Charleston

Una noche escuchamos música. Pusimos unánimemente algo de Beethoven primero, y Medardo se lucio poniendo después de la Sonata a la luna, una corta pieza de Cage. Calpernia escogió un género muy particular, música popular francesa de los sesenta. Estuvo bailando sola al ritmo de Gainsbourg por unos quince minutos antes que me hiciera gesto a que tocara algo de mi predilección. Calpernia siempre fue gentil y apropiada. Me decidí por escuchar charleston, encontré que había una compilación que de los más grandes éxitos de la década del 1920. Me entregue a bailar burdamente lo que creía y podía reproducir como el baile que he visto en películas y en fotos de nightclubs como el antiguo Bricktop. Medardo entro en un mal de risa al calificar mis intentos como antics causantes de ambas hilaridad y pena. Calpernia me acompañó, solidaria con la ridículez. No se ni entiendo como lograban desplegarse sobre el suelo esos bailarines del ayer... Luego de este experimento se nos hizo claro: Que algo tan banal como lo fue el charleston es, aparente y contradictoriamente, todo un arte.

enter Boxley Turnpike...

From the Truncated Mind of Boxley Turnpike or “The Aleister Crowley Fan”

...devoid of meaning…

Boxley Turnpike: [spoken aloud solemnly and paused…with intensity] A sweet nothing can spark a flame, or spit in the eye of that wretched beholder, the same one that extricates my decency and turns it into a melted Jell-O puddle. I could never trust myself without a handkerchief, one can never truly know what could develop in an empty hand when you have a bleeding nose, no one can tell how the soul might react to having a vacancy for a firearm or a blade… These stinkers have crossed the perimeter fence all afternoon, clogging the arteries and aqueducts that feed my royal sense of order and tuning it all into a tranny havoc. Over time I had learned to watch them, huddling away across the desert landscape around the compound with a medallion of fire behind them, reminding me to live and let die, to keep focused in providing comfort to the bigots that had hired and paid me… I never gave much thought to how much a project can enliven one’s soul. Being naked, without the solace of a deadline or a pending errand, can be excruciating, like not having a tether or a bungee chord during a freefall. An idle mind can wander and stray, it can detach from safe collective thoughts and conversation into an inner realm of signs and figures. I personally have noted that living without a dream, a goal, or a desired point in time and space can drain your life of a certain something and make it unbearable. “to be happy is to love your work and be in love…” I was raised by those words and living outside the contours of a life that resembles that doctrine can be harrowing. Any time desolation has set in it has been in a time when creation and curiosity were not present in my daily life. I remember that it spread throughout my soul like a bad case of gangrene, rotting away my sanity and clouding my vision... Self delusion is a frequent adversary, one must vanquish it to the fundamentals, time and time again… I feel that when I am alone and without a point in the sky or the horizon by which to guide my sail I lose more than my way, I feel as though I could lose my mind… After hours of toiling I discovered that wrapping the tongue around the fork was the safest thing to do in a situation like the one I was in. The mirror glass top was scary, like I could tell it wasn’t used for eating or drinking tea with the aunts. The Necronomicon was laying on the other end of the table, I was far from it because I had received a message to remain watchful for a telegram that would arrive. If I had my head poking into the book I would hear nothing, and everything could be lost. That god forsaken book had driven its writer mad, and it was consuming me by the inch everyday I was under its spell. I could only pry away under serious observation (infliction of guilt)… None of this made any sense to anybody, but I asked myself, Since when did my life had to make sense to people around me? Their lives made no sense to me either, the only difference was that I didn’t care. I wasn’t worried about what they were missing out on or gaining up on. I only though of my communion with this man who lived a little under a century ago, haunted by the same images and concepts I was haunted by. All the while I kept eating the tasteless pasta my cousin had delivered from the house upstairs.

“A
These
I
Self
I
After
None”


…and the drum roll stops.

angry sex.

white knuckles and tearing away the mystery,
bare skin collide with dark hairs,
from those dark hairs a crucifix announces itself with a glimmer,
friction riding up the saggital line that divides us,
and a sensation that activates every square centimeter of flesh, every pore.

colliding sense of control,
the creeping, crawling, clawing of arms and legs,
a gesture that both hurts and satisfies,
the cavities within each other,
like the crumbling of egos before entering a foreign domain.

summertime (when the living isn't easy).

sun ripened smiles and sand in which to roll
waves washing over the landscape
the ritual of youth and skin and play
another time around...
the sun,
the bars,
and all the yearning.

cruelty and lust become blindingly hot
as we feed the fire within us with booze and laughter
who can count how many times they wink in a summer?
or the amount of beers one sponsors a friend?

given days and nights to unravel
we feast on availability and whats alluring
flying over the city with contraband
or reading to oneself the text on a dollar bill
the last one we have left after debauchery
before we insert it in the jukebox...

leisure.

luxurious lamps load lead lavishly
loving liquidic liasons lacking luster
lost, lost, lost
looking left
losing light
living life lulled
leaving lust lonely.

love relationships and friends.

para continuar con la propuesta de daniel omar de comparar fenómenos cósmicos con fenómenos psicológicos...

who was guy debord?

Self-proclaimed leader of the Situationist International, Guy Debord was certainly responsible for the longevity and high profile of Situationist ideas, although the equation of the SI with Guy Debord would be misleading. Brilliant but autocratic, Debord helped both unify situationist praxis and destroy its expansion into areas not explicitly in line with his own ideas. His text The Society of the Spectacle remains today one of the great theoretical works on modern-day capital, cultural imperialism, and the role of mediation in social relationships.

After the dissolution of the Situationist International, Debord was tangentially implicated in the assassination of his friend and publisher Gérard Lebovici. The accusations infuriated Debord, and he consequently prohibited the showing of his films in France during his lifetime. Debord continued writing, and in 1989 he published his Commentaries on the Society of the Spectacle, arguing that everything he wrote in 1967 was still true, with one major exeception: the society of the spectacle had reached a new form, that of the integrated spectacle. The prospect of overturning the society of the spectacle seemed more unlikely than ever. In December of 1994, at the age of 62, Debord killed himself. The French press, who had always repudiated the significance of the Situationist International, suddenly made him a celebrity.


www.nothingness.org