Nichts Kluges und Richtiges kann mehr gesagt werden, weil die massenhafte Gedankenlosigkeit Sprache zerstört und jedes Thema entweiht. Die Kriterien des Banalen: richtig und falsch oder gut und schlecht – niemals anschlussfähig oder nicht. Zu große Aufmerksamkeit gilt dem Versuch, sich betroffen, mitgemeint und wohl zu fühlen, im Umgang mit jeder Tyrannei und jedem Unheil.
Brauchbare Aussagen folgen der inneren Welt ihrer Autorin, sie finden eine eigene Sprache und neuen Gebrauch für Worte. Nur sie haben die Chance, verständlich und folgenreich zu sein. Niedergang des Denkens, wir müssen in den Untergrund, Seele aufgerauht.
„Who are the men?“ they ask, hawkishly.
„It’s okay – they’re reliable,“ Furiosa assures them. What a wonderful choice for a word: reliable. No finer point of praise under these circumstances and many others. I am a fan of Kelly Sue DeConnick’s Bitch Planet comic book series, and have been happy and inspired to see many female fans of that series getting that story’s symbol for „non-compliant“ – a woman who does not agreeably fit the requirements of docility and femininity ascribed to her by the patriarchy – tatooed on their arms. In like kind, I hope to live long and well enough to deserve getting „reliable“ tatooed on mine.
— Matt Brown, All we have are our Bodies on Fury Road, 29
Night air, softly moving
inside and outside
your room after dawn
night air, softly moving
Kyoto wherever you are
Listening to Lawrence’s Birds on the Playground at night, on my bed in Rua da Miraflor. Roof window open, mind/world at ease.
The prevalent emotion in context with the death of a loved one is the brutal and finite realisation that we are the lucky ones, who get to continue to witness the world, that get to continue to watch, to listen, to love, to inscribe ourselves. We get to continue to do the things that – to a certain degree – are possible because of those that came before us. With this comes the urgent realisation that we must not waste a minute, an impetus, a connection. We need to ferociously continue to be ourselves, we owe it to those who had to go.
Imaginary Joy Division, barely audible in the background of Pro Quadratmeter, now in Almstadtstraße1, as the empty streets of this particular, unglamourous apocalypse remain wind-swept and rainy. Jackpot. Ich kaufe Miamification von Avanessian, so ein Stream-of-Consciousness-Ding bei Merve. Das scheint mir die einzig mögliche Handlung. (13. März)
In my life, in moments of clarity, in moments of being close to myself, the world has felt abstracted, foreign and incompatible. In these moments, I have felt akin to the patterns of eroded signage paint on tar, to the shapes of the clouds, to insects resting on a sun-basked leaf. I have felt disconnected, yet at home in the cracks and ends, at home inscribed into the patterns, nowhere to be found but somehow. (010717)
I grew up in a small town at the end of a country. There were few people like me. I learned to live inside my head for long weekends and days that failed to make a connection. I left the town the first chance I got. I don’t think about it much, but I still carry the worlds I made there. In a way, I have been cast from that place: its entire opposite, its negative form, but sharing every wrinkle in great detail1.
The Heathrow Hilton is my favorite building in London. It’s part space-age hangar and part high-tech medical centre. It’s clearly a machine, and the spirit of Le Corbusier lives on in its minimal functionalism. […] Inside, it’s a highly theatrical space, dominated by its immense atrium. […] Most hotels are residential structures, but rightly the Heathrow Hilton plays down this role, accepting the total transcience that is its essence, and instead turns itself into a huge departure lounge, as befits an airpot annexe. Sitting in its atrium one becomes, briefly, a more advanced kind of human being. Within this remarkable building one feels no emotions and could never fall in love, or need to.
— J.G.B, Notes on Love, Death, Architecture and Modernity. Kompiliert von Studio Muoto.
Marseille: a landscape overrun by infrastructure, flowing, abruptly ending on geologic barriers. Inhabited caves and machines, steep cliffs of built limestone, a sea of lives lived extending into the horizon, up and under bridges, weaving foot traffic through houses and below kitchens and gardens. A drawn city, a pastiche on paper, all colorful dust and complex views. A decidedly non-urban urban space, a grown stone organism, a Moebian landscape, a Cité Obscure.
My strength, and my problem, is that I usually know exactly what I want, which is this amazing gift, or a huge ego problem. It’s both, I’m sure, and I forgive myself if it’s an ego problem. I’ve learned to do that. So it’s not like I invite people to interpret my work. I hate that (…) Being able to do it all on my own, I’m able to set a standard.
Nihilism is a trapdoor but no one said the basement was inhospitable. Work with what you have. Make silk from the cobwebs.