Subject: [lit-ideas] the perverted soup eater joke

could i have another hair in my soup please?

clubbing

act!

imagine the role to perform
perform the role to imagine


t-shirt (green)

front print: same same
back print: but different


tractions

planes for landing, sirens
traces of violated Phusis

audible frictions of acts designed to relive pressure
extend the system of body parts, re-bundle nerves

CROSS the corpus collosum
transverse the stadium, battlefield

track the symptoms of presence
follow either trace of the whiffletree

notes for tractions

traction:
1. The friction between a body and the surface on which it moves (as between an automobile tire and the road)
2. (orthopedics) the act of pulling on a bone or limb (as in a fracture) to relieve pressure or align parts in a special way during healing
syn: adhesive friction; grips
type: frictions, pullings, pulls, rubbings

tract:
1. an extended area of land
2. a system of body parts that together serve some particular purpose
3. a brief treatise on a subject of interest; published in the form of a booklet
4. a bundle of nerve fibres following a path through the brain
(types: athletic field, battlefield, corpus callosum [A broad transverse nerve tract connecting the two cerebral hemispheres])

transverse:
1. Extending or lying across; in a crosswise direction; at right angles to the long axis
(syn: cross, crossing, thwartwise, transversal)

trace, noun:
1. a just detectable amount
2. a clue that something has been present
3. a suggestion of some quality
4. drawing created by tracing
5. either of two lines that connect a horse's harness to a wagon or other vehicle or to a whiffletree

trace, verb:
1. follow, discover or ascertain the course of development of something
2. make a mark or lines on a surface
3. to go back over again, as of a route or steps
4. pursue or chase relentlessly
5. discover traces of
6. make one's course or travel along a path; travel of pass over, around, or along
7. copy by following the lines of the original drawing on a transparent sheet placed upon it; make a tracing of
8. read with difficulty

whiffletree:
1. A crossbar that is attached to the traces of a draft horse and to the vehicle or implement that the horse is pulling

URIs for Lies (1999, dir. Sun-Woo Jang):
http://www.shincine.com/lies/eng_introduction.htm

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0208995/

Good review, discussing intersection sex/religion:
http://www.plume-noire.com/movies/cult/lies.html

Even better review, discussing link to de Sade and the politics of orgasm, ie. George Bataille etc):
http://www.indiewire.com/movies/rev_001115_Lies.html

The movie is based on a novel by Jung-Il Chang. There's an overview of his work here:
http://216.239.59.104/search?q=cache:p0LaTQ650IwJ:kuba.korea.ac.kr/~leekj/chang_jung_il.html+Jung-Il+Chang&hl=en

Can't find any work in translation at the moment, though...

Hurry up please it's time

Poor Albert won't leave you alone
You took some pills to take the edge off
Albert with his round stomach and broken penis
You, kneeling, in Albert's shower

Hurry up please it's time

April is the cruellest month
I don't belong here
His hands around my waist
Your feet crawling away

Hurry up please it's time

For Cocaine Nights and Junkies
For uppers and downers and downtown trainspotting
For CDs and DVDs and Wireless and Bluetooth
For MDs and PhDs and tubes and lubes

Hurry up please it's time

One more time, once again
Cocaine Nights and Junkies
April is the cruellest month
Poor Albert won't leave you alone

Hurry up please it's time

Sometimes it seems like I don't have it, while everybody else do, and it's kinda embarrassing that I have this kind of incapacity, I don't want anyone to know that it is like that, and I have to engage in all sorts of dubious manouvers to keep it out of sight to everybody else. But sometimes it's different. Sometimes it seems as if I am the one who has it, while others don't. Some kind of secret knowledge, you don't say. Some kind of ability for empathy. Some kind of universal empathy.

My hands grow out of themselves.

it is dusk. it is after dusk. night had fallen over the city even the underground world where I sat and write what I like with this Japanese brand named computer. it comes from nowhere it comes from everywhere there is no longer a link between space and adjective. breath. just keep breathing. in out. breath. listen to the beat. it is your heart beating. breath. in and out.

more contrived. like an explosion it must soar. it must run over the pages like a fugitive chasing for a future tne\
i have to go to court. i'm a witness. to my own trial. whose trial. who is to judge what happened that afternoon? who was the agent? what was the cause and what the effect, i function better with the sun in my eyes i go by.

take a second of me. reduce me seduce me dress me up and seduce me. no sense that yiyu can trust me trick or tream it must be written mi itself.

fjkdlsalskdejjowksossiejd |ke adsadf w3wd wsiwd dhf wskqa sjdhf ska s s vne iska iejr weia djeoix eiw ajks fiej sja eid ewiee.,dsikekd.s diiejnn cd

Carnival Love

It comes in the form of a few milligrams
It can have any number of colors and shapes
It is assertive and submissive, but never misses
a carnivorous carnival

carnage me implanate me

Sometimes you can see the bubbles imploding
Sometimes the heat of the flame spurting out of the carnival's belly drains you in sweat
Sometimes you can drown yourself in the puls the beat the stomping feet
And yet to rest inside this spectacle

forget me leave my flesh

Run! Follow that gargantuan rabbit through the hole
What does memory deserve? Paper slips and Polariods?
Monuments and deities? Holy holy thy memory of me
At the carnival embracing strobing rolling over
Laughing remembering

It's been 33 years
I have been waiting a long time for this carnival
In the City of God there's too much mindless killing
I want to kiss you mindfully

Imigood what kindof carnival is this? That man has taken his shirt off,
Oh, and that girl is sitting on her knees and, oh no...
Adreanline kick me, hit me with your hammer and strike me out of this state of the
Carnival

A thousand eyes watching me from the walls of this carnival-theatre
How are you doing? Are you all right?
Man in gray sweater, discreete medic
Iris rolling around in his head outside somewhere in the mist, the fog, blown, beaten,
Where are you now, my soul? Where did you fly that night of they beat you, bruised you?
Will you return upon my return?
Will you again reveal your wings to my reason?

What are we waiting for? When will the moment arrive when we will, finally, collapse this structure of reason and turn, make a turn, somehow, globally, I mean, totally, structurally. No neautral position. The passivity of the bottom depends on the activity of the top. You don't say.

Tautological shapes

Oval rolls awkwardly
Line squeaks and sneaks
An equation can never be the same

You turn a corner in the Tate Modern and face Dalí's "Narcissus"
Carved in stoned you hardly sense the flower that springs from your head
You recede behind the mountain catching
A last look at yourself in the river, stoned

So many of us and yet so few
So many duplications and

the joy and the laughter and the paraknowledge
that's on offer, up there, at the third floor at the Tate Modern when you
suspend your self, Kant-like, or
distract extract contract and explode your self
in front of Matisse's headless therapist,
opening his coat to reveal his interior: a bird cage
opened, and yet two birds remain there, perching,
resting waiting

I leave my mind at the counter of another restless nightwatch
It is cold, next stop the Fridge
Rolling over and over, speaking, squeaking, sneaking
Equating same with same

Clapham Junction, London
9 April 2004