone wrong! The auditors and accountants had won, and the space for proper clinical counselling, psychotherapy and psychoanalytic work was being constricted.
Everything is now audited – including ‘happiness’. Auditors and accountants wanted to see if counselling & psychotherapy treatments in London were delivering ‘value for money’. What psychotherapy could deliver ‘happiness’ in the quickest time and for the least money?  How do you find that out? (How can the government save money on counselling service provision?)
Cognitive Behavioural Therapy finds that out every session, by directly asking the patient’s to mark the psychotherapist or counsellor’s performance, and to comment on whether they feel better.  And even better, CBT treatments only take some twelve meetings to implant supportive ‘good ideas’ into the patient’s minds! So, you can audit CBT……..because patients do try to feel better, and try to make the counsellor feel good too by telling the counsellor what a wonderful person they are.
No counsellor or psychotherapist using the psychodynamic model would entertain such a procedure. Psychodynamic psychotherapists do not think that ‘happiness’ can be audited, and shrink from the idea that a good outcome for a counselling is that you are just the same as everybody else!
So, as the NHS and charitable models increasingly use CBT and deviant variations of psychotherapy-counselling that promotes ‘short-term’ work – this group counselling practice was formed as a space where psychotherapist and counselling clinicians can carry on doing real work.


(2) The second good idea is historical. Psychoanalysis is said to be the ‘purest’ kind of psychotherapy or counselling. It has been the preserve of the rich and educated. In London, it is vastly over-represented in the NW post codes. Psychotherapy fees in excess of £100 per meeting and psychotherapy session frequencies of five times per week ensure that psychoanalysis stays that way. There are many 'hobby' psychotherapists, who shrink from the realities of 'coal-face' clinical counselling work.
We wanted to address that problem, and are orientated to provide quality counselling and psychotherapy services in London irrespective of the ability to pay, taking into account that practically five counselling sessions  per week is not possible, and not supposing that a level of education is indicative of the ability to be a ‘good counselling patient’.

(3) Everything in the NHS and the charities counselling work is now about protecting yourself against litigation. Clients are supposed to be ready and willing to sue counselling and psychotherapy services at a drop of a hat! In London and the UK, what this means is that counselling imperatives are subordinated to management needs, as the management regulate and standardise counselling & psychotherapy practice to ensure that nothing exciting ever happens! Management don’t understand psychotherapy principles, and like modern school headmasters, prefer that the children they suppose the counselling clients to be, are happy rather than challenged (and possibly failing those challenges - like a psychotherapy can be unsuccessful). Management concerns are that counselling treatment outcomes are, like the ‘dumbed down’ exams for our children, always achievable and ‘happy’ outcomes.
No-one can fail, anymore - let's lower the bar!

This also involves the NHS counsellor and psychotherapist, like our teachers, increasingly doing less interesting, challenging, and actual counselling session work, as they compile the reports and attend the counselling supervision meetings that let management rest easy at night!

Counselling & Psychotherapy London


(1)  The management are all veteran psychoanalysts themselves. We are geared towards letting the counselling & psychotherapy clinicians have FULL clinical independence, and counselling-psychotherapeutic imperatives always take precedence over the ‘happiness’ of the management.

(2)  We decided to be financially independent. This means that we do not have to compile reports for audited counselling outcomes for the next years ‘funding round’ like most charities do. This means that we do not have to sacrifice counselling and psychotherapy to ‘short-termist’ outcomes. Our low-fee work is funded by fees from higher income patients.

(3)  The fees are arranged on a sliding scale of £6.00 to £80.00. This ensures access to London counselling & psychotherapy services is based on a desire to do a counselling or psychotherapy rather than an ability to afford it. It ensures a ‘level playing field’ for access to counselling and psychotherapy services in London.

(4)  The frequency of counselling sessions is decided by a mix of what is practical, and what is clinically advisable. We do not force five counselling sessions per week because it is a ‘good idea’, and we do not have to restrict the psychotherapist to offering once-fortnightly or once-monthly counselling because we cannot justify the budget. Psychotherapists can offer frequencies commensurate with the difficulties.

(5)  We support access to counselling & psychotherapy services in London for those in unwaged or reduced income circumstances. The cost of providing a counselling or psychotherapy session on our low-fee scheme is around £40.00 per hour (against £60.00 in the NHS). Because this scheme shares its costs with the senior therapists, it is able to operate independent of outside funding.

(6)  We are precisely located in Aldgate, London. Where we are is the dividing line street between the Corporation of London – the City’s business sector – and Tower Hamlets, where local GP’s refer into our practice. To the north is Spitalfields and Old Street, with the newer ‘tech’ businesses and artists and artisans. So, we hope that our geography permits a wide access to counselling & psychotherapy services in London

15 Jan 2014

Arta parle


Mi turba mi turba



Listening to Bene's un Amleto di meno like an album  

post synchro

whispers   /  hitchcock music/ exaggerated comical music & sound effects & voice tones

decadent decrepit face

ma vivere alla piccola conquista, mercantegiante come tuo padre, come il farmacista

Ophelia's double character actress & older woman who recites hamlet's words b4 he says them to younger girl/ younger her




14 Jan 2014

Global Social Project

A real question is arising in my life:

Can we build objective standards of justice or is a relativist position necessary to avoid intrusive implementation of badly adjusted measures of 'progress'? 

For example, if an indigenous tribe draws a chart keeping women under control and disallowing western dress and music, whilst becoming economically viable and building an autonomous activity disregarding the corporate norm, in accordance with very precarious traditional values and relations to the land; 
Where do I draw the line between what I regard as authoritative rule and measures needed to shift a paradigm? What's more important: cultural (race, gender, class) emancipation, or control of our means of production? 

Does autonomy provide a safe haven for subversion and development? Does it simply isolate the alternate mode of organisation or provide it with space to strengthen? 
I am coming to the realisation that existing autonomously within is categorically not enough anymore. Whatever is needed for structural adjustments, it is the pressure inflicted on the institution and structures of power, the negotiation (remember what that actually means?) for advances within, to be inside and against, that makes real change, or progress. 
Maybe there is no reality but the pressure we inflict on the structure subduing us, and the movement we then implement, freed of shackles until the next micro liberation movement.

10 Jan 2014

Writing


Writing isn't comfortable. Writing is a pain. Or at least it is still for me today. Maybe one day, maybe soon, I'll be able to lightly tip toe to my desk and type like a tinkerbell the sparkling thoughts that grace my mind for the joy of all. Like a little goat, like a poet. For now, writing requires my entire body. A few days of preparation without saying it's preparation, late on schedule but compressing my soul into whatever mood I am looking to attain, like a 3 legged dog dragging her imaginary one under the cardboard moonlight, extending my nights to reading and listening binges on the web, lying in my bed holding so much of my body the 1st days. Before I get the momentum. Writing is the anti activity, the anti health. I cook badly, make too much coffee or tea, go for short walks, distracted, focused, manipulating my poor self until it becomes the black circled wide eyed feeble recipient for my brain's games. It is when my bones start to hurt, when I have to stretch, yawn and lie down too often that I am finally ready to sit down and write.A back and forth between feeling low, being low, and using the accuracy to that feeling as a starting point, only movement of thought through my fingers and mastery of syntax to emotion will uplift me, excite me, enrage me, make me rant, jumping to boil the kettle, whistling hard and bursting out laughing. I try to control the up, not to come crashing back down, not to loose the delicate moment, but i do, it explodes, I crash, what a bloody mess!

9 Jan 2014

Reading



   Yesterday I Found Le Clezio's Diego and Frida (in French) and Orwell's Why I Write in Peckham Library.