tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50893722009-02-21T04:06:43.570-08:00A society of fuguers dedicated to forging new and unexpected pathways through city and countryside alike.jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comBlogger125125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1157755590777298102006-09-08T15:46:00.000-07:002006-09-08T15:46:30.786-07:00

"The images of surrealism are the iconography of inner space. Popularly regarded as a lurid manifestation of fantastic art concerned with states of dream and hallucination, surrealism is the first movement, in the words of Odilon Redon, to place ‘the logic of the visible at the service of the invisible’. This calculated submission to the impulses and fantasies of our inner lives to the rigours of

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"I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1153397530050738502006-07-20T05:10:00.000-07:002006-07-20T05:12:10.050-07:00

. . . breathing harder.I found her nailing her breasts to the kitchen table. Calmly, I boiled an egg.

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1153397143114919582006-07-20T04:49:00.000-07:002006-07-20T05:05:43.170-07:00

DREAMING OF CTHULHU Placing a fresh blade in the scalpel I quickly slashed an opening in my forehead. Looking into the mirror I saw that above my gore-drenched face a new eye glared, unblinking, from the ragged opening. Experimentally I closed my eyes - yes I could still see! Except now I could see so much farther! My bedroom had all but disappeared, beyond its now ghostly walls stretched a lurid

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1153066764941312152006-07-16T09:15:00.000-07:002006-07-16T09:19:24.950-07:00

A cold sweat streamed from his forehead and his shoulders jerked spasmodically. "Beyond life there are" – his face grew ashen with terror – "things that I cannot distinguish. They move through angles. They have no bodies, and they move slowly through outrageous angles."The Hounds of Tindalos. Frank Belknap Long

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1151142033430928232006-06-24T02:40:00.000-07:002006-06-24T02:40:33.466-07:00

But did it ever occur to you, my friend, that force and matter are simply the barriers to perception imposed by time and space? When one knows, as I do, that time and space are identical and that they are both deceptive because they are merely imperfect manifestations of a higher reality, one no longer seeks in the visible world for an explanation of the mystery and terror of being.Frank Belknap

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1150835260514380652006-06-20T13:13:00.000-07:002006-06-20T13:27:40.536-07:00

"According to Levi-Strauss, the more complex the organisation of a society, the greater the quantity of entropy produced. The more elaborate a given structure, the more it will be marked by disintegration. Thus 'primitive' or 'cold' societies (whose functioning, according to Levi-Strauss, is something like that of a pendulum mechanism) produce very little entropy; while 'warm' societies (which

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"The rhythm of walking generates a kind of rhythm of thinking, andthe passage through a landscape echoes or stimulates the passagethrough a series of thoughts. The creates an odd consonance betweeninternal and external passage, one that suggests that the mind is also a landscape of sorts and that walking is one way to traverse it.A new thought often seems like a feature of the landscape that was

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1149361664043048452006-06-03T12:05:00.000-07:002006-06-03T12:07:44.053-07:00

“The life of a region depends ultimately on its geologic substratum for this sets up a chain reaction which passes, determining their character, in turn through its streams and wells, its vegetation and the animal life that feeds on this, and finally through the type of human attracted to live there. In a profound sense also the structure of its rocks gives rise to the psychic life of the land:

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1149360057240559742006-06-03T11:40:00.000-07:002006-06-03T11:40:57.240-07:00

For Colquhoun, automatism was not simply the adoption of a state of mind which suspended conscious control. Whilst disconnecting herself from her conscious self, she was also connecting herself with a larger whole. Colquhoun aimed to lay herself open to internal, unconscious, forces as well as external spiritual ones. Inspiration could come from any source, internal or external. All that was

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1149359916631481792006-06-03T11:37:00.000-07:002006-06-03T11:38:36.640-07:00

An alchemist transforms materials; an artist transforms experiences. Both are, at once, part of yet detached from, the process. Colquhoun was particularly drawn to those moments where a change of state is occurring; the moment of transformation and metamorphosis. Moments such as these occur in the material world, the human world and the realm of the spirit.Richard Shillitoe on Ithell

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1147901513449370032006-05-17T14:19:00.000-07:002006-05-17T14:31:53.460-07:00

"...I prefer, by far, real islands to imaginary islands, just as I prefer prime documents to novelistic remakes. Thats because the real is richer than the imagination. The real demands investigation and is an invitation to sensitive knowledge, whereas the imaginary is more often than not just a collection of stereotypes, a soup of cliches offering an infantile kind of satisfaction. Then a

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146665188641818462006-05-03T07:05:00.000-07:002006-05-03T07:06:28.650-07:00

'The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace in a continual state of alarm (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing them with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.' Henry Louis Mencken

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146663697527879152006-05-03T06:38:00.000-07:002006-05-03T06:41:37.536-07:00

'History would be so much simpler if you could just write it.Without ever having to let it happen.'Kenneth Rexroth from 'Another Early Morning Exercise' (1934/36)

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146661873001571872006-05-03T06:10:00.000-07:002006-05-03T06:11:13.013-07:00

TRAVELERS IN EREWHON You open your Dress on the dusty Bed where no one Has slept for years An owl moans on the roof You say My dear my Dear In the smoky light of the old Oil lamp your shoulders Belly breasts buttocks Are all like peach blossoms Huge stars far away far apart Outside the cracked window pane Immense immortal animals Each one only an eye Watch You open your body No end to the night

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146657924065742032006-05-03T05:03:00.000-07:002006-05-03T05:05:24.076-07:00

The Wind Howled Against the Window (Micropsia)The wind howled against the window and the building swayed. The pubs came out and people shouted and laughed for a while then just wind and bits of rain.Smell of old pillow and musty sheets. Warm and safe and wide awake. Creaking’s and groaning’s and distant clicking’s. Arguing voices and always wind and spitting rain and the world recedes. I’m

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146657290544617402006-05-03T04:53:00.000-07:002006-05-03T04:54:50.553-07:00

Fucking Little DotsFucking little dots everywhere, I don’t know whyThere was this field right, it was fuckin’ endless, freshly ploughed and really difficult to get across, sometimes it hurt so much, lying out in back of the farm shitting kidney stones, my sister right, she used to come on to me all the time, the combine harvester, it really fucked me up what happened up in the back hill, the

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146653086873773742006-05-03T03:44:00.000-07:002006-05-03T03:44:46.876-07:00

ARTISTS!Transform Yourselves intoLiving Philosophical Stones!(version)“These people [artists] have the appearance of being idealists, and show themselves capable of self-sacrifice. But on closer scrutiny they will be found to consider enhancement of their sensuous feeling of pleasure of prime importance. Many artistic natures, and those who devote themselves to scientific activity because it

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146652688696456212006-05-03T03:35:00.000-07:002006-05-03T03:38:08.696-07:00

NOTES FROM THE SEA OF LEMONADEThere is the faint (but growing) possibility that some of us alive today will be able to extend our life spans exponentially. If the promise of nanotechnology is fulfilled we may all get to live forever, endlessly retuned by swarms of microscopic engines. What would this do to the creative impulse? Would it wither or blossom? I like to imagine that the wilder forms

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1146652432314475152006-05-03T03:26:00.000-07:002006-05-03T03:33:52.323-07:00

"I was utterly alone with the sun and the earth. Lying down in the grass. I spoke in my soul to the earth, the sun , the air, and the distant sea far beyond sight. I went there every morning, I could not exactly define why... Later on I began to have daily pilgrimages to think these things. There was a feeling that I must go somewhere, and be alone... After the sensuous enjoyment always came the

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NIGHTSTALKINGStalking in the city and suburbs, however, is not as demanding an art form as it is in the widerness or deep country. There is usually no need for camouflage . . . As in wilderness though we still follow the wisdom of the Heron, which teaches us how to hold our upper bodies, and of the cat or mountain lion, which teaches us how to touch softly with our feet. Stalking is always slow,

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1144266660180360202006-04-05T12:39:00.000-07:002006-04-05T12:51:00.193-07:00

"I am commencing an undertaking, hitherto without precedent and which will never find an imitator. I desire to set before my fellows the likeness of a man in all the truth of nature, and that man is myself. Myself alone! I know the feelings of my heart, and I know men. I am not made like any of those I have seen. I venture to believe that I am not made like any of those who are in existence. If I

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1143832449276006512006-03-31T11:11:00.000-08:002006-03-31T11:14:09.293-08:00

"The first task of the man who wants to be a poet is to study his own awareness of himself, in its entirety; he seeks out his soul, he inspects it, he tests it, he learns it. As soon as he knows it, he must cultivate it! . . . --But the problem is to make the soul into a monster, like the compachicos, you know? Think of a man grafting warts onto his face and growing them there.I say you have to

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1136294247656839682006-01-03T05:01:00.000-08:002006-01-03T05:17:27.666-08:00

TUESDAY 3 JANUARY 2006Le Chat Noir. Borgergade. Copenhagen. Sitting here with too much coffee running around my system looking at Ray Johnson's wonderful stuff.Ray Johnson's BunnyThe bodyless Ray Johnson bunny is something like a genetic mutant mickey mouse engineered to be a rabbit, or visa versa. Johnson has claimed the cartoon tag to be personal self portraits varied by the daily mood changes

jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02526821286427752936noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5089372.post-1130943337225149862005-11-02T06:37:00.000-08:002005-11-02T06:55:37.236-08:00

THE MOTH ENCLOSUREsome observations recorded in the vicinity of Huntly, Aberdeenshire:My new girlfriend confessed to a liking for' the rough stuff'.From my bedroom window I watched a large girl and a small boy attempting intercourse. There was an audible crack and the boy sank to the ground.I'd found a way to circumnavigate the town without touching the ground.In the last town people began to

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