Lou Andreas-Salomé, from her memoirs
a dream has landed on a cloud - this blog is not more than (or, less than) a marker board, or the surface of a fridge covered with pictures and notes and post-its. it lately intends to include some field notes in form of random observations.
December 29, 2010
rosebush
Whoever reaches into a rosebush may seize a handful of flowers; but no matter how many one holds, it's only a small portion of the whole. Nevertheless, a handful is enough to experience the nature of the flowers. Only if we refuse to reach into the bush, because we can't possibly seize all the flowers at once, or if we spread out our handful of roses as if it were the whole of the bush itself -- only then does it bloom apart from us, unknown to us, and we are left alone.
December 21, 2010
ecological disaster
after another dubious climate summit this time in Cancun Mexico which was hijacked by the discourse of negotiations between the rich and poor countries of the Copenhagen summit last year, the fault in the collective imagination on ecological disaster revealed itself more clearly. the hollywood narrativization of catastrophic disaster which explodes and transforms the earth has for long time distorted our comprehension of the ecological change. we are waiting for a total collapse of the civilization, an end of the historical time, an indisputable apocalyptic moment. it seems to us that we have still time until that moment arrives. there is still time to discuss and evaluate. in the imagination, ecological disaster is projected as the individual death that is known to be inevitable, yet demands unbelief in order to continue living. in this sense, disaster is locked into the dimension of the categorical unknown.
discussions and arguments will not be able to create a shift in this imagination of disaster. what is needed is another modality of imagining the disaster; not as the disaster-to-come, forever in the future, but rather, as a disaster that has already happened: we are living in the afterwards of an ecological disaster. it has already happened and we haven't realized it yet. we need to act not in the face of a coming disaster, but as the survivors of ecological change that has already impacted every fields of our lives.
discussions and arguments will not be able to create a shift in this imagination of disaster. what is needed is another modality of imagining the disaster; not as the disaster-to-come, forever in the future, but rather, as a disaster that has already happened: we are living in the afterwards of an ecological disaster. it has already happened and we haven't realized it yet. we need to act not in the face of a coming disaster, but as the survivors of ecological change that has already impacted every fields of our lives.
December 13, 2010
Anlatmam Derdimi
I wouldn't share my troubles with whom who have none
Those who undergo no trouble wouldn't know their value
My troubles are my remedy, I didn't know
Never can a rose be without a thorn
Aşık Veysel (serbest çeviri)
translation suggested by subversion:
I could not tell my troubles to those who have none
Those who suffer none, would know their worth none
Troubles of mine were remedy of mine, I didn't know
Never can a rose be without a thorn
yet another trial:
I would not tell my troubles to those who have none
Those who don't worry can not know their worth
my troubles were my remedies, I didn't know
never can a rose be without a thorn
Those who undergo no trouble wouldn't know their value
My troubles are my remedy, I didn't know
Never can a rose be without a thorn
Aşık Veysel (serbest çeviri)
translation suggested by subversion:
I could not tell my troubles to those who have none
Those who suffer none, would know their worth none
Troubles of mine were remedy of mine, I didn't know
Never can a rose be without a thorn
yet another trial:
I would not tell my troubles to those who have none
Those who don't worry can not know their worth
my troubles were my remedies, I didn't know
never can a rose be without a thorn
Coda
Of the secret Word of | Silence, even our mother |
tongue does not let us | speak, except by turn- |
ing us away. Our true words. | The words never spoken |
are here. The words that do not | inhabit a voice resounding |
in the air, are here. Read | as if they were not sus- |
ceptible to any pronun- | ciation, mutely transmitted. By |
the eyes. Passing over the | taut string of gazes, they can |
stretch to infinity. Touch- | ing no lip, passing over |
no body, the clarity | alloted to words. |
Only absorbing the light | of the pupils. Through the eyes. |
The true words that connect | us, never reduced to these |
sounds; we see them dis- | tinct, their forms appear |
clearly. The words that | shine in the pen- |
umbra whose meaning sparkles | through one of those rad- |
iant days, neither timbre nor | melody, which remains always |
the words, these words here. | Intention to divulge them; |
but impossible to recount | them in a language that |
is entrusted to the voice; perhaps | with numbers they resemble |
them a little, although un- | pronounceable, Word of |
Silence. |
disappearing ink
It's quiet lately at the fortuneteller's.
To control content, use actions.
"X"--someone who
hasn't appeared yet, but
whose purpose we deduce.
I know it's there.
Love, I think.
Or maybe it was goodness.
So many hopes for the outside.
(O hunger, O equivalent)
I approach it calmly.
It spills into everything.
To control content, use actions.
"X"--someone who
hasn't appeared yet, but
whose purpose we deduce.
I know it's there.
Love, I think.
Or maybe it was goodness.
So many hopes for the outside.
(O hunger, O equivalent)
I approach it calmly.
It spills into everything.
December 12, 2010
back...
so I am back here, to the city and to my beloved page, which now has a new theme of colors, until I get bored. Well, of the color theme I suppose.
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