cultural criticism | photography | place & space

Kill. Faster! Faster!

the girl... Yeah, she saved Kirk by hopping in the jeep and motoring over Varla. Varla tried to muster one last karate chop but fell over and heaved her last.

but that girl... Did you notice her epiphany? She was all like, "I saved your life." Pause. "I saved my life too." Up until that time, she hadn't been much more than a clinging or sobbing bimbo, but she finally realized that she could take care of herself. The irony was that she learned this when her limited choice involved killing another.

Cutting up Frost

And miles to here To watch
if there is easy wind and
see me stopping But I have
lake The darkest harness bells a
promises to keep, I know. His
My little horse Whose woods these
go before I sleep, must think it
his woods fill shake To ask
dark, and deep, only other sound's
And miles to are I think
He will not go before I sleep.
woods are lovely, evening of the year.
up with snow. the sweep Of
near Between the He gives his
house is in some mistake. The
without a farmhouse queer To stop
the village, though; downy flake. The
woods and frozen

One Day in One Hundred Years

The pain
And the creeping feeling
A little black haired girl
Waiting for Saturday
The death of her father pushing her
Pushing her white face into the mirror
Aching inside me
And turn me round

— The Cure

The Animals are Waiting

I was in a dream orchestrated by the Legendary Pink Dots. Edward Ka-Spel chanter was there, as well as Niels van Hoornblower making his solitary, melancholy noise. The leer, urban streets were strewn with trash. Rib bone and bottle cap. All the while, the ghosts of retarded street children sang through their chanter...wan and eerie out of memory. The animals are waiting. Chant reiterated by the equivalent horn tones. This wasn’t a dream at all, but a parallel image, awake, outside my chamber door.

Echo I

Damn, and it’s cold here too on this altiplano — and beyond — where the jagged earth rises up to meet my sore feet. How close to the equator, but how much closer to the moon. Swift, agile, barrel-chested youths race by and by, up and down tracks with cords of knots.

It’s too numb cold right now, and the air doesn’t satisfy me either — like trying to bathe in just one drop of water; I have to get back. But I’m not even sure how I got here...or where back is for that matter. Back in time, deeper into my mind, some other land...still yet, further out of my mind, or back to the future. I focus again. Why are all of these people here — with their eyes full of stories and their mouths full of secrets.

Searching for the lost gold — isn’t that why everyone comes here — fumbling Pizarro dropped those buttery bricks. Goldbricks, the shape of butter sticks. Isn’t that why I’m get a taste of that buttery gold. How many sticks would I have to eat to get my blood just the right shade. Do the alchemists know. That intense bright, bright red...the red of gold based hemoglobin...not that dull rusty red of the iron based, or the blue of the silver based, or green of the copper based that you find in deep trenches under the sea or on orbs beyond the moon. We’re so much closer to the moon.