"Heaven has a road, but no one travels it; Hell has no gate, but men will bore through to get there."

Wednesday, April 29, 2009


... i just got laid off and this is what i think about that:

The Elemental Self

Looking not for the world’s judgment
Delivered through the daily, weekly boning grind-
Wealth is immune to measurement.
It is weighed within.
The wandering lion alone commands the desert
Requiring only silence
To rest from operatic pleas
As a diffusion of sunlight falls
Over past and future dreams,
Remembrances of happiness speak-
Calling out in a song
That the words’ words cannot connect.
Rock endures the lapping and enfolding waves
Of the ancient tidal seas.
Cliff and mountain see from their own summits-
They shift and move within,
Catching the eyes of sky and sun
With only the effort of recognition remaining,
Triumphant, shining, illuminated and whole.

cjk 09

Monday, April 27, 2009

We Are All Connected


-far better than most movies where the actors are people!



Sigh.... BYE BEA!

From Bea Arthur's One Woman Stage Show, a fondly remembered quote from Tallulah Bankhead:

"It's not the cock, and not the twat, but rather the eyes don't ya know- and sometimes the sweet smell of lilac."

Benoit Pioulard


Saturday, April 25, 2009

WOW! times googleplex-

As long as you are kind and there is love in your heart a thousand hands will naturally come to your aid, as long as you are kind and there is love in your heart you will reach out with a thousand hands...


Monday, April 13, 2009


So there is obviously a lil thematic business going on here for Easter/The Time of Rising. Of course there is Jesus and the bunnies, but we also have a cute new Dr. Who pending arrival, a wonderful posse of zombies poking up through the dirt like the crocus of early spring and thanks to my mister- a bracing dose of Wagner's Parsifal (see his piece below). Take a taste of the multi-layered and subterranean psychological sound and then dip into a few words on W from notable operaphiles:



And from Peter Conrad's Preface and chapter on Wagner in his A Song of Love and Death: The Meaning of Opera...

"... to blasphemy against a Christian religion that reproves this bodily glory and chastens the organism in which the voice is warmly housed!"

"Drama and music have together, like Tristan and Isolde, passed through a rite of death and rebirth. The outcome is Parsifal: an opera midway between Mass and orgy, asking again the question which has perplexed the form since it's beginnings- is this a consecration of a threater, or the desecration of a church? Music here is both salvation and venereal perdition. Parsifal is set in a temple, and also in a magician's den; hortatory voices sound in the heights, but in the depths there are howling miseries and feral laughter. Titurel calls down grace from above, Klingsor hauls up fiends from below. The realms intersect in Amfortas, the sinner who must, despite his self-scourging, perform the priestly office. This is Wagner himself, whose operas redeem by corrupting.

This is a religious mystery, but it is also- as Wagner uses it- a specifically theatrical mystery, and it claims immortality for his own art. Parsifal attempts a solemn contemplative stasis. Arthur Symons at Bayreuth in 1897 marvled to see "for the first time, people really motionless on the stage." Time too has been stopped, by those reflective pauses in the first prelude. After Gurnemanz's initial narration, the same story is recited over and over. Wagner is imitating and and equaling the incarnation: the moment when eternity descended into time and, with the advent of Christ, history at once ended and began again. Drama occupies space, music happens in time. Rituals, like those staged in Parsifal and like Parsifal itself, arrest time by spatializing it. Repitition ensures that an instant lasts forever, and that we can travel around the world without needing to stir from home. This mystery, in the transformations from the forest to the temple in the first and third acts, is devoutly rehearsed by Wagner's scenery, and choreographed by his music. The set moves, while Parsifal and Gurnemanz walk on the spot. Parsifal asks what is happening; Gurnemanz explains that space is becoming time. If they wait, the temple will come to them. The theater has miracles of its own.

The Easter of Parsifal belongs in all mythologies at once. It is a pagan rite of spring and a Christian promise of resurrection; it also hints at the almost supernatural power of the theater, where every performance is a reenactment, restoring life to the dead letter of the score and the text. The holy day, as Gurnemanz calls it, is a theatrical holiday. It marks the festival decreed by Wagner on the stage which Parsifal consecrated, and it seeks to ensure that the feast is immovable: Wagner ordered that this opera should never be given outside Bayreuth. Art has not succumbed to religion, as Nietzsche claimed when expressing his dismay about Parsifal; the art of opera has itself been established as a religion.

coming from Jonathan Stacy's The Myth of Male Parthenogenesis...





Just enough of cute zombies, weird political ranting and raunchy bloody sex... and who wouldn't want to run into Otto on a rainy day when you're feeling lonely. After all, he's certainly more interesting and less annoying than the people on the train on just about any day and he'll probably let you hug him if you can get past the smell of dead mice.

Saturday, April 11, 2009


When your home is your TARDIS, you don't have to travel far...




images amidst morning dreams

I have two characters. The one is old, around 40-45. The other one is of undefined age, ranging from 15 to 28. This morning, they were having slow, profound sex in my head.+ + +"You know, sometimes I need to pretend I'm someone else...so I can have some softness inside...but when they sense it...they want to rip it apart," the young one was saying.In my head, his voice was heaving as he moved onto the older man's lap with the indistict back-and-forth that reminded me of the sea."I want this," he said. His hands splayed on the young one's immaculate hips. "I want you to let me in, let me feel it.""Be good to me," the boy whispered, hovered over the other's opened lips, whispering the Truth, planting it underneath the tender shiny plains of his mouth."Is this the real you?" the older guy questioned, squinting into the depths of his eyes."Yes. Maybe. Truth hurts. Be careful."+ + +Then I kind of woke up for good and tried to capture the essence of their being sweaty and soft and intimate in bed. Such images are hard to render in words.

1 piece of writing by Orestes

the in-between space






Wednesday, April 8, 2009


... i pretty much despise the grueling brazen and callous competition that is American Idol, but anybody who can rouse Simon Callow to his feet to deliver a standing ovation is worth a listen... those evil corporate net cops have removed the live clips but this works:



Early Beaming