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December 2005
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blogs:

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texfiles in bahrain
they shoot poets don't they
third factory
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transsubmutation
twenty thousand thousand
ululations
understory
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unreliable narrator
venepoetics
virgin formica
voices in utter dark
voix off
the well-nourished moon
what an errand knave
wild horses of fire
wind meals
wood s lot
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yes, starlings! yes!

you are here
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journals/small press/reviews:

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audio/radio/video:

AudibleWord.Org
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Frequency 
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LINEbreak

miPOradio
miPOradio POdcast
Naropa archives
PENNsound
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to the sound
UbuWeb
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every other day


31 DEC 05
The center-fleeing tendency
(one lie I told recently)
a liquid
like blood
or milk
or you, when you’re taking a curve,
covered in narrative,
ask yourself:
why am I telling this story?

Sometimes it seems as if even the animals
know
(having life, being life).

Slowly the fields began to fill.

He overcame many illnesses
(thrown
into water, into fire).

Play me the beginning. Cold.
A cold spring day. Something about
"from now on."

Is he going blind?
again?
(It's the family failing.)

Happy New Year

ps: Great collection of Fanny Howe links at wood s lot today.

 

29 DEC 05
The pit sits idle, filling with water.
I say "new place" too quickly.

if x = x

Almost at once, it's a story.

 

27 DEC 05


This letter will never reach you
and as long as we both know it’s ok
Did the other one reach you
and if so what did it contain
--Michael Palmer

 

25 DEC 05

 

23 DEC 05
[part two]
"A Letter From My Father" - photo by Duane Michals

180. Suddenly, looking into my camera, he started talking. He spoke of his despair. The spell of this moment almost paralyzed me. Then, with an effort, I released the shutter of my camera. 196. I do not deplore success. My photographs at best hold only a small strength.

My photographs at best hold only a small strength, but through them I would suggest and criticize and illuminate and try to give compassionate understanding. Passion, yes, as passion is in all great searches. Take note of the values around you. And wade awhile, this question in thought.

198. Voodoo, the wealthy, hospitals, and an insane asylum are just some examples. A sad sad neighbor. 228. I photograph to see what things look like photographed. 246. I really don't care what my father looked like. 262. Camera in Latin means chamber or room. They let me take down the curtains.

They let me take down curtains, wash the windows, and rearrange the furniture. Often, too, they expressed desire to share their view with others. 270. In the box is darkness. The image reveals itself to me. It is my gift. A gift for the effort I am making.

302. A lamp in my work might make you think of a police interrogation, but it's also religious, like a candle. I chose the Swiss because they have no history. The Swiss have no reason to die, so they could be anyone and everyone. 308. I am very much distant from what I see, this is my nature.

This is my nature. 310. How we live, how I live, how humans live together. 312. I learned photography in Mexico by looking, and after by doing some actions outside. What I am doing, how it ends up as a sign, is all about language, but sometimes it becomes a physical thing, sometimes it is just photography.

(source text: Photography Speaks, Brooks Johnson, ed.)

 

21 DEC 05"A Square in Kazimierz" - photo by Roman Vishniac
[part one]

14. The question, what is truth? 16. Nothing can be more affecting and exciting to the feelings of our hearts than to take to hand an excellent Daguerreotype portrait of a parent, a brother or a sister, a child, a friend or anyone else we love, after they are "far away" or dead.

22. I found the faithless pencil. The paper melancholy to behold. Now Light, where it exists. And, in certain circumstances, does exert. How charming it would be if it were possible to cause these natural images to imprint themselves durably, and remain fixed upon the paper!

28. Spirit is employed, a ready mixture. Pour it off. Give the plate a little motion. If there happen to be thinness or a want. The steady character of light.

52. As memorable fields. An undoubting faith. Disordered clothing shows his sufferings intense. His stony pillow.

58. I arise at 4 a.m.; feed the mule; shiver down my breakfast; mercury at 30 degrees, candle dim, cup and plate tin; my seat, the ground. After breakfast I roll up my bedding, carry it up to the property line to be loaded on the pack mule, water and saddle my riding mule, and by that time it is broad daylight. If negatives are to be taken on the march, the photographic mule is packed with dark-tent, chemical boxes and camera, and out we start ahead of our exploring party on the lookout for views.

80. If a man makes a hot day, he makes it like a hot day he once saw or is seeing. Make a fellow draw antique, not to see how beautiful those simple-hearted big men sailed, but to observe their mud marks, which are easier to see and measure than to understand. I love sunlight and children and beautiful women and men, their heads and hands. 116. How to see more than one does see? 118. Mystery corresponds to no doctrine, and does not deal with possibilities.

120. "You press the button and we do the rest." 140. It's logical to say that what I do is an act of faith. It came to me. And I worked it out. 154. Photography had not been invented when the Torah was written! I was forced to use a hidden camera, and there were other problems as well.

 

19 DEC 05
Also on the box:
Etheridge Knight  *
Susan Howe & David Grubbs  *
and of course the usual holiday classics  *

 

17 DEC 05
Last summer, I heard him talking on the radio--soft spoken, somebody you'd like. A new album. But in the fall, scheduled gigs were cancelled. Then the news that he was very ill. His songs often playing in our kitchen.

Morning of the first snow, Max (after shoveling the path out to the
studio, firing up the furnace) wakes me, his cool rough face by my ear, whispers: "Offending the ice age, you're the one." There's often one song, an identifier--the one that'd always bring you back. Back to those bitter-cold weeks after Thanksgiving, 2005.

Chris Whitley. Resonator guitar tuned way low. "I like it low." The sound that came through him. His breathing, his heart.

31 Aug 1960  -  20 Nov 2005
Chris Whitley


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