another day

temenos

‘The cinema, too, has to be destroyed.’ (Guy Debord)

well, no one told me about her

Well, no one told me about her
The way she lied
Well, no one told me about her
How many people cried

But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

Well, no one told me about her
What could I do?
Well, no one told me about her
Though they all knew

But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

Well, let me tell you about the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

SOLO

But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

Well, let me tell you about the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there 

As far as Chō-fū-Sa

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

by Ezra Pound

After Li Po

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead

I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.

You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,

You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.   

And we went on living in the village of Chōkan:

Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.   

At fourteen I married My Lord you.

I never laughed, being bashful.

Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.

Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,

I desired my dust to be mingled with yours

Forever and forever, and forever.

Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed

You went into far Ku-tō-en, by the river of swirling eddies,

And you have been gone five months.

The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.

By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,

Too deep to clear them away!

The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.

The paired butterflies are already yellow with August

Over the grass in the West garden;

They hurt me.

I grow older.

If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,

Please let me know beforehand,

And I will come out to meet you

                        As far as Chō-fū-Sa.

                                                         Soliloquy Series (Water over Head) 
                                  1999/2000, Photo, 51 x 61 cm, Courtesy of the artist

bridge

“Isn’t that like a bridge, of which only the beginning and the end exists, and which one nonetheless so confidently walks over as though all of it were there?”

Robert Musil

Joseph Kosuth

Alain Leroy

The sensitivity was in my heart, not my hands.

Don Fabrizio

We were the Leopards, the Lions,

 those who'll take our place will be little jackals, hyenas; 

and the whole lot of us, Leopards, jackals, and sheep, 

we'll all go on thinking ourselves the salt of the earth.

                                                                                                                                               Don Fabrizio