Carlos Morago (b. 1954), Zocalo amarillo / Yellow baseboard, 2008.
oil on panel, 30 cm x 30 cm
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Carlos Morago (b. 1954), Zocalo amarillo / Yellow baseboard, 2008.
oil on panel, 30 cm x 30 cm

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The sky was the color of a rat.
‘Says’
80 x 60 cm (32″ x 24″), oil on canvas
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Hank Virgona [source]
A theory: Beckett’s characters are paragons of alienation, subjects pushed to every extremity, old, impotent, full of angst, hopeless, and ever more hopeless still. Molloy writes of himself as moving through the world, on a bicycle, on crutches, ever at odds with every aspect of authority, nature, and knowledge. In the course of his novel he travels to his mother’s house, where he writes the pages. Might it be that he is so alienated from the world even that physical space has ceased to be home for him? Why does he write the pages, after all? I think that maybe his only home is within language, which we all know is never to be trusted.

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I’ve long wondered, as Beckett says, what is the tense for something which is at the same time over and goes on? He speaks of the past and the future as a conflation, a grey-mass contiguity, But the syntax, specifically: “is there any tense for that?” where that is the object of the tense. As if giving the subject of the that a temporal place within syntax, the sentence, the structure of a written world. What is the tense of a verbless noun--it must be a finished infinitive. The future, that small, hard, inexorable object - like a thrown rock, or a metaphor. I’ll smash it with a hammer, a real hammer, held in a fist.
I have done away with the kitchen table. What have you done with the kitchen table? Do they know what we’ve done to the kitchen table? In a house of cards, I have found the kitchen table.
Exposed. 1898.
Dream 18
A friend was lecturing me because I had done something stupid. We were sitting in my kitchen, at the card table, and I had cooked us steaks for lunch, good steaks, I had tenderized them beforehand and let them marinate overnight. “But I’m a vegetarian,” says my friend. Of course! How could I have forgotten - I must not have been sleeping right, or I wasn’t thinking, or I was simply being careless - an oversight any way. My head was always in the clouds, my friend says, using the canned phrase like someone putting on the same old coat every morning. I pick up his plate and begin to apologize when the dog, sitting behind the gate, begins to bark, Yes! Well! Hey now! And then I am awake, and the dog is still barking, and he barks and he barks. And then I remember: I have a cat too. But the cat is always silent.

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Istanbul
Dragos-Radu Dumitrescu
Tertiary Radio
Phil Mulliken
Say, a rhizome youth, erewhon girls, wasted on planets turning over romance after romance. Never one for the land. Say, what’s wasted for cryptography and motherless sentinels? Some sort of death mask, never young, never level, what’s left is numbers and his memory of an unwashed letter. There’s a sunflower, just between her eyes. Of a sort.
This is a response to the prompt “Playlist Found Poem.” Text taken from songs in a Foobar playlist titled ‘spes??’
Art by collageartbyjesse.
And even though it was warm we couldn’t go out into the bay for the jellyfish, spawning by the thousands, known but unseen, like a feeling of guilt. You dragged a stick along the beach, drawing geometric forms, codified signs that I had seen before, but couldn’t place. I never had the heart to ask what they meant, what you were writing. To do so would mean dispelling a perfect mystery, mystery which felt necessary that day. What makes you yourself are the things you keep secret from everybody. Throwing away the mask would impoverish the form. Break it.
You held up a jellyfish on the end of the stick. “It’s lost all of it’s tentacles.”
“Maybe something ate them.”
It hung there on the end of the stick, translucent and quivering, almost alive, but it must have been dead. A jellyfish is just a stomach with a body and a nervous system - but not like ours. The jellyfish has no center of consciousness, its nervous system is present in equal amounts in every part of the body. Its consciousness is diffuse, a consciousness of the skin, of the body, like a newborn baby - temperature, shape. What must the jellyfish’s hunger feel like? Or its lust? Hunger of the body whole, lust of the body whole. Like the moments just before waking, when thought is just a hole opening up in the air.
You threw it back into the water with a plop, and it sank.

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—Names, and the names of names. Pictures of pictures is what they were. See: Fig. 2.
[[Fig 2.]] //identical to fig. 1
Every morning I would take it and the one from the day before and a third from no particular time from my filing cabinet and lay them side by side by side and look for differences. There were always differences – you can’t take two pictures without there always being a difference, no matter how small. And I would sit down and take the time to find them. Often it was a shift in the frame, one millimeter to the left, one millimeter to the right. When the difference was a difference in the light, it was more noticeable. I took pictures not to capture anything about the listening station, or to see it better. It was a student who pointed it out to me. I had my three pictures on my desk and she asked what they were for, what they represented. I said that they didn’t represent anything, vis-à-vis their existence. I opened my filing cabinet and took out a manila folder labeled “September” and showed her the thirty odd-pictures of the listening station. She looked at me like you might look at a blind man stumbling his way through a crowded train station – what do you think these are pictures of, I asked. Pictures, she said, in a whisper. Now I know that’s what they were. I was looking for pictures, taking pictures of pictures. And the station itself had slowly faded from them, grey, and greyer. And on, and on.
�4.�
Bridget Riley, Study for a Disfigured Circle, 1963