Cultural Cowardice
- Thread starter sadmanbarty
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- ballin at the mall barty's mum's cunt again. cheeky tags chopped and screwed clairs corpse's mates crybabies disco-gs fig rolls fuck off fucking youtube goldsmiths fanny high fashion mood music john eden was talking sense kill for love luka is a crypto-jungian luka is an oxford don mystic snakes sassy si see you on the other side spunk ritual steve madden handbag the beatles are worse than hitler
how isn't it? it doesn't just exist unto itself. in with the crypto-christian biz again mate.
jungle was political. not in the sense of organised left wing politics but as a reflection of the black atlantic, of creole languages, of paranoia, psychosis etc. all these things are political. that was what Fanon was getting at with his decolonial politics. not merely take to streets but take to the streets with technique. refound the world through going back into our psyche.
Similarly with Tayeb Salih's season of migration to the north, we are presented with the most damning indictment of education as a collectors method in serialised fiction form. and how this can interact with the most atrocious patriarchal exploitation, but also, conversely, that we are talking about non-dualist forms of being and that we are not fully dissecting of our past.
"I want to take my rightful share of life by force, I want to give lavishly; I want love to flow from my heart, to ripen and bear fruit. There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand. I looked at the river --- its waters had begun to take on a cloudy look with the alluvial mud brought down by the rains that must have poured in torrents on the hills of Ethiopia --- and at the men with their bodies learning against the ploughs or bent over their hoes, and my eyes take in fields flat as the palm of a hand, right up to the edge of the desert where the houses stand. I hear a bird sing or a dog bark or the sound of an axe on wood --- and I feel a sense of stability; I feel that I am important, that I am continuous and integral. No, I am not a stone thrown into the water but seed sown in a field. I go to my grandfather and he talks to me of life forty years ago, fifty years ago, even eighty; and my feeling of security is strengthened. I loved my grandfather and it seems that he was fond of me. Perhaps one of the reasons for my friendship with him was that ever since I was small stories of the past used to intrigue me, and my grandfather loved to reminisce. Whenever I went away I was afraid he would die in my absence. When overcome by yearning for my family I would see him in my dreams; I told him this and he laughed and said, 'When I was a young man a fortune-teller told me that if I were to pass the age when the Prophet died --- that's to say sixty --- I'd reach a hundred.' We worked out his age, he and I, and found he had about twelve more years to go."
It's not about coarseness or smoothness but that precise wetness and slipperiness of existence. i can't see this as anything but political.
jungle was political. not in the sense of organised left wing politics but as a reflection of the black atlantic, of creole languages, of paranoia, psychosis etc. all these things are political. that was what Fanon was getting at with his decolonial politics. not merely take to streets but take to the streets with technique. refound the world through going back into our psyche.
Similarly with Tayeb Salih's season of migration to the north, we are presented with the most damning indictment of education as a collectors method in serialised fiction form. and how this can interact with the most atrocious patriarchal exploitation, but also, conversely, that we are talking about non-dualist forms of being and that we are not fully dissecting of our past.
"I want to take my rightful share of life by force, I want to give lavishly; I want love to flow from my heart, to ripen and bear fruit. There are many horizons that must be visited, fruit that must be plucked, books read, and white pages in the scrolls of life to be inscribed with vivid sentences in a bold hand. I looked at the river --- its waters had begun to take on a cloudy look with the alluvial mud brought down by the rains that must have poured in torrents on the hills of Ethiopia --- and at the men with their bodies learning against the ploughs or bent over their hoes, and my eyes take in fields flat as the palm of a hand, right up to the edge of the desert where the houses stand. I hear a bird sing or a dog bark or the sound of an axe on wood --- and I feel a sense of stability; I feel that I am important, that I am continuous and integral. No, I am not a stone thrown into the water but seed sown in a field. I go to my grandfather and he talks to me of life forty years ago, fifty years ago, even eighty; and my feeling of security is strengthened. I loved my grandfather and it seems that he was fond of me. Perhaps one of the reasons for my friendship with him was that ever since I was small stories of the past used to intrigue me, and my grandfather loved to reminisce. Whenever I went away I was afraid he would die in my absence. When overcome by yearning for my family I would see him in my dreams; I told him this and he laughed and said, 'When I was a young man a fortune-teller told me that if I were to pass the age when the Prophet died --- that's to say sixty --- I'd reach a hundred.' We worked out his age, he and I, and found he had about twelve more years to go."
It's not about coarseness or smoothness but that precise wetness and slipperiness of existence. i can't see this as anything but political.
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
which is probably where this conversation should end
john eden
male pale and stale
Art isn’t above politics.
Lots of lovely people think it is, but when you get into it their reasons all seem to boil down to God.
I mean, fair enough I am a boring materialist now with no childlike sense of Wonder. (Except I’m not, really). But I am suspicious of, say, keeping politics out of sport. Maybe it just serves the status quo. And allows people not to think about the wider issues. Which is fine. Just be honest about it.
Lots of lovely people think it is, but when you get into it their reasons all seem to boil down to God.
I mean, fair enough I am a boring materialist now with no childlike sense of Wonder. (Except I’m not, really). But I am suspicious of, say, keeping politics out of sport. Maybe it just serves the status quo. And allows people not to think about the wider issues. Which is fine. Just be honest about it.
I turned the key in the door, which opened without difficulty. I was met by dampness and an odour like that of an old memory. I know this smell: the smell of sandalwood and incense. I felt my way with my finger-tips along the walls and came up against a window pane. I threw open the window and the wooden shutters. I opened a second window and a third, but all that came in from outside was more darkness. I struck a match. The light exploded on my eyes and out of the darkness there emerged a frowning face with pursed lips that I knew but could not place. I moved towards it with hate in my heart. It was my adversary Mustafa Sa'eed. The face grew a neck, the neck two shoulders and a chest, then a trunk and two legs, and I found myself standing face to face with myself This is not Mustafa Sa'eed --- it's a picture of me frowning at my face from a mirror. Suddenly the picture disappeared and I sat in the darkness for I know not how long listening intently and hearing nothing. I lit another match and a woman gave a bitter smile. Standing in an oasis of light, I looked around me and saw there was an old lamp on the table my hand was almost touching. I shook it and found there was oil in it. How extraordinary! I lit the lamp and the shadows and the walls moved away and the ceiling rose up. I lit the lamp and closed the windows. The smell must remain imprisoned here: the smell of bricks and wood and burning incense and sandalwood --- and books. Good God, the four walls from floor to ceiling were filled, shelf upon shelf with books and more books and yet more books. I lit a cigarette and filled my lungs with the strange smell. What a fool he was! Was this the action of a man who wanted to turn over a new leaf? I shall bring the whole place down upon his head; I shall set it on fire. I set light to the fine rug beneath my feet and for a while watched it devour a Persian king, mounted on a steed, aiming his lance at a fleeing gazelle. I raised the lamp and found that the whole floor of the room was covered with Persian rugs. I saw that the wall opposite the door ended in an empty space. Lamp in hand, I went up to it. How ridiculous! A fireplace --- imagine it! A real English fireplace with all the bits and pieces, above it a brass cowl and in front of it a quadrangular area tiled in green marble, with the mantelpiece of blue marble; on either side of the fireplace were two Victorian chairs covered in a figured silk material, while between them stood a round table with books and notebooks on it. I saw the face of the woman who had smiled at me moments before --- a large oil portrait in a gilt frame over the mantelpiece; it was signed in the right-hand corner 'M. Sa'eed'. I observed that the fire in the middle of the room was spreading. I took eighteen strides towards it (I counted them as I walked) and trod it out. Though I sought revenge, yet I could not resist my curiosity. First of all I shall see and hear, then I shall burn it down as though it had never been. The books --- I could see in the light of the lamp that they were arranged in categories. Books on economics, history and literature. Zoology. Geology. Mathematics. Astronomy. The Encyclopaedia Britannica. Gibbon. Macaulay Toynbee. The complete works of Bernard Shaw Keynes. Tawney Smith. Robinson. The Economics of Imperfect Competition. Hobson Imperialism. Robinson An Essay on Marxian Economics. Sociology. Anthropology. Psychology. Thomas Hardy. Thomas Mann. E. G. Moore. Thomas Moore. Virginia Woolf. Wittgenstein. Einstein. Brierly. Namier. Books I had heard of and others I had not. Volumes of poetry by poets of whom I did not know the existence. The journals of Gordon. Gulliver's Travels. Kipling. Housman. The History of the French Revolution Thomas Carlyle. Lectures on the French Revolution Lord Acton. Books bound in leather. Books in paper covers. Old tattered books. Books that looked as if they'd just come straight from the printers. Huge volumes the size of tombstones. Small books with gilt edges the size of packs of playing cards. Signatures. Words of dedication. Books in boxes. Books on the chairs. Books on the floor. What play-acting is this? What does he mean? Owen. Ford Madox Ford. Stefan Zweig. E. G. Browne. Laski. Hazlitt. Alice in Wonderland. Richards. The Koran in English. The Bible in English. Gilbert Murray. Plato. The Economics of Colonialism Mustafa Sa'eed. Colonialism and Monopoly Mustafa Sa'eed. The Cross and Gunpowder Mustafa Sa'eed. The Rape of Africa Mustafa Sa'eed. Prospero and Caliban. Totem and Taboo. Doughty. Not a single Arabic book. A graveyard. A mausoleum. An insane idea. A prison. A huge joke. A treasure chamber. 'Open, Sesame, and let's divide up the jewels among the people.'"
my problem with God is that it is inescapably gendered as a return to a primal father. i do not think one should disown psychoanalysis, but one should use it as a method in ones toolbox, rather than taking the categorisations literally. we all have quasi-mother, quasi-father quasi-sibling relationships with phenomena of all kind. but this is insight and metaphor that allows us to understand our differences, but rather than focusing on those differences as a kind of deformity, you can find commonality, mutual understanding and in some case love through these very differences. The trick is not to reenact the oedipal drama. Freud and Reich aren't like, science in the sense of physics or biology and it would be wrong to try and make it so. in fact, this is my problem with american confessional culture.
well, i mean the main point of the thread is kind of this distinction between innovation and originality i guess.
i've been mucking around with supercollider and tidal cycles but honestly i can't ever imagine making inovative music with it. sure i could probably do something mathematically original but...
i've been mucking around with supercollider and tidal cycles but honestly i can't ever imagine making inovative music with it. sure i could probably do something mathematically original but...
Leo
Well-known member
vaporwave? maybe not particularly "exciting" but...