#doodlinginbrno

"The fact that until recently the word 'shit' appeared in print as s-- has nothing to do with moral considerations. You can't claim that shit is immoral, after all! The objection to shit is a metaphysical one. The daily defecation session is daily proof of the unacceptability of Creation. Either/or: either shit is acceptable (in which case don't lock yourself in the bathroom!) or we are created in an unacceptable manner. It follows, then, that the aesthetic ideal of the categorical agreement with being is a world in which shit is denied and everyone acts as though it did not exist. This aesthetic ideal is called kitsch. 'Kitsch' is a German word born in the middle of the sentimental nineteenth century, and from German it entered all Western languages. Repeated use, however, has obliterated its original metaphysical meaning: kitsch is the absolute denial of shit, in both the literal and the figurative senses of the word; kitsch excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence." --Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being #shit #kitsch #kundera #drawing #indiaink #doodlinginBrno #vbborjen #inktoberneverends

S PODIGNUTOM RUKOM Mehmedalija Mak Dizdar S podignutom rukom do beskraja neba Znamenjima veljim oko sebe velim Sva nasušna slova spletena od greba Što me zaustavi u kretanju bonom Bol da pojača na putu Ka onom Stani Velim suncu Što tjeme mi prži Velim zemlji čvrsto što me drži Velim danu što opet odlazi Velim zmiji drevnoj što okolo plazi Velim Pametaru Što gori i plamti Kad pohodom čestim ka rukama mojim Još uvijek me misli i uvijek se pamti Velim A ništa Ne zastaje Okolo mene je sve isto I jednako u kretanju svome Ne okreće se za sobom Teče i jednako traje (U stvari svi rade svoj jadan I uzaludan posao) I riječ Rečena u pustinji ovoj Nemušta i nijema gubi se i nestaje Samo je moj krik Čvrst kao ovaj moj kamen Postojan i stalan

"I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch He said to me, "you must not ask for so much" And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door She cried to me, "hey, why not ask for more?" Oh, like a bird on the wire Like a drunk in a midnight choir I have tried in my way to be free" -- Leonard Cohen, Bird on the Wire

MORNING SONG Sylvia Plath Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons. ____ #inktober #inktober2016 #doodlinginBrno #day18 #sylviaplath #arielandotherpoems #vbborjen (at Brno)