To Whom it may be…

Yes you are right, it's a sad city, melancholic... a strange and fascinating kind of beauty, the ethereal beauty of sadness and darkness (especially the "misty" Montmartre, near where I live), I'm kind of gothic sometimes, and psychedelic at other times :)) and you ?

All true passions are mere shadows to the images of words, the "photography" that words bring to life - all kinds of images, literature, poetry, fictions, philosophy...

...well who doesn't like travelling the freedom of the world? What does travelling inspire you? Travelling the TRANCE festivals of the world and dancing to the electric beats of the earth, to dance by a full moon on the pure white beaches of GOA ::))) pure heaven in a sea of aluminium...

..to feel the bodily music of language running through my veins... the blood of life...    

Yes, yes it is all about chemistry.. all about “elective affinities”...

...Feel the freedom and just do it...

The revolution will not be televised...

In may 1967, Marxist Henri Lefebvre ridiculed Guy Debord’s situationist insistence that revolution was just around the corner. “Do they really imagine", he wrote:

“that one fine day or one decisive evening people will look at each other and say, 'Enough l We're fed up with work and boredom Let's put an end to them and that they will then proceed to the eternal Festival and the creation of situations?"

Although Lefebvre conceded that such a “situation” “happened once”, at the dawn of 18 March 1871, of which eye-witness accounts reported at the time that a : “tremendous surge of community and cohesion gripped those who had previously seen themselves as isolated and impotent puppets, dominated by institutions they could neither control nor understand”.

It’s unlikely to be the case again under present Capitalist condition of abundant consumerism Lefebvre added, one year later the whole of France stopped for a month, in the revolt of May 68 across all classes and divides, for: “We don’t want a world where the guarantee of not dying of starvation brings the risk of dying of boredom “: ...“great joy that we experienced for the first time in the streets of Paris during May 1968, that joy in the eyes and on the lips of all those who for the first time were talking to each other” (Alain Jouffroy).

The joy that is happening right now in the Arab world, with the big difference that people have died and are dying for it. For only death gives the seal authenticity to a revolution not sponsorised by Google or Coca Cola light. If there is no blood, no revolution, progress always rides the wrong way of violence and terror...

Humpty Dumpty...said Alice...

"When I use a word" Humpty Dumpty said "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less." But as all beautiful girls know: "The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

We are all in Wonderland when we use words to locate the so called map of the world. So, enjoy the ride of semantics in the Russian roulette of meaning...

Welcome to the chaosmos...

What I believe in...

I believe in the beauty of girly web-cams through the horizons of our computerized delusions; in the girly shadows of a gothic kiss; in overexposed flesh burning its shades like the sizzling light of a rainbow by moonlight; in burning moons and dead suns.

I believe in the curved edges of exhibitionism, pregnancy and bondage; in female youth taken by the sudden budding of their breasts; in the silent murmurs of orgasms taken by infraction; in the spiral waves of pain and pleasure; in the spellbound transparency of rain drops, in the luxuriance insouciance of ivory nudity.

I believe in the deserted highways of car crashes lighting up the boredom of our eyes; in the empty rooms of Hopperian solitude; in the adolescent flagrances of suburbia; in the blank gaze of security cameras by empty trash bins.

I believe in the waves of frozen music by synthesizers unbeknown; in the high-tech transparency of glass towers glimmering by sunlight; in neon lights of artificial demurs by a two-moon junction.

I believe in all the synthetic possibilities of pharmacology marooned in the virtual light of our digitalised infinity.

I believe in the violent cotton dream lands of blow and smack, long live the new flesh; in the molten nights of Acid corrosion, in the DMT worlds of swirling vistas at high pitching speeds, in the four letter words of ecstasy: MDMA.

I believe in the curvature of space without gravity, in ellipses without inflexion, in fractals without repetition.

I believe in the sublime beauty of dying stars by a millions of a second in the black holes of our anthropomorphized delusions; in the sombre and tranquil beauty of Voyager Il reaching the edges of our solar system shining its ocular metallic perfection in the abyssal silence of an interrogation; in the tranquil beauty of cosmic photography with its snapshots of stellar bodies unseen to mankind’s anthropomorphic gaze.

I believe in the chiasmic dance of Shiva and Kali creating the world in arrays of space and lust; in the interplay of ascetic repetitions and ecstatic differences in all things.

I believe in the beauty of crystals as yet unproduced by our silicon and carbon formalities...

Answers for a question

Marcel Duchamp playing a muse for a dream

Is death the dream of life? Are we living the death of being born by the shadows of our inexistence? Is death the waking-up of our dream?

The sphinx calls the phoenix by playing the chess of life against itself..

Montage as Animism

William S Burroughs reported to Ginsberg, in their correspondence, the Yage Letters, that the psychedelic plant : " Yage is space time travel ... new races as yet unconceived and unborn, combinations not yet realized passes through your body. Migrations, incredible journeys through deserts and jungles and mountains ", what Gilles Deleuze would call the virtual, Bergson’s cone of passing time, in which the tip is the passing present under a never ending pushing of time’s presence, in which everything that happens in its infinity of detail (a leaf falling for a twitch of a breeze) is recorded for all eternity and perpetually reshuffled by the passing present of actualized time (what is actually done), Jung’s collective unconscious as yet unrealized …Borges’ hexagonal library of Babel playing its infinity of references in the limited boundaries of the alphabet or ideograms…in fact the “potential” or the “virtual” (what doesn’t happen but could) is just the simple fact of the everlasting (weight of the) past in its relation to the ever stretching present, which like a pebble thrown in a pond, ripples its concentric effects by waves of kaleidoscopic shifts in a perpetual reshuffle of the cards, a perpetual rearranging the past, what we simply call the future…difference and repetition, difference in repetition, repetition in difference…

As Burroughs would say, life is a cut-up, life is made of cut-ups; time is the fabric of life, the mere juxtaposing of the cut-ups of history, whether personal, human or cosmic…montage as animism…

Calling up…cutting up, cutting up all the texts of the world and reassembling them in new positions, thus creating new meanings which subvert Control and Power, Matter, DNA itself, “Il n'y a pas de hors-texte“ … “There is no outside-text” to quote Derrida.

When the Text is cut-up new spontaneous meanings emerge, meanings which were not inherent in the original Text, spewing a way out of the Control mechanisms of Language… infecting virus-like, from one person to another, from one generation to another… how we experiences our inner and external environment, Language is the boundary in which we experience the touching of the world… we touch the world with Words…and kick-it-up with cut-ups..

Burroughs redefines the kick as, "seeing things from a special angle, to Kick is momentary freedom from the chains of the aging, cautious, nagging, frightened flesh."… by removing deeper from the Language fix..Let the dice role... and the right-0n the edge of Chaos combination emerge…

As Burroughs said : “Out of hundreds of possible sentences that I might have used, I chose one"

..the one and only…

…like in the 1920s when DaDa Founder Tristan Tzara created a poem on the spot by pulling words out of a hat…too much to bear for mere humans…a riot ensued and wrecked the theater at which these Dada poetical muses where happening..l.ater André Breton expelled Tristan Tzara from the Surrealist movement…and Freud grounded the cut-ups in the psychoanalyst’s “free associations” method, in order to master and repress the irrevocable chaos of the cut-ups, of the animism of the Word made flesh, yet again..

The art of photography - Henri Cartier-Bresson’s ZEN of archery

There is something of the order of the divine miracle in the photography of Cartier-Bresson due to his knack of being able to capture the “satori” of any passing moment into a translucent geometry where all the points and lines of a situation come together in an instantaneous sculpture of everlasting time, at which precise moment the photo is taken.

It’s all about “right” timing, the “decisive moment” as Cartier-Bresson calls “it”, no less and no more in time’s arrow chaos of sources, the culminating point or tipping point, at edge of chaos, and only there, on the arrow tips of time, is the photo decided and finally shot : three seconds latter or earlier, and the “two passing women” in a precise relation to an ever revolving background, would have been lost for all eternity, and the geometry of coincidences between things would have not occurred...lost in the ravenous insignificance of time’s hunger for space.

Photography is the art of time and light, of right timing at the speed of light, which allows no measure by any clock standards except the trained eye of synchronicity, the “meaningful coincidences” of which Cartier Bresson was one of the artful masters.

A weaver of light in time’s passing fabric, like a möbius strip biting its own infinity.

Moulding the quicksilver arrows of light upon time’s everlasting shadows is the art of photography.

It’s more about archery and the photos as arrows hitting or creating the bulls-eye of the target, than technological camera work.

And it’s not for nothing that Cartier-Bresson’s holy sacrament was Eugen Herrigel's “Zen in the Art of Archery” and not a manual on photography in which to learn the trade.

Facing the chaos of the street, of the crowd, of the hustle and bustle of life, Cartier-Bressson’s shoots his archery of arrows hitting a perfect broken symmetry between all the disparate elements of a passing chance that any moment of time provides.

Shooting the arrow of the target as a suspended offset harmony, on the edge of chaos, like a clap of thunder in the stormy sky. A flash of sculpture in time’s passing hunger.

A broken symmetry of perfect intent in which all the disparate elements of any scene are broken together by the “symphony” that the art of photography brings to life’s chance occurrences.

For Cartier-Bresson, chance is a magnet of implicit form of which it is the artful task of photography to explicit at any one moment, but not at any given moment. All the visual figures are contained at any moment, but only the art of photography decides of the "wheres" and "whens" the thunder of explicit form hits the implicit contained therein...photography being an epiphany of light in time's rigorous mortis of space... a rictus for a smile...