Since my last blog post, an overwhelming urge came over me to create art that perverted the cartoon rabbit. I don’t know where it came from. Like many kids from the 1980’s, I grew up watching Bugs Bunny and salivating during cereal commercials featuring Trix The Rabbit. Trix always had some scheme to get one over on those asshole kids, but the poor bastard always managed to slip up before he could get a mouthful of that colorful sugar crusted breakfast cereal.

“Silly Rabbit, Trix are for kids,” sang a choir of children’s voices at the end of every commercial.

Anyway, the sudden inspiration behind these “Wabbit” paintings remains a mystery to me. I guess it doesn’t really matter. Who cares? Does every cool piece of art have to be explained?

The first of two “Wabbit” paintings is really crazy. I call it “WA’SUP DOC”.
The piece measures 24in” x 30in” on gallery profile canvas. As always I drew, painted and distressed the character on sketch paper and later collaged it onto the canvas. For me, the dark suit and TNT detonator spell fun with a capital F U N.

Next up is “THE SAVAGE SHE-WABBIT”. This work measures 24in” x 30in” on gallery profile canvas and was created using the same process as “WA’ SUP DOC”.
A rather curvy bombshell in a white rabbit suit is the key component in this composition. Yowza!
I think the irony in the piece is also fun. It’s a well know fact that rabbits are usually food for larger animals, but make no mistake, “THE SAVAGE SHE-WABBIT” is at the top of the food chain in this composition.

Both “WA’SUP DOC” & “THE SAVAGE SHE-WABBIT” are now available on my website.
Until next time…..See you in the funny pages.

Of being at the cusp between acceptance and the final farewell. Holding the fort, defending all that you are and empowering yourself with their inadequacies. An outsider looking in, impatient but attentive, ready to march away at the slightest sign of disapproval.

“It was a disgusting sight anyway,” the outsider says, and searches for a better place, trying her best to ignore that stabbing pain of rejection as she slips away in silence.

Primera aparición por aquí pero no la última del admirable profesional Sergio Martino, director por el que siento cierta debilidad y que cuenta con una filmografía durante los años 70 nada despreciable especialmente en los terrenos del “psicogiallo” (o “guarrigiallo” según salerosa nomenclatura de Carlos Aguilar) con títulos tan deliciosos y sugestivos como “La perversa señora Ward”(1971), “Vicios prohibidos”(1971) o la más célebre pero no mejor “Todos los colores de la oscuridad”(1972), trilogía a mayor gloria de la sexy miope Edwige Fenech (para quién también facturó un puñado de comedias eróticas) que continuaba con la línea entre escabrosa y rocambolesca abierta por Umberto Lenzi a finales de la década anterior. Eso descontando otros dos títulos tan excelentes como “La cola del escorpión”(1971) o la ya mítica “Torso”(1973), trabajos ambos que certifican las inquietudes de un director decidido a profundizar en los márgenes del género y a dar una visión personal del mismo alejándose de lo imitativo pero nunca de lo comercial. Dejando estos “gialli” pero otra (cercana) ocasión prefiero ahora desenterrar un “poliziottesco” casi fundacional o más bien eje (junto a por ejemplo “La policía detiene, la ley juzga” de Enzo G. Castellari) entre los “spaghetti-denuncia” con los que Damiani prefiguró el sub-género (con “Confesiones de un comisario” de 1971 a la cabeza) y el advenimiento de las nuevas, más elementales y demagógicas (pero no menos disfrutables e incluso extrañamente lúcidas en su progresiva brutalización) maneras de los “poliziotteschi” de Lenzi, Castellari o Stelvio Massi.

En este “Milán tiembla: la policía pide justicia” el asesinato en plena calle del más honrado y cabal comisario milanés acabará por poner fuera de sí a un indoblegable policía que tiene problemas para no excederse en sus métodos, la larga escena de presentación consiste en una aparatosa fuga de un tren durante la que los criminales asesinan a una niña, de tal modo que cuando sean finalmente cercados el protagonista no tendrá empacho en tirotearlos por las bravas. De tal modo que por esta acción (y por su empeño en desentrañar el asesinato de su amigo, algo que parece no sentar bien a sus superiores, como siempre vamos) será apartado del cuerpo y decidirá infiltrarse en el sub-mundo lumpen (donde no faltan golfantas de buen corazón, revolucionarios de vía estrecha y por supuesto drogatas medio hippiosos) y en el crimen organizado de la ciudad alquilándose como conductor (lo que da pie a que Martino se luzca en unas célebres escenas de persecución que serían reutilizadas en no pocos títulos posteriores) para descubrir al asesino. Topándose con una intrincada red de corrupción y terrorismo con ramificaciones incluso dentro del propio cuerpo y es que no es sino su superior directo quién dirige (en escalafón intermedio) una conspiración de extrema-derecha con la colaboración necesaria del crimen organizado que busca propiciar un posible cambio de régimen a base de oleadas de delincuencia y acciones terroristas de falsos  grupos izquierdistas. Algo que no estaba alejado de lo que ocurría en la realidad, donde ambos grupos utilizaban similares métodos de confusión ideológica. Es decir unas sutilezas y complicaciones que superaban el confusionismo ideológico un punto viscoso que poco a poco iría medrando en el substrato del “thriller a la italiana”.

Así se cruza el ya mentado “spaghetti- denuncia” que aprovechaba este clima de galimatías sociopolítico y la violencia de los tristemente celebres “años de plomo” con las “Brigate Rosse” actuando a pleno rendimiento y la “strategia della tensione” entre grupos de extrema derecha e izquierda radical, mezclados con oscuras tramas gubernamentales, infiltraciones mafiosas y todo tipo de intereses cruzados hasta conformar una era especialmente opaca y siniestra de la historia reciente de Italia. Este clima de urgencia, de inmediatez de crónica de sucesos se agitaba alegremente con y sin empacho alguno con de los réditos del exitoso “Harry el sucio” al más puro estilo del siempre atento y oportunista cine italiano de género, dando forma al arquetipo del “comisario di ferro” que con tanta fortuna encarnaría en breve Maurizio Merli, aquí aun rebajado o más bien enfocado de una manera más compleja al arrastrar todavía la tipología anterior, la de Franco Nero como policía honesto y sufriente perpetuamente torpedeado desde “arriba”, es decir el delineado de un carácter individualista, tenaz e indoblegable que no atiende más que a la justicia, un personaje fuera de un sistema que le asquea y que termina por luchar por un concepto de justicia primitivo y propio.

Martino pone en juego una realización ágil y con oficio explicitada en esa contundente secuencia de apertura y en las ya mentadas persecuciones automovilísticas y el guión resulta estar muy bien hilvanado, cortesía del fundamental Ernesto Gastaldi, mostrando una panorámica vigorosa de la ciudad de Milán influenciada por las novelas del excelente escritor Giorgio Scerbanenco y salpimentado con sus buenas dosis de violencia (sádica y gratuita por supuesto) y el agradable concurso de una gloria otoñal en pleno retiro europeo como Richard Conte ejerciendo de jefe mafioso. Desafortunadamente el rol principal es perpetrado por el cetrino Luc Merenda, un ¿actor? con la expresividad de una pared de cemento recién cargada y que se mueve robóticamente dentro del encuadre y con quién Martino reincidió en otro par de thrillers bastante olvidados, “La polizia accusa: il servizio segreto uccide” y “Gambling City” ambas en 1975. Una lástima, por que el personaje de policía que se degrada y obsesiona con la justicia hasta darse cuenta de que el sistema lo aplastará sin remisión resulta excelente (o al menos tiene verdadero potencial) y merecía un interprete del talento del enorme Tomás Milian o al menos del carisma de los divos italianos frecuentadores también del sub-género como Fabio Testi o el mismo Franco Nero. Aun así el conjunto no está nada mal, se sigue con interés gracias a su buen ritmo y  su pesimista final (una imagen de cierre fantástica, encima) que eleva la película sobre la media de un cine a recuperar y analizar con detenimiento, que no solo servía un espectáculo feroz y colorista sino que ejercía como testigo y cronista ambiguo y gritón de un momento de la historia, por lo que ahora resulta un documento de no poco valor.

Milán tiembla: la policía pide justicia (Milano trema: la polizia vuole giustizia)

Director: Sergio Martino

Año: 1973

País: Italia

104 min.

Fotografía: Giancarlo Ferrando

Música: Guido De Angelis y Maurizio De Angelis

Guión: Ernesto Gastaldi

Reparto: Luc Merenda, Richard Conte, Martine Brochard, Silvano Tranquilli, Carlo Alighiero, Lia Tanzi

“There are several quintessential moments in a man’s life: losing his virginity, getting married, becoming a father, and having the right girl smile at you.” – Kirby, St. Elmo’s Fire

thisis
thetrue

the new deference

I kind of got bored so I decided to show you guys my playlist. It’s ALL k-pop lol ^^ [obsessed much?]

1. Because I’m Stupid – SS501
2. Call Me – Taegoon
3. Chocolate – K.Will ft. Mario
4. Coming Down From Heaven – Oh Won Bin
5. Deja Vu – SS501
6. Hypnotism – K. Will ft. Outsider
7. I Hope – F.T. Island
8. I Was Crazy About You – 2PM
9. It’s You – Super Junior
10 . Jo jo – SHINee
11. Let Me Hear Your Voice – Big Bang
12. Lie – F.T. Island
13. Love Like This – SS501
14. Lovely Day – Park Shin Hye
15. Man Man Ha Ni – U-Kiss
16. Marry Me – F.T. Island
17. Mirotic – DBSK
18. Nothing Said – Park Shin Hye
19. Nothing Said – 9th Street
20. Obsess – SS501
21. Okay – U-Kiss
22. Over U – Wheesung
23. Promise – A.N. Jell
24. Promise – F.T. Island
25. Replay – SHINee
26. Ring Ding Dong – SHINee
27. Still – Lee Hong Ki
28. Still/As Before – A.N. Jell
29. Tears Keep Flowing and Flowing – Wheesung
30. Time Machine [Trickling] – Wheesung
31. TTL [Time To Love] – T-ara & Supernova
32. Tired Of Waiting – 2PM
33. U R Man – SS501
34. Wasteland – SS501
35. Wedding Dress – Taeyang
36. Yearning Of The Heart – Ast’1

I give all these songs 5 *’s Enjoy! All these songs can be found on jenpoo.com

~*-Insanity-*~

Immer wieder eine Bereicherung:

Uff em Mühliplatz, em Kirchplatz und em Trotteplatz

- Am Samstig vo 11.00 bis 19.00 Uhr
- Am Sunntig vo 11.00 bis 18.00 Uhr

Just because his name popped up in yesterday’s post about A.G. Rizzoli, here’s a very quick look at Henry Darger.

Darger was born in Chicago in 1892, and following the death of his father the troubled young Henry was institutionalised, in an era where little distinction was made between personality disorders and insanity. As an adult he largely withdrew from society, spending over half his life in one room on Chicago’s North Side, surrounded by junk which had caught his eye on the street.

Almost as prodigious was the work Darger created himself, the defining example being (deep breath), The Story of the Vivian Girls, in what is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion. It’s one of the most extensive creative endeavours of all time, spreading over some 15,000 pages in 12 enormous volumes, with hundreds of accompanying illustrations. The nearest comparison is probably the 155-volume diary of Arthur Crew Inman, Darger’s contemporary, but even that was drawn from events, observation and analysis, as opposed to the vast parallel universe conjured by Darger.

Here’s a bit from Jessica Yu’s 2004 documentary on Darger:

Like Rizzoli, Darger was devoutly Catholic, working in secret to create his own iconography, a private world to replace the real one from which he felt largely estranged. Darger’s vision is, however, much darker, with its hermaphroditic children in perpetual battle against evil.

There has been intense interest in Darger since his death in 1973, especially since Outsider art established itself as a saleroom staple in the 1990s. But it’s the phenomenal scale of his oeuvre which guarantees that Darger will never be fully known by the public he never expected to encounter. John MacGregor, the acknowledged expert on the prolific recluse, has read more of Darger’s work than anyone else and even he only got through two-thirds of Realms. It is said that a full, thorough reading of this one work (leaving aside the thousands of pages in other volumes) would absorb at least a decade.

More documentary footage here (with commentary in French), an extensive article here, images here and a peek into Darger’s room here.

Fue mi psicoanalista Pablicto Muñoz el que me enseñó a moverme por el mundo de los sueños. Nos acabábamos de conocer.  Creo que estábamos en un bar hablando de sueños, de sueños repetitivos, de sueños impresionantes y me contó como era posible moverse dentro de un sueño, dominarlo y hacer lo que uno quiera dentro de el.

No le creí, aunque como siempre me pasa con él, no pude decir que no fuera verdad. Se repite con mis mejores amigos que por muchos disparates que me suelten, no puedo negarles que no sea verdad. ¿Lo se yo?

Y eso da alas.

No fue cuestión de días sino de años, pero al fin y poco a poco, me he ido dando cuenta de que ese bribón enano, no mentía.

Os contaré una de esas últimas experiencias. Una de las mas flipantes.

Mi destino: Alemania. Una de esas convenciones de la asociación de fisioterapeutas Bobath a Alemania con el fin de subir un peldaño mas en mi carrera profesional, como tiene que ser.

Medio de transporte: Avión.

“Buenos dias les saluda el comandante McFoscar …bribribri…    …horas…    bribri…….     la temperatura       …..blabla….          tatata…..    rororor……  buenviajeGoodmorninladiesandgents….sssssss….hhhh…..rrrrr…   farenheit……fffffffff…..ffffff….      you”

Qué mameluco… es increible como cada vez que te subes a un avión y estás a punto de despegar el “comandante” coge el walkie-talkie y al dirigirse al respetable balbucea con sopor pero a toda hostia unas frases (probablemente) leidas lo peor posible que es capaz.

Hagamos un inciso para analizar los motivos:

*1/ Para que parezca que lo tiene todo controlado, que ha volado 3 millones de horas que está sobrado y tu no eres mas que un puto gusano. Que quede claro que tu vida está en sus manos.

*2/ Que sabe mogollón de ingles y ya casi se le ha olvidado el castellano -como a Martín Lopez Zubero- para hacerte sospechar que quizá vive a caballo entre Manhattan y La Moraleja, cuando probablemente vive en San Chinarro.

*3/ Efectos del alcohol, cocaina y Viagra. Too much triqui-triqui con l@s azafat@s. No olvidemos que el jet lag es malísimo.

*4/  Si fuera alfarero, carpintero o campesino sería mas feliz. Si o si.

El caso es que esta actitud -en mi caso- actua como cápsula somnífera, y el único rato que me quedo dormido en un vuelo es antes del despegue.

Momento en el que empecé a soñar…

Aparecí en un sitio precioso. El valle del Azucar (USA) Un bosque repleto de los colores del Otoño atravesado por un rio que discurria por el fondo del valle. Me hallaba en una vieja casa de madera con un tipo que no se quitó un gorro ruso en los 10 dias que duró el sueño, una tía con 2 trenzas que vestía un pijama de rayas y el dichoso comandante McFoscar. La luz era tenue y acogedora, había lucecitas de esas de Navidad por todas partes y calabazas de Halloween con sus diferentes muecas chinescas. Recuerdo estar bien ahí. Sentados alrededor de la mesa de una gran cocina charlamos y charlamos. Bueno… el supuesto McFoscar, comandante del avión resultó no tener ni guarra de inglés como intuía antes de quedarme dormido.

Pero si, allí hablamos sobre el hecho de ser un “Misfit”, el sentirse inadaptado, cementerios y niños, discutimos amargamente sobre si la música de Mozart, la música clásica y los Requiems no eran mas que el subproducto de lo que los monarcas e Iglesia quisieron en su tiempo. Y lo contrapusimos a la música de los negros de Africa, esa de la que tanto os he hablado, la que hizo que la musica americana tenga la piel negra. Nos disfrazamos de Góticos siniestros y salimos a dar una vuelta al cementerio del valle junto a un par de cabras amarradas a una cadena. Vimos antiguas películas rodadas en Super 8 de los tiempos en los que en Central Park había un zoológico. Hicimos música en el salón de la casa transformado en un estudio como el que tantas veces había soñado con los ojos abiertos.

Si, claro tambien nos comimos un cocido. Todo el pueblo vino a vernos, iban todos disfrazados, multitud de niños llamando de puerta en puerta pidiendo caramelos, y juntos cantamos canciones de John Prine al calor de una gran hoguera. Aporreé unos bongos hasta sangrar.

Vi una estrella fugaz, e incluso un cerdo volando, señales de boda.

Soñe con gaitas.

Chocamos las manos de alegría por ser los únicos pirados que piensan que Joey Ramone  ha sido el “Best singer ever”

Soñe con una gran luna Llena. Soñé con las 12 lunas indias.

En este sueño escuchamos blues muy antiguo hecho por gente de la que no existe siquiera una imagen de ellos.

Mucha furia y mucho barro.

En el pueblo unos skaters se enganchaban a una carreta del año 1800 tirada por caballos, en la que iba una familia entera con los trajes y peinados de esa época. Ay si en los sueños se pudieran tirar fotos… Pero los sueños sueños son, y las imágenes quedan en mi cabeza, nada mas. Entre la neblina.

Solo puedo compartir unas canciones, las que me pareció escuchar, solo algunas de las que recuerdo. Este disco que regalo es la banda sonora de este sueño.

Solo espero que algún día pueda yo convertirme en tu mejor amigo y confies en mi de manera incondicional. Los sueños se pueden dominar, porque quien sabe si como me dijo el amigo Segismundo cuando me hallaba en el diván: “La vida es solo sueño” y… Zzzzzz.

“ Es verdad; pues reprimamos

esta fiera condición,

esta furia, esta ambición,

por si alguna vez soñamos:

y sí haremos, pues estamos

en mundo tan singular,

que el vivir sólo es soñar;

y la experiencia me enseña

que el hombre que vive, sueña

lo que es, hasta despertar.

Sueña el rey que es rey, y vive

con este engaño mandando,

disponiendo y gobernando;

y este aplauso, que recibe

prestado, en el viento escribe;

y en cenizas le convierte

la muerte (¡desdicha fuerte!):

¿que hay quien intente reinar,

viendo que ha de despertar

en el sueño de la muerte?

Sueña el rico en su riqueza

que más cuidados le ofrece;

sueña el pobre que padece

su miseria y su pobreza;

sueña el que a medrar empieza,

sueña el que afana y pretende,

sueña el que agravia y ofende,

y en el mundo, en conclusión,

todos sueñan lo que son,

aunque ninguno lo entiende.

Yo sueño que estoy aquí

de estas prisiones cargado,

y soñé que en otro estado

más lisonjero me vi.

¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí,

¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,

una sombra, una ficción,

y el mayor bien es pequeño:

que toda la vida es sueño,

y los sueños, sueños son.”

Demasié bonito

]]> http://strangeflowers.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/yield-to-total-elation/ Wed, 18 Nov 2009 13:08:15 +0000 James Conway http://strangeflowers.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/yield-to-total-elation/

Few artists were ever so comprehensively ignored in their own lifetime as A.G. Rizzoli. Born in 1896 in Marin County, California to Italian-Swiss immigrant parents, Rizzoli led a modest life as a draughtsman for a San Francisco architecture firm and died on this day in 1981. The reason we now discuss this shy, outwardly unremarkable man is the discovery, nine years after his death, of hundreds of drawings and writings that Rizzoli had committed to paper in his spare time. It was one of the most significant such finds of the 20th century.

Working in complete isolation, Rizzoli transformed the prose of architectural drawing into transcendental poetry, pulsating with autobiographical and spiritual significance. Long before The Sims and Second Life, this prolific idealist was constructing his own dream world and populating it with avatars of real life figures.

Rizzoli was initially classed as an Outsider artist, and superficially he has much in common with the likes of Henry Darger: intensely personalised spirituality, infantilised sexuality, and text and graphics falling over each other in an overpowering rush of self-expression. But while he was something of a loner, Rizzoli didn’t have the boo-hoo back story of mental illness, incarceration or social exclusion common to many Outsiders. Moreover he was not self-taught. Instead, he took a discipline of rigorous exactitude and liberated it to expressive ends.

It might be more useful to examine this unique body of work in the grand tradition of Christian mysticism, of bricks and mortar metaphors for the mysteries of divine grace from Augustine’s City of God via Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle to Blake’s Jerusalem. Rizzoli frequently referred to God as “master architect divine”, a conception echoed by the trope of God as the Great Architect, a cornerstone (or pillar, if you will) of Freemasonry. Rizzoli saw himself as “interpreter”, “paraphraser” or “transcriber” of celestial visions, with ultimate credit always reserved for You-Know-Who.

In his day job, Rizzoli followed the clean lines of Modernism. His private works, on the other hand, were extravagant variations on the vivaciously eclectic Beaux-Arts style which borrowed liberally from Western architectural history, parading each era of ornamentation as if allowing it one last encore before being ushered off-stage by the demands of the machine age. These pastiches show European forms in American abundance, abounding in flights of structural fantasy and decorative incontinence.

Key works served to symbolically represent family members and acquaintances. The importance of a person in Rizzoli’s life could be measured by the size of the edifice dedicated to them, and the frequency with which they were portrayed. His mother is a constantly recurring subject, and in real life Rizzoli continued to sleep at the foot of her bed long after her death. Curiously, when drawing actual humans Rizzoli’s line, normally so assured, becomes coy and maladroit. Faces are agog, as if surprised to find themselves adrift in an architectonic mash-up.

Rizzoli’s crowning achievement was Yield to Total Elation (YTTE), a city which he began designing in 1935, evidently inspired by a San Francisco expo he had seen 20 years earlier. While he never imagined this to be a buildable entity, the overarching schema of structures in measured relation to an emphatic axis mirrors planned cities of the New World such as Brasilia and Canberra. And as in revolutionary, anti-clerical France, where churches were rededicated to various public virtues, Rizzoli’s buildings honour civic abstractions such as Peace, Labour and Justice.

This self-contained world comes with its own dialect, teeming with puns, acronyms and invented words, with meaning and allusion ricocheting off each other, sometimes obvious, more often forbiddingly opaque. Like his contemporary, visionary American architect Buckminster Fuller, Rizzoli was never shy of a neologism. For both men, language was as malleable as wet plaster.

Rizzoli made sporadic attempts to find a wider audience for his visions. After (unsuccessfully) seeking publishers for his idiosyncratic writing, in the last half of the 1930s he organised annual exhibitions of graphic works in his home, but apart from a pair of co-workers and local children, they were utterly ignored. A poignant notice in Rizzoli’s hand optimistically advertises group discounts.

Now of course, groups do indeed crowd his exhibitions, and individual works sell for five- and six-figure sums. Rizzoli’s closest living heir is arguably Orville Simpson II, an American eccentric, also a life-long bachelor, who for decades has been designing Victory City, a group of skyscraper dwellings based on hyper-rational principles. Simpson may just be the stranger of the two: he continues to solicit investors in the belief that he can actually bring his dream to life.

Hey friends,

Recently I have had an explosion of activity in my studio. I have completed a whopping ten new works of art for my current series “WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY” Since my last blog post, I decided to create some smaller works in addition to the larger pieces on canvas. Each piece introduces a new crazy character and few different approaches to painting their backgrounds. Two of the pieces are on stretched gallery profile canvas and measure 30in” x 40in”. The other eight pieces created are on 100lbs. Bristol Vellum and measure 11in” x 14in”.
I create the compositions for the smaller works much the same way as I do for the larger pieces.
The characters are drawn, painted, and distressed, then later cut out and pasted onto painted backgrounds.
The canvas pieces are called “HOT BUTTERED IDOLATRY” and “ART SCHOOL DROPOUT”. “HOT BUTTERED IDOLATRY” A Mickey Mouse type character dominates the canvas. For me, this painting is both ominous and funny in a strange sort of way. The piece is more minimal than earlier works and has a little blue and red strategically placed throughout the piece.

“ART SCHOOL DROPOUT” is the other work on canvas. It features a very pissed off looking character sporting Mickey Mouse ears and Captain America shirt. The background painting is heavily layered with news print paper and very messy in an abstract expressionist sort of way. Blue and orange paint really jump and pop around the villianous character. I haven’t worked this messy in a while, but it was a lot of fun. I think I may create more work in this fashion.

The eight smaller works on bristol are great. They all feature the bust of a new character and a few consist of more simple, but effective painting techniques in the background. I won’t go into too much detail considering they’re are so many of these works. Here are a few of the titles to spark your curiousity: “LONE RANGER“, “BOY WONDER“, “FOILED AGAIN!“, AND “DOLLA BILL“. Take a look, they are worth checking out. Enjoy!

The links to art in this blog will take you to my Facebook page, but a few of these works have been uploaded to my website. I will be uploading the others into the “ART ON PAPER” section of my gallery as well as retooling a few things for the website.

Until next time….see you in the funny pages.

Schweizer Spitzenvolleyball aus und von Aesch ….. Sonntag 16:00 Uhr in der Mehrzweckhalle.
——————-
2:3 für Köniz

Can you hear my heart beating?

It was a harsh and supa busy week for me @___@, ended with a boring Saturday night (like always ;__; ).
Well, at least I have time to update for this blog *3*. I have no idea for a themed playlist, therefore I just chose the tracks I listen to quite lot this week…some I’ve kept repeating, again and again and again~~~you know what it is~~ …(*oo*)

Track list:

2PM – Heartbeat [yeah it’s 2PM…]
Taeyang – Wedding Dress [ve just been released, nice enough]
Big Bang – Hallelujah
Justin Bieber ft. Usher – First Dance [he’s really young @_@, I luv young boys ~>u<]
Ryuichi Kawamura – Brilliant Stars
Anita Lipnicka – Car Door [she’s seriously good]
Jack Savoretti – Harder Than Easy [depressive, so what!? My type =u=]
K.Will ft Outsider – Hypnosis
Yoon Gun – Like A Latte
Doudle ft Shimizu Shota – Oyasumi no Kiss wo ~Good Night My Love~ [this song’s cool~]
Minako Kawae – Rainy Story
Ken Hirai – MOON RIVER [I love Moon River, and Ken Hirai’s the man =>…]
Epik High ft. Ha Dong Gyun – Happy Birthday To Me

Download: Here

Please enjoy the music and make yourself a lovely Sunday! (o*u*)o<3

If you’ve ever seen an oil painting or engraving of two men with dueling pistols, you might have noticed that they have both turned their bodies sideways with their arms tucked behind them so that they might be as small a target as possible.

All too often the Subtle person is in conflict with their society and finds that they are an enormous target. The accepted order has many means of attacking and coercing them. The situation seems all but hopeless.

If one would have any measure of independence from the mass society’s arbitrary standards, it is necessary to reduce your profile.

Avoid the tragedy of the lords

Most people try to appear as high in social status as possible by purchasing the highest social artifacts they can afford. This means buying a huge house, fancy cars, fancy clothes that keep one perpetually in debt. The consumer of today can look at Polynesian cultures that attached social status to gigantic stone wheels or towering ancestor statues and marvel at the absurdity of it all. Yet they remain oblivious that their own culture’s status artifacts are just another version of those very things. All their hoarded belongings are just a Yap stone wheel weighing them down.
For the Loud person, the drive to social competition and fear of social competitors simply become more acute with every dollar earned. The more they earn, the more they must appear as though they earned it. The wealthier they are, the higher the wages they must pay their wealth.
History is filled with kings who taxed their peasants as much as possible. Ironically, such a despot is no longer necessary. Today’s consumers continue to hand over money until the brink of starvation without any person or government coercing them. The mindless tyrant of mass social expectations has become more effective in stripping people of their resources than governments ever were.
Only if one separates from the mass culture can there be any hope of living one’s own life.

Financial liabilities tie you to the whims of society

Once you have mortgages, leases, and a car that depreciates as soon as it leaves the lot, you are committed.
Once these enormous commitments have been taken on, you can’t move anywhere, you can’t quit your job without going broke. You tell people you are ‘making a living’ but in reality you are hanging by a thread. Under such circumstances, you do not have the luxury of self determination. You have to do what the accepted order tells you to do so you can make it to the next paycheck.

The more dependent you are on society to give you money, the more vulnerable you are. High vulnerability makes you a very large, very easy target should you ever transgress.

Establish multiple passive sources of income

Investing in a steady, dependable portfolio and establishing side businesses establishes alternate, independent sources of income.
Money comes from these sources whether your boss likes you or not, whether or not you accidentally pissed off a co-worker at the company party, whether or not you are working for anyone.
The more money that comes for alternate sources, the less leverage society has against you, the smaller the target you present.
The dream is to reach a point where you no longer have to care what anyone thinks.
At this point, you may walk the streets, watching everyone else hurrying to their workplaces for the sake of their survival and realize that you alone of all those thousands have achieved freedom.

This is Social Immunity

Sometimes, I feel like I’m such an outsider. I know all these things, and alot of these trains of thought  go over the top of my peers heads. I know all of these things, which usually quite quaint and    unuseable.  I  know ALOT of background on vampires ( I hate twilight though.) I can talk for days on anything supernatural.  Say  nearly any topic and I’ll know  some quaint fact on it. And if I don’t I shall look into it. If ever I come across a topic I’ve never heard of, I’ll  google it.  I watch a lot of documentaries and I read alot. It’s funny. the way  I’ve been brought up isn’t in any trendy way, I was never treated specia, If anything, my upbringing has been more relaxed then most, but if my  family has done one thing right, that’s  been to  encourage learning and curiousness.  I see other teenagers (and a surprising amount of adults) hate reading, think history is boring, never watched a documentary by choose and if faced if something new or not understood, they wont look into it. I cannot at all wrap my  head around people being like this.

I get asked alot by  people how do I know all this stuff?  and I can’t explain, because they obviously aren’t like me.

I’m not the smartest person,  nor do I apply myself, but I think how I was treated as a child helped a lot.  I remember getting a encyclopaedia of animals as a child and 8, and loved it.  I wasn’t the kinda kid reading at a really young age or anything, to tell you the truth, before  yr 3, I  could hardly read picture books, then I got my glasses and I jumped to reading “The Goblet Of Fire” at 8 years of age, unassisted.

I NEED to know more. I cant stand being out in the dark, and I can’t understand how other people can stand it. and it  terribly annoys me if other people are misinformed.

But, I’m lucky, in the sense that I am able to understand things easily. I can teach myself and it annoys me if people don’t  catch on straight away.

In my RE class, we had nothing to do, so Thorn and I  started playing games. Hangman first, then noughts and crosses and finally, a number guessing game.

Thorn, has a uncanny sense  of intuition (she calls it prediction, but usually she  is able to have knowledge of events that’s already happened, post cognition  I.E.   my school has daily specials at our tuckshop, which is a item of food, that’s sold on that day.  like the other day was a chicken chilli wrap, and the day before that was a tandoori chicken burger. there is no ryhme or reason it is to the most part, but there are a few exceptions, fish burgers on friday,  chips and gravy every second week. Of course, the tuckshop ladies have already decided what is going to be had in the morning.  9 out of ten,  she’ll know what it is.  She shan’t fake this, as the special is only written down just before morning tea.  they are small things like that, not important, but  can get annoying sometimes when something  you don’t want to happen is going to, and she’ll correct you. this happens alot with her

.I seem to be able to do this, but it’s different to Thorn’s.  I can usually tell who has arrived home, without checking,  this  includes  people that hardly ever come to my house.  I get feelings about people, I know when bad news is coming.   This  is  more than just  guesses and inklings,  A person who i hardly ever see (bout 2 times in 5 yrs) came around my house the other day, and for  an hour before, I had this strongest feeling she was going to come around. It was SO strong.  car rocks up and and I just knew it had to  her, and it was. and once I had the worst feeling that I was going to be poo’d on by a bird at school and it happened.

We did it a couple times, and at first, we’d  be dead on, for quite a few rounds, and then we’d pewter off, have a break, then start again and we’d be dead on. we both ended up with the same score at the end too, wiierd.

I’m fucking breaking out. I NEVER get pimples, and here I am, with masses of them on my face. but, they aren’t noticable?! No one can see them, you can just feel them, so i suppose it’s not that bad.

Er, my friend boost,  said a derogatory comment about leso’s… and here I was thinking about explaining my pansexualness to them. yeah, right. La sigh, I think it would be hard enough to explain what gender blind is let alone get them to accept me as one.

I’m in total and utter love (well as much love you can give a web site without being wierd, that is) with list verse

I’m officially done with my Korean module for this sem! The final written test was done yesterday and my skit and oral was completed today. Well, frankly speaking, I really like this module and I’ll have to say that its the BEST module that I have taken for the past 3 years! I had so much fun preping and studying for this module. Plus eveything just seem to get inside my head without much effort!! The best part about learning Korean to me is that, I really feel that I have accomplished something. From being unable to read any Korean words to being able to read almost everthing now. Well, understanding is another thing but since my first lesson till now, I’m starting to be able to decipher what the actors are saying whenever I watch Korean shows. Being able to understand (even slightly) really excites me and just push me to want to learn more. Besides that, my lecturers and tutors are also really nice and encouraging, which makes learning more fun!

To my teachers:
박선생님하고 치선생님,
정말 감사합니다! 한국어 수업이 아주 재미있었어요!

Korean Level 2, Here I come next sem!! hehehe.

Now, I’ll have to focus on my dissertation, law and facilities! 회이팅!

Before I leave, here is a great track by K.will and Outsider “Hypnotize”!

They are back with another collaboration after the success of Outsider’s “Loner” performance on Music core! With K Will’s deep and emotional voice and Outsider’s distinct rapping style,  they really make a great pair!

“Cabalga con el diablo” pasó sin pena ni gloria en su día, obviada por completo o despachada como un exótico/fallido “western” revisionista-romántico con una miopía alarmante que terminó por dejarla en ese limbo que acoge entre bostezos tantas y tantas películas recientes que no se acogieron a lo acomodaticio o a los modismos estéticos o que simplemente planteaban un cine adulto. Pero a estas alturas de la carrera de un director tan estimulante y fiable como Ang Lee, que se mueve sin perder sus coordenadas más originales entre géneros y estilos con asombrosa comodidad, este título no solo merece una revisión sino que aparece como uno de sus mejores trabajos pese a ser desde luego, un film algo tocado por una estructura demasiado episódica que provoca un cierto desequilibrio interno pero que de ningún modo merece el olvido y se erige como una pieza con verdadera personalidad.

El resultado del esfuerzo de Lee es un western historicista sobre las milicias de irregulares en Missouri durante la guerra de Secesión (a las que por cierto había pertenecido la banda James/Younger) y los enfrentamientos en la frontera con Kansas (de hay también el sobrenombre de “border ruffians” que se ganaron), que de modo bastante comprensible no pareció gustar a casi nadie. Principalmente por su extraño ritmo interno y su decidida falta de maniqueísmo, repartiendo por igual a unos y otros hasta acabar, razonablemente, siendo la historia de dos inadaptados, un joven de origen alemán y un negro que lucha con el Sur que terminarán por quedarse a la deriva (fenomenalmente explicitado en toda la parte final presidida por el lirismo paisajístico y un calma cotidiana que hasta el momento se les había negado, en ese sentido es ejemplar el corte de pelo de Maguire como despedida a toda una época de su vida) cuando las verdadera razón de su guerra desaparezca. Y es que esta no es otra que, no tanto la amistad, que también, como sobre la lealtad asumida como compromiso vital. Jake Roedel se alista a las órdenes del duro Black John siguiendo a su mejor amigo Jack Bull Chilles después de que los “jayhawkers” (las milicias nordistas) maten a su padre y arrasen su granja (una lealtad que se extenderá incluso post-mortem, ya que Roedel se hará cargo de Sue Lee Shelley y del hijo que engendró con Skeet Ulrich) y por su parte Daniel Holt sigue solo a su amigo y prácticamente hermano George Clyde (un estupendo Simon Baker mucho antes de “El mentalista”) comprado por su familia tras ser su  madre vendida  siedo esclava de unos vecinos arruinados ya que ambos se habían criado juntos, existiendo de este modo una relación intima y tierna  imposible de ser explicitada en público.Muy bien interpretada por un grupo de actores conjuntado y sin alardes, destacan eso sí, la economía expresiva de Tobey Maguire, el poso de Jeffrey Wright y un Jonathan Rhys-Meyers escalofriante como el pálido asesino natural Pitt Mackeson, que se la tiene jurada a Roedel y al que Lee recupera en la espléndida última secuencia completamente ido y decrépito. Con diálogos magníficos (ese “-Mujer, he matado quince hombres” con el que Maguire responde altivo a su torpeza ante Jewell en la casi forzada noche de bodas), estupendamente ambientada, con toques tan peculiares, y que ayudan a la nada decorativista autenticidad del conjunto, como la incongruente y atildada elegancia de los “bushwhackers” y sus cuidadas melenas y coloridas camisas herencia de una vida pasada en contraste con la rudeza de su estado actual. Unido a una sabia valoración del hermoso paisaje (con un uso naturalista del color y encuadres de los hombres descansando sobre los caballos o a galope y planos generales de las formaciones o las figuras en el paisaje que no pueden menos que recordar a las magistrales obras de los paisajistas americanos  con Frederic Remington a la cabeza) y los cambios de las estaciones como elemento dramático por antonomasia del western y rematada por una banda sonora fuera de serie cortesía de Mychael Danna privilegiando el banjo, el violín y la melodía tradicional, al igual que la película enérgica y melancólica a partes iguales.

Combina con acierto lo contemplativo con lo activo en un tempo dramático quizás descompensado pero singular y está rematadamente bien rodada, con limpieza, elegancia y claridad (la contundente escaramuza primera resulta ejemplar, comenzada con un vibrante tiroteo y continuada por una huida por el bosque en loca cabalgada, no se asusta ante la violencia gráfica y el detalle verista, la mandíbula descuajaringada es buen ejemplo) que no desdeña ni la violencia ni la extrañeza como bien demuestra el célebre “raid” sobre Lawrence, Kansas, en la mañana del 21 de Agosto de 1863 a las órdenes del legendario Quantrill (que contaba nada menos que con 26 años) visualizado y narrado de un modo absurdamente sereno, la calma en el ojo del huracán con los dos protagonistas paseándose y desayunando tranquilamente (un elección no solo estética sino también dramática al simbolizar que ambos están pero ya no pertenecen, son “outsiders” entre los “outsiders”) mientras todos los hombres son sacados de su casa y negocios o ejecutados allí donde se encuentren.Una gran película que desborda humanismo (el uso de las cartas que guarda Maguire robadas a un soldado de la unión y que lee regularmente para sentir algo de genuino calor) y que pese a su dramatismo y reflexión no olvida ni el humor ni el amor en una bella historia que no nace de la pasión  sino de la necesidad y la comprensión y que aporta una verdadera paz nacida para perdurar. Lo que también puede ayudar a entender el fracaso crematístico del invento, la audacia de plantear algo así  en pleno Hollywood, tan lejano del folletín inflamado“bigger than life” como del  asexuadamente fantasioso romanticismo  adolescente.Ang Lee vuelve así a reflexionar sobre América prorrogando coherentemente la estupenda “La tormenta de hielo”, no solo en este componente histórico sino, y sobre todo, su agudeza, su falta de complacencia y un entendimiento profundo mezcla de fascinación y distancia, de cariño y dureza que se extiende aquí a traveés de una nada engolado discurso sobre el fin de unos tiempos y de unos hombres que como bien dice el personaje de Zach Grenier cuando acoge en su casa a los huidos, pelean por algo que ya no existe.

Cabalga con el diablo (Ride with the devil)

Director: Ang Lee

Año: 1999

País: Estados Unidos

139 min.

Fotografía: Frederick Elmes

Música: Mychael Danna

Guión: James Schamus según la novela de Daniel Woodrell “Woe to live on”, 1987

Reparto: Tobey Maguire, Jewell, Skeet Ulrich, Jeffrey Wright, Simon Baker, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, Jim Caviezel, Tom Wilkinson, Margo Martindale, Jonathan Brandis,Zach Grenier, Mark Ruffalo

Why can’t I be loved as what I am
A wolf among wolves, and not as a man
Among men

Bonnie Prince Billy

V-am spus acum două zile că stă să apară; ei bine, NAUTILUS-ul a apărut! Numărul 22 e la fel de bogat în sumar ca mai toate cele de pînă acum. Aşa cum v-am promis (şi fidel egocentrismului meu nativ), vă semnalez spre lectură articolul meu: CUM TREBUIE SĂ ARATE O REVISTĂ SF? e prima parte a unei analize a sondajelor desfăşurate pe acest blog pe întreg parcursul lunii octombrie. Începutul sună cam aşa:

Se fac zilele acestea doisprezece ani de cînd, mînat de un entuziasm cu mult mai mare decît experienţa sau banii de care dispuneam, am pornit la publicarea a ceea ce se voia a fi o revista profesionistă de F&SF. Ficţiuni s-a numit aceasta şi, răsfoind zilele trecute cele şapte numere care au văzut lumina tiparului din decembrie 1997 şi pînă în mai 2003, am constatat că, în ciuda a ceea ce îmi mai amintesc acum, n-am făcut o treabă chiar atît de rea pentru vremea respectivă din punct de vedere al conţinutului. La momentul acela, în România nu mai exista nici o altă publicaţie tipărită de gen, iar Ficţiuni a reuşit să reţină atenţia cîtorva sute de fani, destui cît specia să nu se stingă cu totul. În 2003 am lăsat deoparte Ficţiunile şi m-am apucat de ceea ce ştiu cel mai bine să fac, de editat cărţi. Dorinţa de a publica într-o bună zi o revistă nu m-a părăsit însă nici o clipă şi anul acesta am hotărît să studiez în mod serios posibilitatea reluării proiectului Ficţiuni, într-o versiune categoric adusă la zi şi beneficiind de experienţa pe care mi-au adus-o aceşti doisprezece ani. Am început aşa cum ar fi trebuit să încep şi în 1997, încercînd să aflu cum anume ar trebui să arate o revistă de F&SF pentru a fi pe placul cît mai multor potenţiali cititori şi ce anume ar trebui să conţină. Din fericire, în 2009 există o unealtă extraordinară numită internet, care oferă posibilităţi de feedback care în 1997 mi se păreau încă a fi de domeniul anticipaţiei. Şi, ca să-l parafrazez pe amicul Florin Pîtea, iată ce-am aflat…

Ce-am aflat o să citiţi aici. Nu mă supăr dacă vă exprimaţi părerea acolo, la faţa locului. V-aş mai sugera spre lectură o recenzie frumoasă a lui Liviu Radu la cartea lui Doru Stoica, ÎNTRE BARIERE (mulţumim, Liviu!), episodul 8 al serialului lui Ştefan Ghidoveanu, dedicat de astă dată lucrărilor de referinţă din domeniul F&SF din anii optzeci şi editorialul pre-Gaudeamus al lui Mike Haulică. Spre delectare, merită vizionată arhiva foto a lui Marian Coman (copil frumos şi în 1995). Despre proze (semnate Ciprian Mitoceanu, Liviu Braicu, Mioara Musteaţă şi Dan Merişca) nu mă pronunţ, că n-am apucat să le citesc, dar am încredere în capacitatea de selecţia a lui Mike.

La capitolul „aşa nu”, nu vă recomand articolul de dicţionar dedicat de Aurel Cărăşel lui Poul Anderson (lacunar în documentare, cu titlurile – chiar şi cele deja apărute în româneşte – traduse aiurea şi cu destule scrieri majore amintite doar în treacăt sau doar enumerate).

PS: Parcurgînd azi Nautilul, mi-am amintit de-o informaţie pe care am vrut să i-o servesc lui Sorin Camner, care se lamenta într-o engleză cam aproximativă într-un comentariu de pe Cititor SF că lipseşte literatura autohtonă  originală publicată în ultimul an. Sorine, check this! Părerea mea e că merită.

LATER EDIT: O recenzie amabilă scrie Alex Sima pe TownPortal Books, la antologia MILLENNIUM FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION, volumul 1. Poate fi parcursă aici.

I woke up with a headache. I always wake up with headaches. I am twenty years old. And so bitter! So stuffy! Salty taste of tears on lips. I have this brown uncontrolled mess that people for some reason like to call hair. It now curles in a few directions, I can feel the ends trying to get into my eyes. I reckon, you could say I am disappointed. I used to scream that the world has so much to offer to me. One night, I found myself blinded in the dust of the bustling city and now it is me who has nothing to offer to this world. Just like that, it’s nothing, I’m scrabbling around. I have brown eyes that look yet don’t see. Every morning I wake up thinking that I must carry on living; that I must find encouragement in the rays of sunlight creeping in through my window. Anything I get hold of slips through my fingers. A pair of lovers are standing on the pier while their silhouettes are slowly dissolving in the warm sunset the colour of honey. And all I feel is a bitter nothing, like a grapefruit; an orange, hungry, wobbly body. If this is what youth is supposed to look like, I want to move to a care home today. I was eating breakfast and each swallow seemed as if it was a lump. It was disgusting. I put the fork away and I started typing. Letters make words and words make sentences.

I’m all very much in the middle. In between. Standard. I got lost in the crowd. The ideal form of a modern man is Mister Nobody. Nobodies cross the empty streets like homeless cats. They don’t have families or anyone at all who would love them. They bring bad luck. If they sat next to your leg – you would die the day after. I am the Nobody. You won’t see me in the day light. If I could – I would do nothing at all. Life makes me sometimes go to toilet. I can’t see. I’m scrambbling around. I lost my sight that day in the light of my laptop’s screen. I am bitter. The world has nothing more to offer to me and I have nothing to offer to the world. I live outside the system. I built up my shelter with my bare hands. I want to lock it up from the inside so I can die slowly when the air is finished. My brain has forgotten the taste of oxygen. My heart is dark like coca-cola. My body’s made of porcelain with it’s pieces and clumsily stuck together. The bad dreams that I cannot remember wake me up every morning. I take long showers hoping to ressurect my faded and somehow dead body.

Nach 8 Spielen und 16 Punkten liegt VC Aesch-Pfeffingen auf Position 1 der Nationaliga A. Serienmeister Voléro Zürich liegt mit 12 Punkten auf Rang 3. Weiter so ….

Nicht nur auf DRS 3 sondern auch in Aesch.

Philip Maloney und seine haarsträubenden Fälle in der Gemeinde- und Schulbibliothek Aesch

Die Bibliothek feiert ihr 25-jähriges Bestehen mit einem spannenden Krimiabend! Es lesen Roger Graf aus seinen Kurzkrimis und Michael Schacht aus den haarsträubenden Fällen des Philip Maloney!
Anschliessender Jubiläumsapéro!