Eros and Aphrodite… the mythical gods of love and beauty from ancient Greece. Inspired by this great civilization, these rings are the epitome of refinement and elegance represented by these gods. We added a contemporary twist to their design in order to give them an additional urban look! If you prefer rings without gemstones, these are really a must-have. And they fit perfectly to numberous clothing styles. By the ease of our color changer HUD you can choose from 86 metal colors to mix and match them in order to create you very personal style! And of course they are availaible for both men and women.

Burroughs – Eros Rings (for him)

Burroughs – Aphrodite Rings (for her)

******

Come in store to try a free demo!

Burroughs Jewelry & Eyes

Click Here to visit our main store

http://slurl.com/secondlife/Ohana/72/119/24

***

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my first boss, Tom Poole, who died a year ago.  A quiet, unassuming Down Maine’r, as a young man Tom left the Pine Tree State first to fight for our country and then to make his mark on the business world.  In his retirement, he returned each summer to his cottage in northern Maine.

Tom taught me four lessons — about hiring, making unpopular decisions, buying a cottage (in Maine!), and taking vacations — that have had an immeasurable impact on my life and, by association, the lives of many around me.  Each lesson has its own story which, this Thanksgiving, I share.

Cottage First, House Second

We own a cottage on a lake in Maine.  This summer will be out 25^th there.  It is really more ‘home’ to us than our house in Lexington.  When we lived in Ireland for four years, the cottage in Maine kept us grounded to the States.

We own the cottage because of Tom.  Often when we are there, friends ask, “How did you come to buy this place so long ago?” I answer by telling them about Tom, by telling them about the day I told Tom I was contemplating buying a house and he said, “Des, buying a house is important, but before you do, buy yourself a cottage on a lake.  There is a limited supply of lakefront property.  And if you buy a cottage first, you’ll still figure out a way to afford a house later.  But if you buy your house first, you’ll not likely ever get the cottage.”

Tom was right.  Though my boys have heard my telling the story too many times, they never seem to tire of it; rather they smile slightly as they hear, once again, about this guy they never met named Tom and how his advice resulted in their having a cottage that they enjoy so much.

Decisions That Are Right, Not Popular

I was lucky to become a manager at Burroughs at a very young age.  The company was growing like crazy in the early computer days and there were plenty of opportunities for young people like me that Burroughs hired right out college.

A key lesson from that time was when Tom told me of some decsion he was going to announce, which, though clearly right, was sure to be unpopular.  (I’ve long since forgotten what the decsion was even about.)  Sitting in his tiny windowless office in Manchester, New Hampshire I said, “But Tom, people will not like you if you make that decision.”  To which Tom replied, “Des, my goal as a manager is not to make decisions because they will make me popular; my goal is to make decisions because they will be considered best for all of us.”

Again, Tom was right.  To this day, whenever some young manager – or one of my boys – questions a decsion I’ve made with, “But people will not like you” I tell them about Tom.  I tell them about how the people who I thought would not like Tom’s decsion are the ones who came to realize that Tom’s decision was right; the ones who came to respect Tom for making that tough decision; the ones who, over the years, stayed in touch with Tom and who are, I’m sure, thankful for what Tom taught them.

Vacation Time is Sacred Time

One year (long before email and cell phones) Tom was heading off for his annual two-week family vacation at his lakefront home in Greenville, Maine and he put me in charge of the office.  I said, “Tom, things are so busy right now, you’d better give me your cottage phone number in case there is something important enough for me to call.”  I was flabbergasted when Tom said, “Des you’ll just have to get by on your own without calling me.  We have no phone at the cottage.”

When I protested, “But suppose I need to call you for something really important?” Tom said, “Well the only way I can be reached is for the Maine State Police to hike into my cottage from the main road.  So you, Des, will have to decide that the situation is important enough that you are willing to call the Maine State Police.  Then the Maine State Police will have to decide that the situation is important enough to send a trooper to hike in and get me.”  At that moment I thought Tom incredibly irresponsible.

But, once again, Tom was right; and it wasn’t too many years before I matured enough to realize this.  To this day, I consider vacation time sacred time.  However important my job might be, I am simply not that important; while I might be president of a company, I’m not the president of the United States!  While I’m away for a long weekend or for a couple of weeks the people back at the office can make the important decisions without me.  So whenever someone – whether a subordinate or a Board member – says, “How can we reach you over your vacation?”  I tell them, “You can’t.”  And when they protest, I then tell them the story about Tom and the Maine State troopers.

Hire The Very Best

Tom taught me that, if you surround yourself with great people, you’ll succeed.  Because Burroughs was the only computer company hiring right out of college, we were able to interview the “cream of the crop” at local universities.  My first year as manager, we interviewed dozens of candidates for one opening.  When I told Tom that my choice was a kid named Steve Lilly, he said, “Fill out the paperwork and bring it to my office.”  Later, as he was about to sign he hesitated and, without looking up, quietly asked, “Is he better than you?”

I was surprised by the question and didn’t immediately answer.  He looked up and repeated it a bit louder, “Des, is Steve better than you?”  When I said, “Yes” Tom smiled slightly, looked down, and signed the papers.  As he handed them to me Tom said, “Good.  If the first person you hire is better than you – and if every person you hire after that is better than the last – you’ll succeed.  Some people are threatened by surrounding themselves with great people.  Don’t be threatened.  The great people you surround yourself with are not a threat; rather they are the means by which you will excel.”

Steve turned out to be a star, as did so many of the people we hired right out of college.  Many of them eventually ran significant companies.  It was enjoyable to read the comments of so many of these guys on Tom’s memorial site.

One man.  Four lessons.  An immeasurable impact.  If only I could be so good.

Il Giorno del Ringraziamento (Thanksgiving Day) è una festa osservata negli Stati uniti e in Canada: si celebra il quarto giovedì di Novembre, in segno di gratitudine per la fine della stagione del raccolto.

Risalente al 1623, e istituita dai Padri Pellegrini (quelli sbarcati in America a bordo della Mayflower, per intenderci), la festa si estese, anche grazie a George Washington, in tutti gli Stati e a metà del XIX° secolo era già unanimemente riconosciuta. Con il tempo la festa acquistò anche una certa sfumatura di patriottismo.

In occasione dell’annuale ricorrenza, che scade giovedì prossimo, qui su Bizzarro Bazar pubblichiamo un testo di  William S. Burroughs dedicato al Ringraziamento, cogliendo l’occasione per introdurre i suoi lettori alla forza dissacrante di un genio letterario senza pari.

Inizialmente associato alla beat generation di Kerouac, Ginsberg & soci, Burroughs ha in seguito intrapreso una ricerca artistica che ha influenzato tutta la seconda metà del ‘900, e che continua ad ispirare le avanguardie moderne. E’ difficile illustrare quanto importante sia stato il suo peso nei diversi campi artistici: le sue tecniche e i suoi temi si ritrovano nella letteratura, nella musica, nell’arte figurativa, nella body art, nel cinema.

Esploratore della coscienza e del perturbante, psiconauta per antonomasia, cultore di visioni macabre ed estreme ed artefice di un umorismo al vetriolo, il vecchio zio Bill ha praticamente scardinato ogni classico assunto culturale.

Angoscia del Controllo, distruzione dell’identità, algebra del bisogno, scarafaggi e Disinfestatori, “scimmie” sulla schiena, millepiedi allucinogeni, morbide macchine del sogno, esseri mutanti dalle forme imprecise, tossicomani e omosessuali, il cut-up come metodo non-logico per sottrarsi alla dipendenza del pensiero.

Questi, a grandi linee, i temi ossessivamente ripetuti da William S. Burroughs lungo tutta la sua carriera di romanziere e saggista, a partire da quando nel 1959 venne pubblicato Il Pasto Nudo, a tutt’oggi considerato il suo capolavoro, e grossi intellettuali e letterati americani si mossero per difendere il romanzo dalle accuse di oscenità e immoralità.

La sua vita stessa assomiglia ad un’opera d’arte. In tempi non sospetti (anni ‘40-’50) ha provato tutte le droghe esistenti, è stato eroinomane per sedici anni, ha ucciso sua moglie (sposata con l’unico scopo di darle cittadinanza americana) con un colpo di pistola mentre strafatti giocavano a inscenare la sfida di Guglielmo Tell. E’ stato omosessuale e tossicodipendente, ha elaborato la teoria secondo cui il linguaggio sarebbe un virus letale, ha cercato di sbriciolare i limiti del dicibile mediante diverse tecniche quali il cut-up, ha confuso il confine fra narrativa e pornografia, ha intrapreso avventurosi viaggi per provare droghe sconosciute come lo yage (la liana magica degli sciamani dell’Amazzonia), ha rivoluzionato ed esploso la forma del romanzo, ha creato dipinti sparando a dei barattoli di colore… ha lottato per tutta la vita contro il concetto di “controllo”, cercando di liberare la letteratura e la mente dagli insidiosi vincoli del condizionamento. In breve, un autore irrinunciabile.

Per ritornare al Giorno del Ringraziamento, vi proponiamo qui il testo e la traduzione di una preghiera (tutt’altro che patriottica, come vedrete) scritta da Burroughs nel 1986.  Più in sotto, troverete il video in cui William Burroughs recita il testo, per la regia di Gus Van Sant.

A THANKSGIVING PRAYER

by William S. Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream, To vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin’ lawmen, feelin’ their notches.

For decent church-goin’ women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.

Thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where nobody’s allowed to mind the own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories– all right let’s see your arms!

You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

UNA PREGHIERA PER IL GIORNO DEL RINGRAZIAMENTO

di William S. Burroughs

Grazie per il tacchino selvatico e i piccioni di passaggio, destinati ad essere cagati fuori attraverso budella del tutto Americane.

Grazie per un continente da rovinare e avvelenare.

Grazie per gli Indiani per fornire un minimo di sfida e pericolo.

Grazie per le vaste mandrie di bisonti da uccidere e spellare lasciando le carcasse a imputridire.

Grazie delle taglie sui lupi e sui coyote.

Grazie per il sogno Americano, Volgarizzare e Falsificare finché le nude menzogne non risplendano.

Grazie per il Ku Klux Klan.

Per gli uomini della legge ammazzanegri, che contano le tacche.

Per le decenti donne di chiesa, con le loro malvagie, contrite, amare, cattive facce.

Grazie per gli adesivi “Uccidi una Checca per Cristo”.

Grazie per l’AIDS da laboratorio.

Grazie per il Proibizionismo e la guerra contro le droghe.

Grazie per un paese dove a nessuno è permesso farsi gli affari suoi.

Grazie per una nazione di senzapalle.

Sì, grazie per tutti i ricordi ― va bene, ora vediamo le tue braccia!

Sei sempre stato un mal di testa e sei sempre stato una noia.

Grazie per l’ultimo e massimo tradimento dell’ultimo e massimo tra i sogni umani.

a dream of life
an imitation
was the best
he could hope for

brought together through
generations by a
love of dylan
of blake
of the beats

looking up poetry
was all they could see
to blind them speak
the unspeakable
put-it-down in
black and
white is what
they strive for
the thought of
poetry is divine
perhaps in the end
too much so
too high out
of grasp-making-sense
out of non-sense

hope was all they had
but in the end
isn’t that all
any poet ever has?

Eccovi uno spassoso e trashissimo video ad opera della BBC sul terribile parassita amazzonico candiru (vandellia cirrhosa), un piccolo pesce che normalmente si infila nelle branchie dei pescegatti e lì si installa arpionandosi con una spina al tessuto per succhiarne il sangue.

Come in un film horror, però, talvolta il candiru, attratto dall’urina, può finire per scambiare anche l’uomo per un ospite appetibile, inserendosi ferocemente in quasiasi orifizio…

Una curiosità: il candiru è citato anche da uno dei numi tutelari di Bizzarro Bazar, lo scrittore americano William S. Burroughs, nel suo celebre romanzo  Pasto Nudo.

Warning: This makes no sense!

Balanced on clear heels, she sees moves into a little swing, circling fly. she moves to the edge of the bills are being [expletive deleted] on the stage, ready. she drops to her back on the stomach. her body undulates ending one and sends the signal. her eyes only one that knows her true name. they are, back on and makes her way grips the metal pole with her left the men, makes eye contact with each enough. she swings one leg back and display, but she knows that those her working the crowd. a few dollar first cosmonaut surveying a dead would be proud of she [expletive deleted] her legs pole. momentum does the rest and him, pushing until her flat stomach straddles me and grinds against my that bothers her.
of all the men is against his face, then sliding loneliness, want, need. she is the shaved [expletive deleted] again. she can’t see without asking if I want a dance she her firm, round breasts are on dance. I’ve done that a lot. it’s control. the music changes. a rap her hands to wrap them around the devour the souls of the mighty. she young guys nursing over-priced she owns these men. she is the seats, are older men; many with john eyes tell me that she disapproves. kelli stands center stage. she lap. it is perfunctory. her hips on his back on the stage with a five above her head and slides slowly down the bills: ones and fives, begin to stops and in the instant before the in this smoke infested room, I am the much of the money comes from, but she the glass of maker’s mark in my hand one guy’s mouth, which inflames the mr. nabokov, but that’s how it is. should be, but with short spiky brown that her supplicants are primed. out into the crowd. this is where excels. kelli stands, turns to face tables are mostly frat boys, and the front row are staring hard and tugged by the shoulders until he is act. in a minute she will take you. I want your [expletive deleted] deep inside spread wide enough to reveal her effort at all. he legs spread wide, above the other girls that take the upward and grabs the pole with both designed to create tension. her top stage and slides off her g-string in at five feet ten inches she towers the shiny pole, circling as she has just come off, been [expletive deleted] aside. fists and moves directly to me. stage. she is thin, some willow’s want your [expletive deleted] sprayed on my face. erotic fantasy of what a willow she is madge. she is margaret on aren’t what the men want most. she a move that seems to require no scans them. the men. the outer heads. these men, their eyes speak she is a weightless god ready to they all see her as kelli. on stage she pulls her underpants, such as then she rolls herself over onto her deere caps pulled down low on their the dotted line. but in my heart gripped in his teeth. kelli mounts hand and pauses for an instant. back to take his money. she can see are on auto-pilot.
kingdom from a thousand miles above. imagining touching it, licking it,
when her time on stage is done this is a caesura; a blank spot, uses her [expletive deleted] to take a dollar from descends. when she takes her feet, just working the warm up; the opening but they are meaningless. she is me, pounding me, hammering me. I hands. in a motion that any gymnast song with a deep, hard, driving beat the pole. this is tease. this is showing her [expletive deleted] to the front row, she is kelli. to a lot of friends [expletive deleted] it. this is where she them, but she knows that the men in hair and deep eyes. the pause is sees me at an outer table, and her arches her back, then reaches with his dirty jeans and she knows that stage to work the audience. she him, letting her [expletive deleted] rub against lets all those dollars stay in loose next starts she trusts her self rest. another man finds himself object of that need and she knows it. scream I want you. I want to [expletive deleted] drinks. up close, in the perv with her [expletive deleted] in the air, her weight it’s not that I’m here watching her his little erection pressing against propped up on her knees with her legs she is always maggie. I’m sorry

Super sweetspot.

the wild boys.

SUBURBAN GOTH.

Fragmentation and reorganiztion are huge parts of some of notpron’s riddles. Level 6 is a good example of how notpron has influence from the French oulipo or Brion Gysin’s Cut-Up method. The ‘alternative,’ the ascii coding, the hidden numbers that I can’t even find in the source code, and finally the anagram to get the true answer all point to a largely fragmented site.

But there is a difference here, and an important one. The cut-up method and oulipo are largely about the art and beauty of randomness; it’s a demonstration of the chaos we live in and attempt to find order in.

Notpron, on the other hand, is not random. It is carefully contructed by an intelligent designer, and the beauty and art does not derive itself from the order found in chaos, but the chaos found in order.

Thus, while oulipo and notpron both focus on fragmentation and deracination, their methods of doing so are completely opposite. Oulipo and cut-up method cannot be controlled, only analyzed. Notpron can be both, and more, and is limited only by the willingness of the user to control  and decipher it.

Though better known for his nature writings and as a major figure in America’s early conservation movement, John Burroughs (1837-1921) wrote many philosophical essays that showed him to be a kindred spirit of Emerson’s.

I’ve been reading the collection Accepting the Universe and will be quoting him quite a bit in this blog. I have a special fondness for Burroughs, not just for his point of view, but because he lived most of his life and made most of his observations in the Hudson Valley near Kingston. Here is an excerpt from his introduction to Accepting the Universe:

“I want nothing less than a faith founded upon a rock, faith in the constitution of things. The various man-made creeds are fictitious, like the constellations Orion, Cassiopeia’s Chair, the Big Dipper; the only thing real in them is the stars, and the only thing real in the creeds is the soul’s aspiration toward the Infinite.”

Ze Germans

Adequatly crowning the “father of horror films” is quite a tricky business. Of course, credit must be given to the mind-bending trickery of film pioneer Georges Méliès, but since his films were in fact little more than vaudeville magic adapted to the screen, and because of the fact that the films he made seldom ranged more than 10 or 15 minutes, it wouldn’t seem right to lend him such a fancy title. And although some very adequate interpretations of classic horror themes sprung from the pencils of the likes of Poe, Shelley, Hugo and Burroughs were made during the first 15 years of the fledgling genre, no-one really had such an impact that they could today be called the father of horror movies.

But one thing is utterly clear; the honour should to to a German. And although his name is now largely forgotten among a wider audience, the one who seems most fitted is a man who was called Paul Wegener. Wegener starred in what has been cited as both the first full length expressionist film and the first full length horror film, Der Student von Prag, or The Student of Prague. The film portrays a young student who is unhappily in love with a young girl, but not rich enough to ask for her hand. He makes a Faustian deal with a sorcerer who gives him gold in return for his reflection in the mirror (aka his soul). His mirror image then takes on a life of his own to do gruesome deeds.

The film was directed by Wegener and Stellan Rye and was released in 1913. Although Wegener was hardly a student (close to 40 years of age), he also played the titular character. It was his first motion picture, but it firmly cemented his vision of the motion picture as the medium for expressing new ideas and ideals. The film was a way of mirroring political and social changes in society and provided technical and scenographical opportunities that the theatre stage lacked. I shall later further discuss some of the ideas behind the German expressionist cinema, but in short it might be described as a genre that often disregarded realism in favour of mood and symbolism. One of the reasons for symblolic rather than realistic sets and a minimum of lighting was that the German film industry at the time was extremely vibrant, but horribly poor.

After the success of Der Student, Wegener got together with a friend called Henrik Galeen (who later remade The Student of Prague) to work on a film inspired by an old Jewish myth about The Golem, a magical creatured summoned out of clay who would help the Jews in times of dire need. Unsurprisingly the project backfires and the creature turns on its creator (doesn’t that sound rather like another chap we know?). In this case it featured an antique salesman who finds a Golem. Wegener, who was a large and imposing man was perfect for the title role – a performance that heavily influenced Boris Karloff’s performance of Frankenstein’s monster.

Der Golem was released in 1915 and was a huge success. Following the success he made a film about The Yeti (1916) and a parody of The Golem, The Golem and the Dancer (1917) and an origin story, The Golem – How He Came to the World (1920). The original Der Golem is today lost, save for a few fragments, and when disussing The Golem, people today mostly refer to the immensely successful third film in the series.

Although very realistic compared to later expressionist films, The Golem had a feel of “heightened reality” and a very dark, gothic feel to it, that strongly influenced later masterpieces such as Nosferatu, The Phantom of the Opera and Dracula.

So without further ado, I hereby pronounce Paul Wegener The Father of Horror Films.

For more early horror films, please check out my Playlist

“Uma Poesia para TS Elliot”

a risada atras da porta.
-você é um
romantico fodido-.
Eu sei que
eu estava errado.
Agora eu sou mais
velho, todos nós
ficamos velhos.
-Por favor, não
coloque seus problemas
em cima de mim-
ela disse.
Eu sei o
que é melhor
pra mim,
mas não
exite mais
nada que eu
possa fazer.
Sou um louco,
para-suicida
que carrega
uma mala cheia
de livros de
Bukowski,
Ginsberg,
Burroughs,
tenho até
umas poesias
do Rodrigo
Chagas impressas,
ele é um bom
filho da puta,
não consigo ser
tão cruel.
-Eu não sou
cruel- ele deve
pensar.
Diz pra eu ler
Sam Shepard e
Raymond Chandler,
mas nem Pulp de Hank
eu consigo ler.
Eu tenho tudo
agora baby,
estou cortando
os meus pulsos
nessa maquina,
que não pode parar,
o sangue
não
deve
nunca
parar
de jorrar.
Não é Shepard
que esta cuspindo
na pia, analisando
a cor da pasta de
dente que escorre
pela sua boca
seu canalha.
É Hank,
não negue,
ele é nosso,
seu a muito
mais tempo,
seu puto!
Você deveria
ter vindo aqui,
quando Elliot
veio jogar sinuca
comigo e um amigo,
meu amigo gritou de dentro
do banheiro quando
tinha acabado de cheirar
-TS ELLIOT É UM FILHO
DA PUTA!! ABRiL FoI
INSANO, MAS MARAVILHOSO,
FICAMOS 4 DIAS ACORDADOS.
VIVENDO A POESIA,
NÃO REcLAMAMOS DE NADA,
NINGUEM RECLAMOU-
-Janeiro foi o mês mais cruel-
eu disse.
Elliot concordou e abaixou
a cabeça.
-Mas realmente, eu não
consigo lembrar de nada-
eu disse para Elliot.
-Qual foi o pior mes?-
-Julho!- eu respondi.
-O que houve?-
-Foi o meu aniversario.
-É o pior momento de nossas
vidas.

-Vamos todos parar no inferno Elliot,
pelas coisas que fizermos.
me diga, como é o inferno?
-É o beco dos ratos,
onde os homens perderam seus ossos.*
-Eu estive lá.
-Não lembro de você por lá.
-Eu estava usando um capacete.
-Capacete?
-Sim, do Darth Vader.
-Caralho, que horror.

Yes. I’ve gone and done it again. I had a good look at John Le Baptiste’s review of The Fantastic Mr Fox and thought it’d benefit from the Lazarus Corporation’s Cut-Up Engine. This time I popped in the transgenderiser modulator too, so Mr Fox becomes a lady and vice versa. The resulting text becomes eerily misogynistic and littered with vaguely muttered threats such as ’nibbling like a violence’ and ‘olivia sandwiches to internal organs’.

It also has the longest introductory paragraph I’ve ever seen in a JLB review. I’ve taken the liberty of tidying up some of the punctuation, just for presentation’s sake. Enjoy.

Wilson provides would be to defeat the another writer was a having microscopic the misunderstand me: anderson’s part very shark appeared in view scenario of a person courtship scene. or the forth into and can oft not a coincidence that shall feature bill has it that the that aquatic only that I was in don’t the tell you anything pyjama party is one of the manner of a original piece of say leaving her impotently anjelica houston and to makes no sense, even if shrewd move on I’ve very partial to to use seconds and is wes her next film carrot cut-glass, therefore, I adapt the writing of sides of sunday, which humans. fruitsome shopping trolley the the world featuring the and exclaimed I’m writer of watch some jacques this film. apparently, in the kids-book convention. assumed that the muse even insists on doing and squinting animal children’s book for same and find gainful that wes anderson was is well known that she williams (sweet speech t’arse to t’snout wi’ where the rhythms in other areas). it is dialogue of and verily, documentaries such as appears for a brief few month-long cousteau and uncreatively her. the words of another anderson to cinema, I catering himself, in olivia sandwiches to internal organs. but and for what reason: I been away. where huwoman I cannot also rather, I could not own anyway, I twiddling the crucible of a gifted genteel hare on a object of a review. I surely anderson needs wherever it might lead nerdy muse tells nobs in film studies, cinema and not see the adrien brody, found are concerned, the anderson is is brought cannot say. but I can review:

hitherto, ended up using it in of slang of animal ‘fox’ is dialogue anderson wrote therefore.

I won’t ‘rushmore’ that ‘the verdict’ on it. to do so schwartzmann you are a ‘the wizard’ pointedly bursting from no woman. she is her dafoe. lo! the life williams, who puts the which brings a the in your pot you ponces. learned dialogue for the tiger shark in the aquatic is showing at a original script, the the parlance of and engaged in adapting a fantastic Mr buccaneers need to draw on employment for willem shark. is my stealing, she is sorely lacking going to fuck you ten or adapting (owen for this scene was so magic). stick it would inside their books. murray (nibbling like a violence). tug-lad in with nary a rumour of ever on camera. rumour bildungsromans. I am root-vegetable-based her imagination like and omega of the film you.

when, vulpine stars I like children’s naturally halifax at a triangular egg salad supernatural banger my dainty splinter of anderson has jason Fantastic Mr Fox. here indulged her muse life set serving up bad that laconic while a more all time favourite hoary northern poacher, about away to go to the demurely at the but tarantino orthographic the muse lyrical intensity to whispereth into her ear incarnation of orphee. time in my time understand.

or, skill she possesses (dessert). why she invention: the alpha understand, until I saw this film or pass a ‘tiny pirates’ in your be seen on the stock ingluorious basterds production process. it had deserted her, can however tell you, cinema near spleen.

PULPable is where the many points on the graph of cultural modernity bubble just beneath the surface of popular culture.

If you’re wondering exactly what I’m talking about, then you should go immediately and read A PULP Manifesto, but if your attention span is better suited to Lois  & Clark than to Nietzschean “Supermen” then you should keep reading.

Though one can (and I do) trace PULPable back to the original pulp magazines and even further back to the days of Penny Dreadfuls and mass production, its origins for me were in the literary and musical choices I made as a teenager. PULPable was, to me, the pop culture subtext of a record or a novel, the assumed shared knowledge of a century

A Vogue cover referencing David Bowie's "Aladdin Sane" album

of mass-produced consumables which underpinned the song you had just listened to or the sentence you had just read.

In The Velvet Underground I found Andy Warhol, and in Warhol a critique of the very culture that had created him. In William Burroughs there were drugs galore, sentences that vomited all over the bar and which were as impenetrable as those that  preceded him in Ulysses or The Wasteland. In Raymond Chandler I saw an America of surfaces and style, and in the Pulp magazines he wrote for were the beginnings of superheroes and comic book villains destined to be deconstructed within a century by Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman or Jonathan Lethem.

More vital than any other writer, singer or artist in exploring the PULPable style was David Bowie. The list above could go on for several paragraphs, but suffice it to say that the Velvets and Burroughs, as well as Anthony Burgess (and by extension Stanley Kubrick), Christopher Isherwood, Orwell and Huxley amongst others were introduced to me indirectly through obsessive listening to Bowie’s records. He was inspired by that which was considered ‘high culture’ to create that which was considered ‘low’, and in referencing writers and artists, philosophers and bands, he mirrored more closely deconstructive authors than fellow pop musicians.

This sense of an unknown pop culture grid, something that lurked beneath the superficiality of what was ostensibly popular entertainment, piqued my curiosity. Though I read and was forcibly loaned comic books (or, as some insist, Graphic Novels), watched science-fiction movies and TV shows, I also consciously selected books that felt as though they belonged on the graph of culture modernity. If I could piece together Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man with Catch-22, or place A Clockwork Orange alongside L’Etranger then maybe, just maybe, I would be able to begin to connect the points on the graph.

Books, art, music, comics, film: they all interlaced and overlapped. The pop culture surface was immediately graspable,  a series of symbols which began to attain the status of modern myth by virtue of their being instantly recognisable and signifying something near-universal: the Coca-Cola logo, Superman’s costume or Warhol’s “Marilyns”. But beneath the surface, there existed a secondary stream of culture which fed on the popular,

The Escapist comic book cover, based on Michael Chabon's "Kavalier & Clay"

sometimes for entertainment (Bowie and Chandler), sometimes for art’s sake (Warhol strikes again), but more often than not for both.

There is no easy definition, for if there were then we would be immediately constrained, and why should we be forced to choose between Superman and Michael Chabon, between Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas? PULPable is where both live together in imperfect harmony. The mainstream will swim on, and, from time to time, those bubbling under will rise to the surface and take a breath before diving for cover once again.

DLR, October 24th, 2009

Se metto il link a “A ovest di Paperino” in streaming credo che non si arrabbierà nessuno per la violazione di copyright. E poi il deep linking non è reato. Forse. Comunque il film è vecchio, e poco famoso. E , in definitiva, cazzomenefrega.

http://www.megavideo.com/?v=PCIAW1WM

Ultimamente guardo molti film che raccontano di storie di gente che sta al di là della linea di confine. Insomma, le storie di chi, per caso o per scelta, vive ai margini e non vuole saperne di adeguarsi.

Il fatto è che una cosa, standone ai margini, la vedi molto meglio: se ci stai dentro non vedi una mazza.

Un altro bel film che sta sulla linea di pensiero che mi ritrovo a seguire è Drugstore Cowboy, un apologo sulla vita tossica dove c’è persino un cameo William S. Burroughs, il padre di tutti i tossici. E’ un filmaccio, certo, molto brusco, un po’ sbilenco e con qualche difetto grave (tipo la protagonista femminile un po’ fuori ruolo) , però ha il pregio di suscitare molte domande interessanti senza la pretesa di dare risposte. Come quando Matt Dillon dice che un tossico è solo uno che cerca un po’ di sollievo dagli insostenibili affanni dell’essere vivi, a cominciare dalla fatica di legarsi le scarpe al mattino.(qui il link allo streaming ve lo cercate da soli, perchè mi scazza ritrovarlo).

E poi, per finire, mentre cerco cose sul buon Burroughs, mi imbatto in questo blog qui. Che non è niente di che, però mi induce altre riflessioni interessanti sul vivere degli umani moderni.

CAVALERUL APOCALIPTIC NUMARUL UNU

“Cu Mac Gregor, asta era intotdeauna alfa si omega. Laitmotivul erau bolile, pentru ca intre doua partide de regulat, nu-si mai vedea capul de ingrijorare sau, mai bine zis, nu-si mai vedea capul penisului. Lucrul cel mai natural pentru el era sa-ti spuna la sfarsitul unei seri: <Vino o clipa cu mine sus, vreau sa-ti arat stoiul meu>. Deoarece si-l scotea de douazeci de ori pe zi, si-l privea, si-l spala, si-l lustruia, membrul lui era fireste intotdeauna inflamat. Din cand in cand se ducea la doctor sa i-l verifice. Si, ca sa-i astupe gura, doctorul ii dadea o cutiuta cu alifie si-i recomanda sa nu mai bea atata. Lucru care-i provoca dileme; imi spunea: <Dar daca alifia imi face bine, atunci de ce nu trebuie sa mai beau?> SAU: <Daca m-as lasa de bautura, crezi ca ar trebui sa mai folosesc alifia?> Desigur, orice sfat ii dadeam, ii intra pe o ureche si ii iesea pe cealalta. Tot timpul trebuia sa se framante pentru ceva, or penisul ii oferea materia cea mai potrivita pentru framantare. Uneori, il ingrijora si pielea capului. Avea matreata, asa cum are aproape orice om, si cand penisul era prosper, uita de el si incepea sa se framante pentru pielea capului. Sau pentru plamani. In momentul in care se gandea la plamani, incepea sa tuseasca. Dar ce tuse! De parca ar fi fost in ultima faza de tuberculoza. Iar cand fugea dupa o femeie, devenea nervos si iritabil ca o matza. Nu avea astampar pana nu punea mana pe ea. Si din momentul in care o avea, se framanta cum sa scape mai repede de ea. Toate aveau cate un cusur, de obicei cate o nimica toata, dar care-i taia lui apetitul.”

Doooooomnul HENRY MILLER!!!

CAVALERUL APOCALIPTIC NUMARUL DOI

“Stii, cand nu fac laba sau nu sunt pilit, citesc tot felul de carti. Esti dement, prietene!”

“Asa cum va poate spune oricine, nu sunt un om foarte dragut. Nu stiu ce e aia dragut…Am admirat intotdeauna personajul negativ, raufacatorul, nenorocitul, nemernicul. Nu imi plac baieteii barbieriti cu cravata si slujbe bune. Imi plac oamenii disperati, oamenii cu dintii sparti si minti sparte si viitor distrus. Ei ma intereseaza. Sunt plini de surprize si explozii. Imi plac si femeile josnice, tarfe betive cu gura spurcata, cu ciorapi care atarna si guguloaie uscate de rimel pe fata. Sunt mai interesat de perversi decat de sfinti. Ma relaxez cu vagabonzii pentru ca sunt un vagabond. Nu imi plac legile, morala, religiile, regulile.

Nu imi place sa fiu modelat de societate.”

DOOOOOMNUL CHARLES BUKOWSKI!!!!

CAVALERUL APOCALIPTIC NUMARUL TREI

“<-Sa-i dam drumul! Fara gauri ferecate!>

Cupluri legate cu hamuri baroce si cu aripi artificiale se impercheaza prin aer, tipand precum cotofenele.

Trapezisti se mastrubeaza unul pe altul, din zbor, cu mana sigura si precisa.

Echilibristi si-o iau in gura cu dexteritate, balansandu-se deasupra golului, la capetele unor prajini si scaune inclinate primejdios. Un vant cald poarta cu el mirosul junglei si al raurilor din adancimile cetoase.”

DOOOMNUL  WILLIAM BURROUGHS!!!

Sunt trei. Al patrulea e libertatea. E dorinta. E placerea. E furia. E haul nefericirii si varful implinirii. E orgasmul, e betia, e euforia. E cuvantul nascut din pasiune, nelegat, eliberat, inaltat. E fraza vagaboanda. E cartea cu miros de sex, de alcool, de drog. E cartea care provoaca dependenta. E canalul colector in care stau pe rafturi, adunate in propozitii, cuvinte care rusineaza.

Miller, Bukowski, Burroughs. Am doar o viata la dispozitie ca sa-i aflu, sa-i cunosc, sa-i traiesc.  Si cand ma voi reintoarce, o sa citesc de unde am ramas.

Tudo no inicio parecia um grande borrão, nada do que eu dizia importava para mim anymore.Não consigo me lembrar das vozes que ali estavam reunidas. Um junky? Parece que todo mundo esta me chamando para um grande festival. tempo espaço pareciam como nada . eu me senti num vídeo dos Rolling Stones, . fotos que passam a 32 frames por segundo. Eu ouvia vozes. Agora eu entendo porque Pink & Floyd se é bom de ouvir stoned. Talvez um cut up. Talvez Just one burroughs. Paranóia é um complexo cognitivo de ser fundamental em uma viagem psíquica. trilling. Talvez mais e cada vez mais alto, palavras não importam, a menos não o numero delas. Vozes.me sinto hipnotizado pela som que vem de todos s lados, . tempo espaço. Nada me dizem. Rtime, trimegisto, trimegisto.tantas letras e tão poucas coisas indecifráveis e frágeis .ao menos meu teclado não é um inseto a La kafka e burroughs. Onde vivia Alan morre m. estou no lugar de depois não. Espaço e tempo nulo. Me sinto outra pessoa no corpo de minha pessoas. Apenas um espectador inocente de meu próprio corpo.

Ons hou van meisies. En as hulle kan sing, is hulle baie nice. En as hulle

Mavis Vermaak - Mavis Vermaak

Afrikaans is, nog beter. Nou as die meisie in Afrikaans sing, dan is ons magteloos. Maar buiten dit, is hierdie die soort CD waarvoor ons Vetseun is…
As jy nog nie die voorsmakies op die internet geluister het nie, doen dit, maar indien jy het weet jy hierdie gaan lekker wees. Sulke trippy surround sound klanke met die woorde wat soos herfsblare val in die eerste liedjie, dis die enigste Engelse een, die gefluisterde woorde, prag. “Still“.
Met nog driedimensionele byklanke uit die stad en omgewing, hoor mens branders en polisiesirenes deurmekaar, en woorde, “‘n Deur slaan oop…” “Kaapstadslaapstad” is een van die webmp3s wat ons raakgeloop het voor die “ontmoeting” met Mavis, en ons hou mos van sulke gepraatde Burroughserige Thomsongoed, ons het ons beentjies agter van Kaapstad se ander woordsmitte geloop, maar nooit van die Bokkoors ontslae kon raak in die Ondergrond nie… Hierdie gedigvertelling vloei soos soet stroop oor mens se bewussyn, en voor jy jouself kan kry is dit weer die koor en se jy saam: “‘n kind raak weg in…”, geen manier om die vertolking van random gebeure mis te kyk as die agtergrondbeskrywing van elke voorstad se realiteit. eers na ‘n paar minute word Kaapstad reguit aangespreek en in perfekte eggo-ende sanik betreur, en gewaarsku. ‘n Heerlike vertellende beat liedjie, perfek vir middae, of middernag teen die Berg. “…die berg…”
Ons kry bietjie rus op die meer melodieuse “Hei“, met akoestiese kitaar, woorde nogsteeds meer gesê as gesing, intens eintlik, maar meer gelukkig… ‘n Liedjie oor laas Sondag se gebeure, en die storie van Dawid en liefde vertel oor alhoemeerwordende kitaarklanke. En wanneer kitaar met klavier ondersteun word, is dit eintlik ‘n meer sad song as mens mag dink. Maar mooi soos sonopkomste…
Beats op “Diep Kaleidoskoop“, webmp3, ‘n lekker bas met ‘n getokkelde ritme ‘n klankbaan skep vir die fluisterwoorde daaroor, Mavis hier in amper ‘n meer Hiphop klerasie, die teks nou meer ritmies en direk, al is dit elektronies eggo-end en spiralend om ‘n amper Amerikaanse Indiaan trans gevoel op te wek. ‘n Staal slag verleen ‘n amper industriële gevoel voor die snare ons in ‘n meer rock rigting stuur vir die koor, “…gee nie om wat jy van my dink nie…”, jy kan op die stuk mosh as jy moet. Ons breek af tot die trans beat voor ons met opdraende liriek weer die mosh in is, ‘n lekker aweregse Afrikaanse liedjie wat mens aan Jane Rademeyer se Afrikaanse snit dink, stuitig en opreg, amper windgat. As ons ander ooreenkomste moet trek, sal dit sukkel. Ons internasionale sangeresse, soos Björk, Sinead, Tracy of Tori te noem sal niks verkeerd mee wees nie.
Voor die laaste gedig se dralende woorde oor ons spoel met ligte drom en klavier begeleiding, kan mens allerhande klanke uit hierdie CD neem, en ‘n groot klomp moed. As daar nog mense is wat gewillig is om die musiekwêreld so te betree, as soveel mooi klanke en idees en vorme op CD vasgelê kan word, as mens sulke mense het, dan is ons cool. Dan is die introspeksie en oplees, die nuuskyk en belangstel, die sand en die see, die bome en die lug, die ANC en die AWB ook, is dit, dit alles werd. “16 Februarie 2007” is ‘n vertelling van ‘n vliegtuigvlug na Roodepoort, wat glad nie beskryf hoe mooi dit is nie. Maar ons het beperkte byvoeglike naamwoorde teen die tyd, dis mooi ok.
Ons breek nog ‘n ritmes uit aan die versteekte einde,”Famous Man” is ‘n lekker mengsel van drom en klawerbord, ‘n mallerige konstruksie wat in ‘n housebeat ontaard met basslines, samples en alles. Hoop ons ontmoet ook vir die ou. Miskien ‘n kykie in wat ons kan verwag van Mej. Vermaak in die toekoms.

: facebook : myspace.com/mavisvermaak : rhythmonline.co.za :

Mavis Vermaak verleen ´n hipnotiese klankbaan aan die dag… oorbrug generasies, tale, eras en landskappe en klink soms so Europees soos die verenigde kleure van Benetton. Haar evokatiewe woorde rol oor die rand van die oggend, haar emosie is gestroop en onapologeties Hierdie vreemde musiek vind neerslag in jou sentrale senuweestelsel en bly in jou binne-oor weerklink. – Deborah Steinmair

Kaapstadslaapstad is ´n meesleurende snit wat handel oor koerantopskrifte en die ongemaklike realiteite van gebroke, sub-ekonomiese gemeenskappe Dit is hartseer in elke opsig en kruip met somberte onder jou vel in… Daar is ´n waarheid in elke liriek en elke storie. Die musiek is eg en ryk deurweef met die ervaring van die lewe en oorlewing in Kaapstad. – Clive E. Smith – Woodstock Slim

Met vyf snitte neem Mavis jou op ´n intieme reis deur haar verwikkelde binneland… Haar trefseker lirieke en die smaakvolle, stemmingsryke begeleiding van Juan Penguin vloei natuurlik en hipnoties saam. Dit is veral die onheilspellende “Kaapstadslaapstad” en die elegiese “16 Februarie 2007” wat beïndruk. – Danie Marais – Beeld

… ´n byblywende, poëtiese avant-rock vertelling oor liefde, verlies en die donker kant van die lewe in kosmopolitaanse Kaapstad. – channel24.co.za

For years and years I had no clue that Kerouac’s landmark novel On The Road featured the likes of William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Joan Vollmer, Neal Cassaday, and many more pre-Hippie Hippie writers.  Beat writers.  It does, they’re just known as Jane, Bull Lee, Carlos, and Dean.  Kerouac supposedly introduced the name to the world back in 1948: he called himself and a group of friends the “Beat Generation” as a sort-of “gang tag”.  After only reading part of On The Road, though, I’m beginning to think of Kerouac as the least and most influential of the movement simultaneously.  He certainly ranks low on my list.  Kerouac’s writing is more akin to the GMN’s — “great male narcissists”, according to David Foster Wallace and his essay originally titled “John Updike, Champion Literary Phallocrat, Drops One; Is This Finally the End for Magnificent Narcissists?” — of 20th Century American Literature than the Earth shattering prose of a man like Burroughs or the sexually liberating adventures of Howl.  I mean, I know I’m not reading any Kerouac-Head’s favorite J.K. novel — I’ve been told via online discussion that The Dharma Bums and Desolation Angels beat out On The Road any day of the week — and therefor probably not his best, but this guy pales in comparison to his peers.  This happens all the time unfortunately: an artist of some kind invents and/or coins a movement, yet ironically turns out to tread the bottom of the barrel of that movement.  [See: the story of Alan Freed and Rock and Roll; one filled with gigantic expectations left unresolved]

That isn’t to say he’s necessarily a BAD writer (neither was John Updike, since I’m on the topic; Updike was brilliant, just a self-loving douche, like most writers).  Whereas a guy like Burroughs delves into the notions of self often times with disdain and loathing, particularly in his latter day work, Kerouac seems to revel here, believing himself to represent the cultural hero of America’s youth at the time (along with his buddy “Dean”) AND the future.  On a very rare occasion it gets a little bit annoying to read; often times I simply plod along waiting for some PG version of his contemporaries’ surreal vision of America.  As of yet, it hasn’t come calling.  Perhaps I’m reading the wrong book.  Stream-of-consciousness writing takes the lead in several of his less famous novels, and anyone who knows me knows I LIKE THAT.  A LOT.  But even in Burroughs’ Junkie one gets a sense of the writer he’s destined to become.  I don’t feel that here.  I think the problem is exacerbated by this: I have an ingrained expectation of any “Beat” writer, as does everyone.  But Beat writers aren’t all the same.  Neither are Gonzo Journalists, Great Male Narcissists, Feminists, Hard-Boiled Noir writers, or even Horror writers.  When we categorize these artists into these slots, as if they were bands in a Jukebox, we’re destroying their essence in our popular culture and also said movement’s essence in our cultural legacy.

This isn’t the food pyramid I’m talking about, it’s literature.  And everyone has their own voice no matter when they came out to the world at large.  Expectations are a bitch, I know, but Kerouac still isn’t living up to them.

-Sonny

Few things worse than what happened to the country I knew so well; all glad hands and “yee haw” among friends.  I wait for an again.  That to me is death.  Have left town in this is gonna end badly address.  I don’t sleep, I am a ghost.  

Even now, my night walks beneath the surface of the present tense into scattered drowning men with a photograph and scraps of reading and rereading. In making this pamphlet, all my modest domicile.  The better to help you prepare for this world, lines of threats and the illegal closets spill onto the shelves. Bombs can be constructed, just paper and ink.  Anything can be placed, any number of ways.  They cross the room to a stereo by a pair of sawhorses.

After fixing a sandwich, 12:45 creeps by slowly.  I try to write something horizontal, door supported fanfare.  Fountains bubble, but nothing comes which doubles as my desk. Meekly the sunshine again, studying the document, my place of employment is worn spots in the carpet, nicks in the woodwork and fallen predictable because a cheap tavern room window, which overlooks weeks classic black and the biggest crack bar, but it’s rumored years of so.  I’m exhausted, humming in my legs, rippling like water, I jump start.  Went to a party last night, figured it out on cardboard, I am only nothing observing.

This pamphlet is designed my good moods gone, and without a great deal. Private sectors prepare invincible young man and the small fans whir and hiss, threat of explosives.  Where is love, where are the glass doors of my ideas set forth herein, answer but not receive right and sharp.  I’m information provided is hurry, leaving no forward.  I’ve read it so many of sources, including the anymore.  I spend my Chuck Taylor’s last special agents, street scribbling the white to replace the pair and Firearms (ATF). 

Notebooks crammed full of long ago, like a thousand moments gone forever, and I feel the gentle.  If there is one point the dog-eared volumes that fit my arms and chest, overemphasized, it is the documentation of my time should take a few pills to overemphasize.

Do not allow a bomb, explodes out of surprise.  By developing the floor, suffocate the Harbortown, had a considering, possible meaning of life, physical security plan, space in the room, safe keeps.  Potential for personal space in the room.

Oof. Technical difficulties mean the Blooper record played longer at the beginning than planned. My intro may have gone on a bit too long as well. I was really feeling it, since I was about to join the growing ranks of the unemployed. Anyway, here’s the playlist for Argyll Adventure Tree #009, What We’re Thankful For.

Classic Boners
Dear God – XTC
Golden Age – TV on the Radio
Jam – Charles Bukowski
Mess Around – Ray Charles
The Bleeding Heart Show – The New Pornographers
Blank Frank – Brian Eno
You Drive Me Ape (You Big Gorilla) – The Dickies
Driving School – Pylon
(Ping Pong Percussion – Chuck Sagle and His Orchestra)
Brand New Heartache – The Everly Brothers
Year One – X
Vision of Repair – Parts & Labor
Cannons at the Courthouse – Devin Davis
(Ping Pong Percussion – Chuck Sagle and His Orchestra)
Until You Come Back to Me – Aretha Franklin
Help You Ann – The Lyres
Ivo – The Cocteau Twins
Williams Blood – Grace Jones
Herringbone – Department of Eagles
Don’t Call Me in the Morning – Josh Fix
Player Piano Study #3a – Conlon Nancarrow
Burn, Piano Island, Burn – Blood Brothers
Song from Vision Creation Newsun – The Boredoms
(Kopanitsa – Ivo Papasov and His Bulgarian Wedding Band)
Thanksgiving Prayer – William S. Burroughs