They That Chase After the Bear

Today has been a journey. I nearly read an entire book on time, ranging from Einsteinian principles of relativity to critiques of "time's arrow" through subjective time-perception in relation to physical space. That eventually led me to more conventional linear notions of time, including that of the Mayan calender. I hope to write an app for mobiles that will relate to the eventual end of the Mayan calender next December. Tangentially, I started wondering how the Native Americans originating in my neck of the woods believed cosmologically and how that related to time. As I am still researching the temporal aspect, here is a little story about Major Ursa from the Meskwaki tribe. In fact, it is a common story told throughout the Algonquian language branch, particularly Sauk, Fox, and Menominee tribes. Anyways, my apologies for the seemingly antiquated translation, but here it is: "They That Chase After the Boy".

It is said that once on a time long ago in the winter, at the beginning of the season of snow after the first fall of snow, three men went on a hunt for game early on a morning. Upon a hillside into a place where the bush was thick a bear they trailed. One of the men went in following the trail of the bear. And then he started it up running. "Towards the place whence comes the cold is he speeding away!" he said to his companions.

He that headed off on the side which lay towards the source of the cold, "In the direction of the place of the noonday sky is he running!" he said.

Back and forth amongst themselves they kept the bear fleeing. They say that after a while he that was coming up behind chanced to look down at the ground. Behold, green was the surface of the earth lying face up! Now of a truth up into the sky were they conveyed by the bear! When round about the bush they were chasing it then truly was the time that up into the sky they went. And then he that came up behind cried out to him that was next ahead: "O River-that-joins-Another, let us go back! We are being carried up into the sky!" Thus said he to River-that-joins-Another. But by him was he not heeded.

Now River-that-joins-Another was he who ran in between the two, and a little puppy Hold-Tight he had for a pet.

In the autumn they overtook the bear, then they slew it. After they had slain it, then boughs of the oak they cut, likewise boughs of the sumac, then laying the bear on top of the leaves they flayed and cut up the bear; after they had flayed and cut it up, then they began slinging and scattering the meat in every direction. Towards the place of the coming of the morning they flung the head; in the winter-time when the morning is about to appear some stars usually rise; it is said that they came from the head of the bear. And also his backbone, towards the place of the morning they flung it too. They too are commonly seen in the winter-time; they are stars that lie huddled close together; it is said that they came from the backbone.

And they say that these four stars in the lead were the bear, and the three stars at the rear were they who were chasing after the bear. In between two of them is a tiny little star, it hangs near by another; they say that it was the puppy, the pet Hold-Tight of River-that-joins-Another.

Every autumn the oaks and sumacs redden in the leaf because it is then that the hunters lay the bear on top of the leaves and flay and cut it up; then red with blood become the leaves. Such is the reason why every autumn red become the leaves of the oaks and sumacs. 

From William Jones' 1907 collection of Mesquakie stories

the albatross

An albatross used to be known as an omen of good luck until The Rime of the Ancient Mariner was published by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1798. Since then the connection in popular culture and literature alike has taken akin to the idea the bird is psychological burden, following some as a type of curse. It seems to be a perpetuating reference in the recent past showing up in Weeds, Deadwood, and even as a malapropism (albacore) in The Sopranos. Anyways, my main reason for this post is to conjure some response to this great poem by French poet Charles Baudelaire which has the title, you guessed it....


L'Albatros

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

— Charles Baudelaire

The Albatross

Sometimes, to entertain themselves, the men of the crew
Lure upon deck an unlucky albatross, one of those vast
Birds of the sea that follow unwearied the voyage through,
Flying in slow and elegant circles above the mast.

No sooner have they disentangled him from their nets
Than this aerial colossus, shorn of his pride,
Goes hobbling pitiably across the planks and lets
His great wings hang like heavy, useless oars at his side.

How droll is the poor floundering creature, how limp and weak —
He, but a moment past so lordly, flying in state!
They tease him: One of them tries to stick a pipe in his beak;
Another mimics with laughter his odd lurching gait.

The Poet is like that wild inheritor of the cloud,
A rider of storms, above the range of arrows and slings;
Exiled on earth, at bay amid the jeering crowd,
He cannot walk for his unmanageable wings.

— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

furniture music

i am on a brian eno kick. i have never listened to him extensively, but have been particularly inspired lately by an album called "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts" that he did with talking heads founder david byrne. as i was reading about some of his productions i found out that he is credited with starting ambient music as a genre. he was particularly inspired by the music of french composer erik satie as his "furniture music." i am quite fond of it myself. here are some numbers if you'd like to check them out.


tapisserie en fer forgé, carrelage phonique, and tenture de cabinet préfectoral

The Microsoft Sound (via Wikipedia)

In 1994, Microsoft corporation designers Mark Malamud and Erik Gavriluk approached Brian Eno to compose music for the Windows 95 project. The result was the six-second start-up music-sound of the Windows 95 operating system, The Microsoft Sound. In the San Francisco Chronicle he said:

The idea came up at the time when I was completely bereft of ideas. I'd been working on my own music for a while and was quite lost, actually. And I really appreciated someone coming along and saying, "Here's a specific problem — solve it."

The thing from the agency said, "We want a piece of music that is inspiring, universal, blah- blah, da-da-da, optimistic, futuristic, sentimental, emotional," this whole list of adjectives, and then at the bottom it said "and it must be 3¹/₄ seconds long."

I thought this was so funny and an amazing thought to actually try to make a little piece of music. It's like making a tiny little jewel.

In fact, I made 84 pieces. I got completely into this world of tiny, tiny little pieces of music. I was so sensitive to microseconds at the end of this that it really broke a logjam in my own work. Then when I'd finished that and I went back to working with pieces that were like three minutes long, it seemed like oceans of time.

jean seberg

this is a still from breathless (1960), a french film starring jean seberg and the extremely bad-ass jean-paul belmondo. i was struck by seberg's beauty instantly and fell in love with her by the end of the movie. i was even more shocked to find out she is an iowa native (from marshalltown), a ui grad, lived in mallorca, and politically supported the blank panthers and the mesquaki tribe, all of which are fun facts. not so fun, is the fact that she committed suicide in the 16th parisienne arrondissement by overdosing on barbiturates and alcohol while pregnant with her second child. though tragic she is still absolutely beautiful, if i had already mentioned that. rip ms. seberg.

a little mixtape action

a random set of songs for y'all, with no set of coherency whatsoever:

don cherry - brown rice
raphael saadiq - let's take a walk
lana del rey - video games (jamie woon remix)
flight facilities - crave you
hugo frederick - family affair
bayaka - 3 voiced song (from The Extraordinary Music Of The Babenzele Pygmys   And Sounds Of Their Forest Home)
serge gainsbourg - l'anamour
jacques brel - le moribond
goldfish - hold tight
philip glass - 1000 airplanes on the roof
eleanor freidburger - gold glitter year
stanley turrentine - sugar
idris muhammad - piece of you

張帆 - man chang fei

quartetto cetro - crapa pelada
recloose f/ joe dukie - deeper waters

also, highly suggest you check out:
blade runner the soundtrack
CANT - dreams come true
steve reich - music for six marimbas
steve roach - artifacts
the embassadors - healing the music
nguyen le - tales from vietnam

Old news for a new crowd

With all this fuss over the summer to present about the rampantly growing debt problem, I continue to wonder how the Right can say this when national debt quintupled under Reagan and Bush. I won't lie: Reagan certainly did wonders with the economy during his reign in office, but as Lloyd Bensen (D-Tex) said in the New York Times, October 6, 1988 "if you let me write $200 billion worth of hot checks every year, I could give you an illusion of prosperity, too." Though the debt bubble has gone from $10.7 trillion in 2008 to $14.2 trillion by February 2011 under Obama, has anyone been asking the question how we got to that original number in the first place. Here is a little chart to look at it. I´m far from offering a solution, but this should get us thinking a little bit. 

Bergson on Pity (1910)

The moral feelings might be studied in the same way. Let us take pity as an example. It consists in the first place in putting oneself mentally in the place of others, in suffering their pain. But if it were nothing more, as some have maintained, it would inspire us with the idea of avoiding the wretched rather than helping them, for pain is naturally abhorrent to us. This feeling of horror may indeed be at the root of pity; but a new element soon comes in, the need of helping our fellow-men and of alleviating their suffering. Shall we say with La Rochefoucauld that this so-called sympathy is a calculation, "a shrewd insurance against evils to come?” Perhaps a dread of some future evil to ourselves does hold a place in our compassion for other people's evil. These however are but lower forms of pity. True pity consists not so much in fearing suffering as in desiring it. The desire is a faint one and we should hardly wish to see it realized; yet we form it in spite of ourselves, as if Nature were committing some great injustice and it were necessary to get rid of all suspicion of complicity with her. The essence of pity is thus a need for self-abasement, an aspiration downwards. This painful aspiration nevertheless has a charm about it, because it raises us in our own estimation and makes us feel superior to those sensuous goods from which our thought is temporarily detached. The increasing intensity of pity thus consists in a qualitative progress, in a transition from repugnance to fear, from fear to sympathy, and from sympathy itself to humility (Bergson 1910, 18).

Henri Bergson. "The Intensity of Psychic States". Chapter 1 in Time and Free Will: An Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness, translated by F.L. Pogson, M.A.  London: George Allen and Unwin (1910): 1-74.

Dalí´s Labyrinth of Inspiration

Salvador Dalí (Spanish, 1904-1989). The Railway Station at Perpignan, 1965. Oil on canvas.

116 x 160 in. Museum Ludwig, Köln. 

Temporariness and Courage

"I am an artist, and I have to have courage ... Do you know that I don't have any artworks that exist? They all go away when they're finished. Only the preparatory drawings, and collages are left, giving my works an almost legendary character. I think it takes much greater courage to create things to be gone than to create things that will remain."


-Christo Javachev


I love this quote. To me, it seems an inherent existential struggle as well as a struggle among our species that life is temporary. We are trivial in the scope of time, and I know that has to at least scare some of us. Berger and Luckmann comment in The Social Construction of Reality about how religion, for some, satiates that void by placing that potential meaningless in God's hand. Certainly, we must mean something then, right? I had always hoped to a recognized scholar, not so much during my life, but at least after I passed, influencing those who come after me. Though I still long to be an academic, it is to a lesser degree that I want to be remember. I'd rather change something without being noted for that ideal. Pessimistically unlikely, but yet that potential exists. This quote, however, shook me for a moment. He is right. What courage it must take to allow time devour you and your meaning, your work, your energy. Kudos to those who have such courage in our Brave New World. Live on strong, at least you are living for something. 

the united them vs. we

We’ve superseded failures.

Their grandiose repertoire of consternation.

Such ruthless aspirations, run amok.

Now rundown; divided, red and blue.

The peons bearing flags, bearing arms.

Feigning that they haven’t given in.

When they’ve wholly given up-

That passion to save what little we have left.


Brandon Lee Kramer © 2011

that svelte, leafy substance | swallowed by the sun

wittgenstein

the sense of the world must be outside of the world.
                                          -ludwig wittgenstein

an excerpt taken from the world is made of stories by david r. loy.

chocolatish orange juice mixtape (belated)

jensen sportag - everything good
new look - everything
blood orange - dinner
solange - stillness is the move
joywave - winnepeg
earrings - worlds end
sampha - subconscious
muhsinah - are in be
jessie ware/sampha - valentine
cocorosie - by your side
quadron - buster keaton
inc. - millionares
active child (f/ how to dress well) - playing house
kotchy - getaway
exile - stay here
toro y moi - saturday love
sokar and martin - what i know
how to dress well - ready for the world
the weeknd - what you need (jacques greene remix)
below rimar - higher ground
submotion orchestra - all yours

lambrousco bubblegum mixtape (belated)

pariah - detroit falls
the xx - islands (nosaj thing remix)
holy other - touch
james blake - to care (like you)
ifan dafydd - no good
boom clap bachelors - løb stop stå
blood orange - sutphin boulevard
glasser and jamie xx - tremel 
how to dress well - decisions
CREEP - you (f/ nina sky)
the goat - what a life (balam acab remix)
the xx - basic space (pariah remix)
araab MUZIK - streets tonight
SBTRKT - wildfire
jamie xx -far nearer
toro y moi - blessa
disclosure - carnival
nguzunguza - times up (kingdom remix)
sibian and faun - i'm sorry
ifan dafydd - miranda
h-town - they like it slow
first rate people - girl's night
alauna george - we are chosen
blaman - getting me down

KGAN Local News on the Ernie and Bert Gay Marriage Proposal

KGAN CBS 2--
Are Bert and Ernie gay? One gay rights activist wants the couple to get married, but Sesame Street says the two are just friends. What do you think?

If there is an issue that needs addressed on Sesame Street it is Oscars homelessness and possible mental illness/drug addiction. He obviously has problems if he is living in a garbage can. I would like to see him move into a shelter where he will realize he has just been being mean to everyone because he hates himself. Then once he cleans up his act he should get a job. Jobs are a part of life kids need to know about. You can't just live in a garbage can and yell at people without going to jail.

-Rev. Jayce Baskerville

cultural colors

The Himba people of Namibia see colors much differently than we do. I found this rather interesting considering the considerable difference in how they classify things linguistically relative to Western cultures. Enjoy!

Robinson Jeffers (excerpted from The Great Explosion, and The Beginning and the End)

the whole universe expands and contracts, beats like a great heart ...

diastole and systole

peace in our time was never one of God's promises; but back and forth, die

and live, burn and be damned,

the great heart beating, pumping into our arteries His

terrible life.

 He is beautiful beyond belief.

and we, God's apes--or tragic children--share in the

 beauty. we see it above our torment, that's what life's for.

He is no God of love, no justice of a little city like

 Dante's Florence, no anthropoid God

making commandments: this the God who does not

 care and will never cease. look at the seas there

flasing against this rock in the darkness--look at the

 tide-stream stars--and the fall of nations--and

 dawn

but why would life maintain itself,

being nothing but a dirty scum on the sea

dropped from foul air? could it perhaps perceive

glories to come? could it foresee that cellular life

would make the mountain forest and the eagle dawning,

monstrously beautiful, wings, eyes and claws, dawning

over the rock ridge? and the passionate human intelligence

straining its limits, striving to understand itself and the

unvierse to the last galaxy--

having made of many

one cell

they invented chlorophyll and ate sunlight, cradled in peace

on the warm waves; but certain assassins among them

discovered that it was easier to eat flesh

than feed on lean air and sunlight; thence the animals

greedy mouthes and guts, life robbing life,

grew from the plants; and as the ocean ebbed and

flowed many plants and animals

were stranded in the treat marshes along the shore,

where many died and some lived

from these grew all land-life

plants, beasts and men; the mountain forest and the mind of Aeschylus

and the mouse in the wall

what is this thing called life? ---but i believe

that the earth and stars too, and the whole glittering

universe, and rocks on the mountain have life,

only we do not call it so--i speak of the life

that oxidizes fats and proteins and carbo

hydrates to live, and from that chemical energy

makes pleasure and pain, wonder, love, adoration, hatred

and terror: how do these things grow

from a chemical reaction?

i think they were here al-

ready. i think the rocks

and the earth and the other planets, stars and

galaxies have their various consciousness, all things are conscious;

but the nerves of an animal, the nerves and brain

bring it to focus; the nerves and brain are like a burning-

glass

to concentrate the heat and make it catch fire:

it seems to us martyrs hotter than the blazing hearth

from which it came. so we scream and laugh, clamorous

animals

born howling to die groaning: the old stones in the door-

yard

prefer silence: but those and all things have their own

awareness,

as the cells of a man have; they feel and feed and in-

fluence each other, each unto all,

like the cells of a man's body making one being,

they make one being, one consciousness, one life, one

God

Enallagma aspersum

Azure Bluet

Enallagma aspersum (Hagen, 1861)

http://www.eol.org/pages/987196

caught a picture of this july 20th while sitting at the mines of spain in dubuque, iowa overlooking the mississippi. looked this damselfly and its lover were mating. it has an interesting technique of eating. it flies very rapidly dashing around. after it gathers a small piece of food it sits still and uses the far end of its tail (the tip that is black near segment 10) to feed itself at the mouth (segment 1). since this is peak season for these little guys, it isn't too much of a surprise that i saw them flying around. nonetheless, 'tis a beautiful specimen.

Magnificent Ruin

Magnificent Ruin

june playlist

some tunes i've stumbled across in recent days...

CREEP - you f/ nina sky
blawan - getting me down
blood orange - dinner
delorean - grow (taragana pyjarama remix)
disclosure - carnival
grimes - heartbeats (laurel halo remix)
ifan dayfdd - no good
james blake - to care (like you) (poppa mint remix)
machinedrum - TMPL
SBTRKT - wildfire
the goat - what a life i dream (balam acab remix)
holy other - touch
washed out - eyes be closed (grimes remix)
gil scott-heron and jamie xx- new york is killing me

also foals (total life forever), holy other (with u), blood orange, 116 and rising, baths (cerulean), darkstar (north), and balam acab (see birds ep) have been treating me well.

Social Scientific Methodology (I am...)

Though this is surely just Derrida ranting, as I hear from most that he usually does, I find it interesting about what he says regarding the concept of belief and how it's exposed though our language, specifically "I am." In the social sciences, particularly (yes, I'm calling you out Carl Couch) in the New Iowa School (Symbolic Interactionism in Sociological Social Psychology), we attempt to measure identity through this methodology. Essentially, you are handed a questionnaire and asked to respond to twenty blanks that start with "I am." Though you have probably already thought of some critiques that could blunder this method already, let me tell you my favorite. First off, this is a culturally bias scientific methodology. In Spain, for instance, identity is a rarely posited quandary in comparison with the hypertextuality of the internet and/or (generally speaking) the more postmodern U.S world of academics. I only suppose this, because I get very shallow, half-baked responses from just about anyone that hasn't studied philosophy. In fact, it has become a hobby of mine in recent months to raise the question of what exactly it means to be Andaluz, Córdobes, or Spanish. I plan on pursuing this in the future as a research interest depending on whether or not I can find an adequate method to pin down the problem. In any case, if I were to attempt to use this method I would come to the immediate problem of wondering what to translate. If you are not familiar, in Spanish you can express first-person meaning through Ser or Estar, the former being more permanent and the latter more temporal, to put in ratter general and speciously. In English, the meaning is not definite, but supposed in the question posited (at least in this context, which Derrida would also have something to say about). I would assume to translate this to Ser, therefore solidifying that an identity is a more permanent clause, which negates to at least some degree the work of Goffman (our ability to act out our role in relation to the situation) and symbolic interactionism in general.

Obviously, we find the gaping flaw inherent in Sociological identity research. I have always argued its ignorance to temporality and lack of principles inherent in Process Philosophy, which is rather ironic considering Pierce and Dewey's grand influence in both schools of thought. Have we completely ignored the work of Jung, Gilbert Simondon and Bernard Steigler, whose work on individuation, has demonstrated these methodologies fallacious? Are we really trying to capture something that is clearly too dynamic and complex to nail down in a questionnaire like that? Certainly we, as scientists, must come to a more adequate way of dealing with methodology and going beyond language to understand the neural mechanisms that underpin the thoughts and, thus, identities that cause our behavior. Furthermore, we must understand what mechanisms we need to reproduce them via technology, like cyberneticist Norbert Weiner. Sure, easier said than done, but why do we sit around and watch while the "real doctors" do all of the work?

Orla Barry & Rui Chafes at Museu Colecção Berardo

Iberian Essence and Existential Intimacy

O poeta é um fingidor

Finge tão completamente

Que chega a fingir que é dor

A dor que deveras sente

The poet is a faker

Who's so good at his act

He even fakes the pain

Of pain he feels in fact.

                    Fernando Pessoa

Não sou nada 

Nunca serei nada 

Não posso querer ser nada 

À parte isso, tenho em mim

todos os sonhos do mundo

I am nothing

I shall never be anything 

I can't want to be anything

Apart from this, I have in me

all the dreams in the world

                      Álvaro de Campos 

I spent this three days in Lisboa, Portugal with a couple of my Italian friends, the German dame I went to Tenerife with, and my good American friend Charlie. I found it rather inspiring, especially after coming across the latter of these two poems. I had never heard of Fernando Pessoa before, but I look forward to dabbling further into his work. The poem, with an essence difficult to reproduce in English because of its awkward phrasing, meshes quite well with a lot of things going on in my life right now since I am, first off, reading The Stranger by Albert Camus, and, secondly, feeling this existential angst provoked by a constant discontent seemingly inherent in my gene-pool (only half-kidding). I might add this isn't anything serious (at least in terms of physical reality), but rather a ruminant perpetuation in line largely with what I read from continental philosophers, who I have a great interest in since I was roughly 17. It's rather interesting the widespread influence of such ideology in our films (e.g. recently viewed Abre Los Ojos or I Heart Huckabees) and the like, but even more interesting the drastic difference in what people take from it and how they implicate it in their lives. Regardless, take a gander at some of Pessoa's work and if you get a chance to visit Lisboa, I highly suggest you do so. I was struck by the beauty of its language (though I'm sure some beg to differ), and was simply amazed by its modern and contemporary art museum at the Museu Colecção Berardo near the Belém Tower. Carlos Lobo and Mário Macilau's exhibits were incredible and especially inspiring, as I have been pondering a trip to Africa or Eastern Europe, in order to take photographs and to study the gypsy folk-music culture of the Roma in the Ukraine in the former, or to photograph native tribes and volunteer in the latter case (a little less though out). Of course, this is pending due to financial concerns and acceptance to an appropriated institution in the coming summer. It seems like an obligatory end to fulfill and, again, something that needs to be confronted in order to deal with my recent and/or long-lasting existential meditations. Vamos a ver en el año que viene. 

a tidbit from the "other" immigration problem

"I'm a German citizen for two decades already. I took up responsibility for the German society. I'm serving the German people as a parliamentarian, but I'm still 'the Turkish guy.'" -Ozcan Mutlu

noctuids amidst the noria

we, in vile morbidity, are the moth’s wing,

as it hovers over the post-party debacle

surrendering to the cordobesan feria.

its departure from light like a tree shedding leaves

amidst the veracity of a summer storm.

we, the tornado’s rapture, in a midwestern gully,

before it takes house and hut, family, friends.

yet our embryo so subtle, so clandestine,

its appalling lucidity devoured,

taken by the rusted pipes and flaking walls

of these aging antiquities, in vain.

this is us, seeking such secretion,

feigning to be heard,

where the clamoring racket of crickets whelm,

chirping wildly in the grain.

we do our best to let splendor suffuse,

as the lavenders induced, adorned,

coax pollen and bees

to rove and fuck just for fucking’s sake.

yet the sweet sweat drips, it drops,

as we sneeze and bustle in a deadened street,

on our fashion strips,

in our simple, stupid dreams.

stoned by booze and tiny pills,

by ferris wheels and cheap food,

by the woo of french dames and salsa steps,

of the moth’s decaying larvae.

but we loll as hastened hiccups,

not really sure what we are,

we are rushed to finish something,

the great capitalist renaissance.

gloomy and bleak, the choir

of monotonous replication,

it’s the nihilist’s cry of naught,

while we’re awoken yet again.

we are that moth’s adulteration,

scavenging the sky,

we are the onlooker’s protrusion

while our heroine languishes in her disguise. 


Brandon Lee Kramer © 2011

void nor valid, fallacious nor fictitious

a cock crows

as the sun rises.

a cliché only true

in extremities.

its cries of depravity

invoked harshly from

the corner-stoned roofs

of our contently middle-class canaries.

i forget what it was,

because i’d be quite content;

to do just this,

to just settle down,

or up,

wherever it may be,

in the mountains,

alone with the strata, the sun.

to revel in a chorus

of adolescent amphibians,

as we pass through the brush

and i hold your hand.

mind your step: delicate, careful step,

while our youth pervades

imposed with an austere maturity.

we’re old enough to know now

that we can break precedents,

but we choose to stay here,

so comfortably,

only teasing those hazy, dotted lines;

when "sin", when "boredom",

toys with our menial, ruminative thoughts.

lo que se pasa acá, se queda acá,

they continue to preach to me.

yet what happens is so normal, so sane,

it's why we keep chasing your savior supreme.

that humanized conjecture,

with two hands and a click,

so central, so trivial,

with just two audible consonants.

void of substance,

your so-called, profound, ethical calculations,

based off that antiqued, eschatological hyperbole. 

just the same back and forth,

before the calm at sea.

as we sway, we sever,

as the waves tear at our anchor.

we’d rather watch the phoenix fly

while drowning solely amidst the tides.

yet holding on to something,

something that has meaning, 

void or valid, fallacious, 

even moreover fictitious. 

it’s a reminder of home,

of those who’ve past,

of those in our stories,

while they tear at the mast.

again we follow script,

the same tragic story,

for a headline, for a postcard,

for the same bitter tears,

in the same rendered state,

of such grave tragedy,

such a heartfelt fit of saddened tragedy. 


Brandon Lee Kramer © 2011

Allure on the Northern Nowhere

Shadow, somber, ember passing through,

From the canopy of the Cordobesan barrio;

Tiny pebbles kicked, among tampered foliage,

Amidst the maundering words of a passerby;

I long, I do, I reminisce of your touch,

So delicate, yet prevailing that it makes me muse;

And as the remembrance of your thick tone stirs,

It brings me back to that reposeful countryside.

The one where we spent, engulfed in a choir,

Of frogs, of cacti, of the Canarian coast;

Where the rampant waves splashed, against the bare reef,

Distracting me for a breath, before I arose once more;

To your freckles, your whispers, like songs, like wind

To devour all that was and will ever be

Where your fair skin, still burnt from the day before,

Hints at, it pleads for such osculation;

Derived of the most passionate, so subtle,

The most endearing and persuasive kind,

Submerged me helplessly, so menial yet so alive.

Just please, my dear, listen,

Through feigned verses of empathy,

While I ring assured, from depths of heart,

With the wind on your shoulders in the sea-stained air,

That I will deliver such purity to yours.

Brandon Lee Kramer © 2011

arthur rimbaud and my best weekend ever.

Vowels

A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,

I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins:

A, black velvety jacket of brilliant flies

which buzz around cruel smells,

Gulfs of shadow; E, whiteness of vapours and of tents,

lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of cow-parsley;

I, purples, spat blood, smile of beautiful lips

in anger or in the raptures of penitence;

U, waves, divine shudderings of viridian seas,

the peace of pastures dotted with animals, the peace of the furrows

which alchemy prints on broad studious foreheads;

O, sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,

silences crossed by [Worlds and by Angels]:

–O the Omega! the violet ray of [His] Eyes!

Voyelles

A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles, Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes: A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d'ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes, Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d'ombelles; I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes; U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides, Paix des pâtis semés d'animaux, paix des rides Que l'alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux; O, suprême Clairon plein des strideurs étranges, Silences traversés des [Mondes et des Anges]: —O l'Oméga, rayon violet de [Ses] Yeux! dear self, imagine yourself on an island, off the coast of africa, with three pretty girls, for three incredible days, in absolutely beautiful weather, overlooking the coast of some small spanish town, frogs singing in the background, the sun setting, enamored by fauna and blooming flowers, while a cute little french girl with freckles whispering this to you, accent and all. that was your weekend. life complete.  brandon.13-16.5.2011

playlist for may

björk - where is the line
fatboy slim - praise you
frank ocean - we all try
the weeknd - the party and the after party
radiohead - nude
sensorama - star escalator
disclosure - carnival
SBTRKT - wildfire
tune-yards - gansta
balam acab - oOoOOO
jamie woon - shoulda (this guy is so good)

also, in the last couple weeks there was great mixtapes from:
jamie xx and oneman
canblaster
how to dress well
...go look for them...

richard hamilton.i'm dreaming of a white christmas

Richard Hamilton - I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas (1967). Screenprint, Sheet 30 1/4 x 40 15/16" (76.8 x 104.0 cm) Comp. 22 1/8 x 33 7/8" (56.2 x 86.0 cm)(irreg.). Celeste and Armand Bartos Foundation Fund. © 2011 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / DACS, London

rauschenberg.black.market.1961

Robert Rauschenberg
Black Market, 1961
Combine painting: Oil, paper, wood, metal, rope on canvas, plus four metal clipboards and valise with rubber stamps and variable objects.
49 x 59 in. (124.5 x 150 cm)
Museum Ludwig, Cologne, Germany.

knot a man, but knot yet a god

roughly around 34.7% of my trip to germany, the netherlands, and belguim was spent doing exactly this: watching frank tie his shoes. i still prefer the loop, swoop, and pull followed by the double knot. get it together frank, get in together. 

lush.2011.(no photoshop).

in the midst of the humid andalusian sunrise, this baby moth passed away from alcohol poisoning. i wasn't there to witness it, so i can only suppose what torture ensued as a result of his irrevocable decision to indulge in such monstrous behavior. may this be a lesson to us all that we are nothing but slaves to nature and it's hegemonic chaos, especially when we're young and naïve. don't drink and fly. amen. 

Brandon Lee Kramer © 2011

playlist for march 2011

jamie xx - far nearer
fantastic mr fox - evelyn
balam acab - see birds (moon)
james blake - care (like you)
jamie woon - night air
twin shadow - castles in the snow
toro y moi - new beat
grizzly bear - lullaby
radiohead - feral
nicholas jaar - i got a woman
julio bashmore - everyone needs a theme tune
teebs - autumn antique
gil schott-heron and jamie xx - ill take care of you
pariah - prism

J. L. Borges

Los Espejos
Yo que sentí el horror de los espejos
no sólo ante el cristal impenetrable
donde acaba y empieza, inhabitable,
un imposible espacio de reflejos

sino ante el agua especular que imita
el otro azul en su profundo cielo
que a veces raya el ilusorio vuelo
del ave inversa o que un temblor agita

Y ante la superficie silenciosa
del ébano sutil cuya tersura
repite como un sueño la blancura
de un vago mármol o una vaga rosa,

Hoy, al cabo de tantos y perplejos
años de errar bajo la varia luna,
me pregunto qué azar de la fortuna
hizo que yo temiera los espejos.

Espejos de metal, enmascarado
espejo de caoba que en la bruma
de su rojo crepúsculo disfuma
ese rostro que mira y es mirado,

Infinitos los veo, elementales
ejecutores de un antiguo pacto,
multiplicar el mundo como el acto
generativo, insomnes y fatales.

Prolonga este vano mundo incierto
en su vertiginosa telaraña;
a veces en la tarde los empaña
el Hálito de un hombre que no ha muerto.

Nos acecha el cristal. Si entre las cuatro
paredes de la alcoba hay un espejo,
ya no estoy solo. Hay otro. Hay el reflejo
que arma en el alba un sigiloso teatro.

Todo acontece y nada se recuerda
en esos gabinetes cristalinos
donde, como fantásticos rabinos,
leemos los libros de derecha a izquierda.

Claudio, rey de una tarde, rey soñado,
no sintió que era un sueño hasta aquel día
en que un actor mimó su felonía
con arte silencioso, en un tablado.

Que haya sueños es raro, que haya espejos,
que el usual y gastado repertorio
de cada día incluya el ilusorio
orbe profundo que urden los reflejos.

Dios (he dado en pensar) pone un empeño
en toda esa inasible arquitectura
que edifica la luz con la tersura
del cristal y la sombra con el sueño.

Dios ha creado las noches que se arman
de sueños y las formas del espejo
para que el hombre sienta que es reflejo
y vanidad. Por eso no alarman.

Mirrors
I, who felt the horrors of mirrors
Not only in front of the impenetrable crystal
Where there ends and begins, uninhabitable,
An impossible space of reflections,

But of gazing even on water that mimics
The other blue in its depth of sky,
That at times gleams back the illusory flight
Of the inverted bird, or that ripples,

And in front of the silent surface
Of subtle ebony whose polish shows
Like a repeating dream the white
Of something marble or something rose,

Today at the tip of so many and perplexing
Wandering years under the varying moon,
I ask myself what whim of fate
Made me so fearful of a glancing mirror.

Mirrors in metal, and the masked
Mirror of mahogany that in its mist
Of a red twilight hazes
The face that is gazed on as it gazes,

I see them as infinite, elemental
Executors of an ancient pact,
To multiply the world like the act
Of begetting. Sleepless. Bringing doom.

They prolong this hollow, unstable world
In their dizzying spider’s-web;
Sometimes in the afternoon they are blurred
By the breath of a man who is not dead.

The crystal spies on us. If within the four
Walls of a bedroom a mirror stares,
I’m no longer alone. There is someone there.
In the dawn reflections mutely stage a show.

Everything happens and nothing is recorded
In these rooms of the looking glass,
Where, magicked into rabbis, we
Now read the books from right to left.

Claudius, king of an afternoon, a dreaming king,
Did not feel it a dream until that day
When an actor showed the world his crime
In a tableau, silently in mime.

It is a strange dream, and to have mirrors
Where the commonplace, worn-out repertory
Of every day may include the illusory
Profound globe that reflections scheme.

God (I keep thinking) has taken pains
To design that ungraspable architecture
Reared by every dawn from the gleam
Of a mirror, by darkness from a dream.

God has created nighttime, which he arms
With dreams, and mirrors, to make clear
To man he is a reflection and a mere
Vanity. Therefore they aren't alarmed.

Translation by Harold Morland

coffee and cigarettes

this morning, over a cup of café con leche and a cigarette, i pondered why people smoke. this may be somewhat inspired by a couple of things in the recent past. a few days ago, i watched the jim jarmusch film, appropriately entitled "coffee and cigarettes." last night, i was also asked when i started to smoke. though i can't say that i smoke often, it made me start to ponder why i do smoke. why does anyone smoke? obviously there are countless reasons not to smoke, health being the most significant. however, i think its silly to define actions and identities by what you are not. we do it a lot, but it seems somewhat inane to define yourself by what you are not. its something politicians or easily manipulative freshman do with their time, not to be overly judgmental.

regardless, i started thinking what caused me to start doing something that i actually detested when i was younger. the fact is that i love the act of smoking, especially with a cup of coffee on sunday mornings. its a liberating experience, something that brings me back to my good friends in iowa. a cure for the dreaded hangover that i was dealing with on that particular morning. it still feels like a motion picture every time i go back to that day; driving to some crummy restaurant, still dizzy, eating eggs and english muffins over that steaming cup of americano. the reason then that i started is because of friends, as the thesis by christakis and fowler (2008) has empirically demonstrated a couple years ago. i actually do agree with the premise of their study and think that many people begin smoking because of their peers. this, however, does not fully answer the question why these tendencies persist. it seems so irrational to continue to do something after you know what it will do to you. so why do these things endure?

this seems like a good question to be first answered through the deconstruction of smoking, at least in order to find the phenomenological and social allure of the act. for me personally, it has to do with the fact that i love the possibility of detaching. if in a crowded bar, it gives me a great chance to leave, to escape from the seemingly artificial conglomerate of fake smiles and shallow conversation that comes with a couple of drinks. i find the need to retreat to the backstage, as erving goffman would say, in order to find myself and relieve some of the anxiety i experience being surrounded by the myriad of flashing lights, multi-lingual screaming, and amateur dancing. in the same token, smoking is the very thing that brings some together. i couldn't count how many times the act of smoking has gotten me closer to others, whether it be some random person i just happen to ask for a light or close friends sitting around smoking hookah.

no matter where, i revel in the smoke as it leaves the end of my cigarette: this free-flowing masterpiece that nature creates through its various dynamic laws. i find that the smoke is something really refreshing to stare at in amazement. some may find that its relaxing feeling going through the emotions; the inhale, slow hesitation, and then the prolonged exhale that follows. i've heard anecdotal evidence that some studies have even shown that this deep breath helps up us to relax and just breathe, which most of us forget to do amidst the fast-paced, and at times disorienting, thing called life.

obviously, we see the disadvantages of smoking, but maybe this would be interesting for some to reflect on in the future. i know i certainly plan on reflecting what actually constitutes the phenomenology of smoking. its a rather interesting concept, if i do say so myself. until the next time.

cheers.

bukowski

love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.