Saturday, May 29, 2010

Last Night the Sun Was Dressed as the Moon,
a Warming Globe in a Costume.
Marlee Marco Pasinetti

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Every Day of the Same Excessive Perfection
- Nietzsche

How happy is the blameless vessel's lot
The world forgetting by the world forgot
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd
- Alexander Pope

I like things that are dead that used to be alive. I said this the other day to someone and at the time I didn't think twice about it. Now, after reflecting on the thought, I am beginning to question why I like things that are dead that used to be alive. Is it the texture? the rough indents of a log that feel like the inside of someones palm. I remember someone telling me when I was really young that you can work out exactly how old a tree is by counting the circular lines on the inside of its limb. Or feathers.. is it their fragility and the notion that they once lived a life above the clouds that I will never know. I think there is an aspect of fascination in my fetish. I like the idea that I can keep the remnants of a life once lived, a life completely different to mine. So maybe its an escapism? Or maybe its because I don't see death as something that should be feared or loathed. I do not wish to be immortal. I wish to fall into the natural flux of the universe, for my remnants to be kept as memory of a life once lived, a life once lived with passion. I wish to be pressed between the pages of a loved book like the wilted petals of a fossilized rose, for my perfume to linger. I wish to be regenerated into the earth so that when someone feels the rough indents of a log they know that, in some sense, they are touching the inside of my palm.

The three of us have decided to plant our roots in this tree house so that we can live like the Romantics of the 1800's and worship nature and the sublime. Join us?

The Dandelions had rusted from disuse.
This image reminds me of a quote from Da Vinci -
'Iron rusts from disuse, water loses its purity from stagnation, even so does inaction sap the vigours of the mind.'

I had a lecture on Nietzsche and Happiness today. It was one of those moments when all of your thoughts line up like dominoes and tumble together in one swift motion. His beliefs affirmed my understanding that it is better to live dangerously, and to send our ships into uncharted seas, than to remain stagnant. It is better, no not 'better' but more fulfilling, to experience life across a myriad of highs and lows rather than to plateau into a state of contentment. Contentment should never be enough. Contentment and stagnation sap the vigours of the mind. Life, with all of its grandeur beauty and pain, is there for us to live in rather than merely exist in. Do everything with passion. The greatest suffering has always produced the greatest creativity.

Monday, May 10, 2010

'Suns as rays - words like atoms - years like hours?'
- Lord Byron

'Little golden objects that set lazy men to idle dreaming'
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I invested in a new set of suede curtains yesterday to fend off the friendly neighborhood voyeurs that our household has attracted. My room, once exposed to over-illumination, has now become like the inside of a butterfly's cocoon; dark, alluring and you leave bearing colorful wings.

Thank you, Auction Rooms, for the impromptu picnic on the nature strip

Sunday, May 9, 2010

'Fuck Facts. Fact: It is indeed possible that there is no such thing as a fact. Facts. Fuck'em, there are no fucking facts; merely untruths masqueraging as definites.'
- Dan Rooke

'Subject, quote Dan unquote... I have never seen someone smoke a cigarette like he's sucking Jesus through a straw'
- Frank Boyce

Dumb Luck & No Loneliness
by Adrian Lawson

Poetess and novelist, Cathy Cole, took myself along with a small group of writers to Saigon in Vietnam to work on a collaborative writing/design project. After much ado, this exhibition was created in homage to our outlandish experience there. Only one of us had had previous experience as an exhibition artist so our most natural instinct was to write over everything and anything, rolls of typewriting paper were draped from the ceiling and herds of miscellaneous scribblings were scattered across the floor. When I walked inside of the space I could hear 7 different voices, 7 different stories, speaking to me all at once. Like when you're listening to the radio and the signals cross over and you hear several different songs morph into one harmonious tune.