Saturday the 3rd of june ” De Witte Lijn ” ( The White Line ) will take place in de Baarsjes, Amsterdam
iLLUSEUM will contribute in the Cabotstraat between 12:0o and 18:00 with an installation called:
” NIEUWE IJSTIJD ”
( NEW ICEAGE )
He sat there in the darkness, before a dying AC. the compressor was a decade overdue. a cheap electric fan propped up in front of it, to aid its poor circulation, helped evaporate the sweat from his humid, high-friction skin. he could feel her sitting next to him, in silence, her breath out of sync with his own. something drove past outside, the engine a tremolo through the dual fans of their only window. “I hate it here.” she said.
Rain the next day brought back memories of a lake he’d gone to during his childhood. the smell, gasoline and dead fish, and frogs with too many legs, or too little, that could never jump right. Railtram downtown had been out for a month, forcing him to head home on foot, his grey jacket drenched with rain warm as piss.
Something caught his eye, under abandoned signs, into his flooded alleyway next to what was once a row of noodle stands. he held it in his palm, and spat. “tram token. lucky day.”
On the landing two flights down, he knew she was gone. something in the air. thick. the layers of wet peeling paint on the walls, and the slapback echo of his boots on the damp concrete.
And he wasn’t at all surprised to find a post-it waiting for him, centered on the scarred fridge door. there were several failed attempts in the trash. crumpled yellow, still moist.
aryan kaganof and djeff babcock discuss the jewish question outside the anne frank house, amsterdam, 2000
beware, he’ll talk you to death
while puffing on a cigarette
you can find him standing by the jukebox
begging for a quarter, waiting at the
pool table for an out-of-town mark
he’s a would-be soldier
looking for a battle zone
a boner without a bone
he’s a sex addict hiding under the bed
a towel-man cleaning up semen
from a whorehouse bedspread
he’s a second rate don juan
reciting the 23rd psalm
he’s the chef you never see
in a rich man’s restaurant
he’s the difference between
night and day
a preacher who sells options
on how to pray
he’s the man behind the window
in the downtown pawnshop
he’s a crooked weather-beaten cop
dining on mashed potatoes and pork chops
he’s the ugly face you see on cable TV
trying to win over you and me
he’s a funeral mortician bringing
you sadness and gloom
he’s into yoga and a master of zen
he’s the feed in a pigpen
he has his nose up the ass of anyone
who can do him a favor
he comes in twenty-four different flavors
he’s the stain left behind in the church-pew
he’s the masturbating monkey at the zoo
he’s a shoe salesman, a fortune-teller
a dying man with a 106 degree fever
he’s a jack-of-all trades
dressed in designer jeans and wearing shades
he’s as old as mankind, a cheap treasure find
he’s the man you never hope to see
when you look at yourself
in the mirror
Funny the things that happen when you have children and mortality arrives at your doorstep.You think about the moments of your youth the moment of consciousness, the moment you see your self outside of your self.
I always think of my hands how they grew and how when I looked down and saw them as i cried writing a letter to my mother somewhere in america.
How i saw the nimble cracked hands clutching the pencil and writing as if it were a ransom note,
Those tears falling, and then that moment of knowing that these same hands will one day be big and strong and belong to a man. I remember that day now as it were yesterday.
My daughter tonight held my face in her hands and stroked my cheeks, and i felt her tiny pudgy hands on my brows and i remembered my hands.. Funny..
As the night fell I kissed her goodnight and thought of my granma
somewhere sitting watching the seasons change and thinking of all
her granchildren and her great gran that she has never met..
i feel the moments of my own childhood passing to be like a dream and a puzzle and a ight at the end of a long tunnel.
I return to that sacred place of dreams and dream myself
awake..returning to that assemblage, where the desert sky smiles
down on a growing garden belly landscape.
a year out of school,
small room, single bed,
motorbike pictures
covered the walls,
he said he felt
he was fucking
a brick wall. i think
he was wearing
his socks. god,
i wondered, wincing
at a brown stain
on the ceiling, is this
as good as it gets?
“A perverse sexual act can liberate the visionary self in even the dullest soul. The consumer society hungers for the deviant and unexpected. What else can drive the bizarre shifts in the entertainment landscape that will keep us ‘buying’? Psychopathy is the only engine powerful enough to light our imaginations, to drive the arts, sciences and industries of the world.”
J.G.Ballard
Super Cannes
and this silent weight ocean with its strange flesh like water
sliding along its particles to soft cleave quiet shape
the dead mass of continents
above in geometric flight from the sun
a moon conducts her tides, her swells
birds scattered along the big air
their wings beat by the intelligence of flight.
“By little wisdoms”
In this quiet passing the sun and the way light falls from the sky,makes me think of moments in my childhood files when I watched the sky and counted each cloud as they sailed on high,amidst the
smells and sounds of the daylight forces of nature.I have journeyed to this hintered space, reasons of my own making.
As I carry this load up that hill to the sea.I see through this looking glass.I hear the crashing waves and i see the sea of possibilities.This infinite line of madness, blissful blight of unmiraculous cities shored against my ruin.
Protection and spitfired tongues lash their contorted intrusive syllables
against the roof of our mouths .
We swallow the wallowing lies of inadequacy, lying to fit in.
Fitting pain between our rib cage pounding heart(s )
adjusting to the menace inside.
Liberame/liberame,
She sang as the Viking sun went down in Norse country.
That morning found a note that said.
Not one word will I speak,
not one word.
“He that is incapable of deceit is incapable of love.”.
The apostles blow bombs,firecracking the ghoulish demons lurking on
the breaths of winding streets and pummeling footsteps.
In memory I search for this pitch black light. My heart is heavy with it.
Deception betrayal remorse loss regret
revenge religion rage.
I am this dreamer,retriever of his own deathly regret.
I scribble this jibberish with this music in my head,
the crackers in the distance sounding off,
Childrens voices rising and falling.
“This and more I have loved,
“this and more I love”.
Look for a double lit shadow in this mist, therein, I exist,
manufacturing words for, consumption,
redemption /seduction.
I speak with slippery tongues about butterfly’s birth and death,
about foul play and loves regret.
My tongue is long.I ladle my vowels and plenty of volume behind it.
Such web as these we build our dreams upon.”
the newspaper report said
the young woman was
repeatedly raped, kicked,
beaten within an inch
of her life, while her mama
cried behind the door.
two manly relatives decided
to straighten her out
once and for all, give
her strong medicine down
on her knees, the cheeky
cunt had it coming.
a girl like that, what did
she expect expect? shameful lesbian
bitch brought dishonour
to the family name,
refused to come round
to their way of thinking.
