Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Zorn's The Crucible CD. - Hmmm ... .

Listening to Zorn's Spillane in the car. Disorienting feeling driving along the Ring with this as a soundtrack - jazz dive-'tec novel-Manga cartoon-torture chamber-Tim Burton animation-David Lynch movie-e.t.c.e.t.e.r.a. - inside/outside - passing cars, sirens, a volley of gunshots or manic typing, shift gears, indicate ...

The Spring collection fashion ads flimsy yet poignant in the chilly morning sun.

I park the car and sit waiting for the track to end. Splayed on the tarmac a dead frog. Belly up. Emblematic.

Walk into the school foyer dizzying. It's that good.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

A little ahead of schedule.

More details at the Sticky Pages site.


11:30 at the Belga on Place Flagey. I do these while waiting for the coffee to arrive. (Beer mats are a good format.)


clocks SPRING forward and so here's in anticipation of sunny mornings ...



the w

Saturday, March 27, 2010


writing on the wall


This afternoon: Giacinto Scelsi.

scraboutchatcha poem 3


During the week I was invited to the foffof Blog - the first such invitation I've received. So now and again I'll be posting things there, too.

The address:

Sunday, March 21, 2010

(first of a series of attempts to think outside - what happens when you give over to pencil and paper ... not 'about' anything but is ... hand over head ...


A quick trip into town this afternoon to see the Alechinsky exhibition at the Botanique which leaves me - as always with his work - in at least two minds (why the maps as an under-text? how do the cartouches relate to the central image? why the scale? is he turning them out like sliced bread?). Heretical thoughts, of course, given his near canonized status in Belgium.

However, an unexpected pleasure was discovering Kikie Crevecoeur's work - a series of improvisations using rubber stamps. One of those terrific synchronicities - right when I'm thinking of digging out my tools and working with the scraboutchatcha images as little prints. The way she's working in linear or grid form (not to mention her orihons and way of holding gatherings of pages with rubber bands)

- well, she's given me loads of ideas.

Sadly, none of her orihons are for sale, so I make do with a print she's issuing to raise funds for Haiti. Acquisitiveness and charity go hand in hand.

Friday, March 19, 2010

21:45 lying in bed stroking the cat and reading Paul Vangelisti.


(Days Shadows Pass)

Thursday, March 18, 2010

I wanted to embed this video directly but don't seem to be able to work the code.

It's worth a look, anyway. (As is the related video where he draws 'blind').

Sunday, March 14, 2010

I dither. I day. I riffle. I stroke. I soap. I tea. I gear. I coin. I onion. I boil. I soup.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Tuesday, March 09, 2010


Imagine the clouds dripping.
Dig a hole in your garden to
put them in.

1963 spring


I first read this book in 1980 in furtive little snippets standing in one of the many bookshops lining Charing Cross Road. At sixteen I didn't have that much money to spend on books and I remember this strangely squat volume seemed unusually pricey. (And I probably thought that you didn't get many words to a page so that wasn't 'good value').

Older and (a bit) wiser, I regret not buying it. Cage ... free jazz ... the New York poets (O'Hara, Berrigan, Meyer, Saroyan) ... Fluxus ... Conceptual Art ... Feldman ... Laurie Anderson ... they're all here (or implied) in these pages. But I was too dim or young or sixth form arrogant or narrow-minded or simply out of time and place to see it. She was John Lennon's wife (and all the rubbish that surrounded that statement) until the December of that year and the whole John-Yoko thing changed.

So now I have my own copy - only thirty years late.





a day spent (mostly) in one room

Monday, March 08, 2010

Entering the rather fraught period of the year (IB Orals, internal assessment, sample recordings, last minute cramming). However, April beckons and classes fall away and the sun shines (or so we hope).


Rilke's 'Letters on Cezanne' arrived today. Yesterday afternoon I spent absorbed in a grand Cy Twombly monograph. The 50s/60s work is particularly interesting.


Tea update: Pu'ehr and second flush Darjeeling are new additions to my vocabulary of leaves.


Potholes litter the roads. Impossible to avoid them. (On Thursday someone reversed into my car. I sat immobile watching him swing around - utterly oblivious. Real-life in slow motion).


I misread a headline the other day as "shouting near the Pentagon" (in fact it was "shooting'). Wouldn't it be good, though, to have such news items?


Ten past six and it's still light outside. Birds atwitter. It must be spring (or thereabouts).

Wednesday, March 03, 2010


the unhappitents of the earth have terrerumbled from fimament unto fundament and from tweedledeedumms down to twiddledeedees.


Ha he hi ho hu.


As we there are where are we are we there from tomtittot to teetootomtotalitarian. Tea tea too oo.


Ainsoph, this upright one, with that noughty besighed him zeroine. To see in his horrorscup he is mehrkurios than saltz of sulphur. Terror of the noonstruck by day, cryptomgram of each nightly bridable. But, to speak broken heaven talk, is he?


A password, thanks.
Yes, pearse.
Well, all be dumbed!
O really?
Hoo cavedin earthwight


The tasks above are as flasks below, saith the emerald canticle of Hermes and all's loth and pleasetir, are we told, on excellent inkbottle authority, solarsytemised, seriol-cosmically, in a more and more almightily expanding universe under one, there is rhymeless reason to believe, original sun.


Startnaked and bonedstiff. We vivvy soddy. All be dood.



H' dk' fs' h'p'y.


O june of eves the jenniest.


So mag this sybilette be our shibboleth that we may syllable her well.


all thinking all of it, the It with an itch in it, the All every inch of it, the pleasure each will preen her for, the business each was bred to breed by.


Every letter is a godsend, ardent Ares, brusque Boreas and glib Ganymede like zealous Zeus, the O'Meghisthest of all. To me or not to me. Satis thy quest on.


Though Wonderlawn's lost us for ever. Alis, alas, she broke the glass! Liddell lokker through the leafery, ours is mistery of pain.


This is the glider that gladdened the girl that list to the wind that lifted the leaves that folded the fruit that hung on the tree that grew in the garden Gough gave.



Leda, Lada, aflutter-afraida, so does your girdle grow! Willed without witting, whorled without aimed.


She wins them by wons, a haul hectoendecate, for mangay mumbo jumbjubes tak muttsa nd jeffs muchas bracelonettes gracies barcelonas.


All the world loves a big gleaming jelly.


O boyjones and hairyoddities!


What's Hiccuper to hem or her to Hagaba? Ough, ough, brieve kindli!


And it's time that all paid tribute to this massive mortality, the pink of punk perfection as photography in mud.


Johnny Post: pack, puck. All the world's in want and is writing a letters. A letters from a person to a place about a thing. And all the world's on wish to be carrying a letters. A letters to a king about a treasure from a cat. When men want to write a letters. Ten men, ton men, pen men, pun men, wont to rise a ladder. And den men, dun men, fen men, fun men, hen men, hun men wend to raze a leader. Is then any lettersday from many peoples, Daganasanavitch? Empire, your outermost. A posy cord. Plece.


And that brings us up to date, more or less. I knew you were wondering what had happened to that little project ...

. Driving into work the other morning with 'Village of the Sun' playing & humming & drumming along  & think...