untitled.

enter title here.

senseinnonsense — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 22:44:52 +0000

i’m tired of nationalities and continents, of rastafari’s and babylons, i’m tired of watching images without content or stories which are referred as movies, i’m tired of drunks and bla bla bla, i’m tired of music and irrelevant faces, of complains and demands, i’m tired of democracy, bureaucracy, socialism and communism, of globalization and localisms, identities, entities, and utopia, i’m tired of black power or white power or power relating any other color, race or sexual preference, i’m tired of labels and brands and the notion that goes deep in the mind that to grasp anything you just have to name it, i’m tired of useless art and artists, of the lack of expression or the inability, i’m tired of tv and radio, of the internet, i’m tired of computers and electricity, of broken glasses, unwashed dishes, i’m tired of plans and laws, schedules and hidden agendas, of urbanism and architecture, i’m tired of money, of sexual harassment, of the do’s and don’ts, of hairstyles and fashion, i’m tired of pretty faces, of the new gods that appear on magazines or the old ones that live in dusty bookstores, i’m tired of cars and metro, of claustrophobic buildings, of disguising emptiness with expansion, of charades and simulations, i’m tired of theories, philosophies, politics, cloths, shoes and bling-bling or any other stuff use to cover or distract the mind and body, i’m tired of design and politeness, of lies, understandings and misunderstandings, of laziness and the lack of compromise, the lack of love, the lack carrying, of the me’s and the I’s and my-selves, of you, we, us and others, of quotes and top ten’s, of questions and answers, of the notion of real and unreal, of killings resolved with more killings, of kings and queens and blue prince and pink princess, i’m tired of morality, intellectuals and knowledge, of poor and rich and the bourgeoisie, i’m tired of false revolutions, linear history and personal histories, of dicks and pussies, of pain infliction, unawareness, of the loss of meanings, the pretension of concepts, i’m tires of disrespect, of superiority and inferiority, and pity, of covering life with cement and prefabricated houses, malls, cities and ideas, i’m tired of forgiving and forgetting.

i’m not tired of life, i’m tired of humans.

senseinnonsense — Sun, 16 May 2010 03:38:39 +0000

when your words are gone, what is left is not silence.. it’s just void.

white.

senseinnonsense — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 02:33:43 +0000

For the blind man in the dark room looking for the black cat that isn’t there

a o o a o o

senseinnonsense — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 19:24:32 +0000

what to do, what to do.. when the heart seems broken and the spirit too.

Boethius

senseinnonsense — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 03:24:57 +0000

It’s my belief that history is a wheel. “Inconsistency is my very essence” -says the wheel- “Rise up on my spokes if you like, but don’t complain when you are cast back down into the depths. Good times pass away, but then so do the bad. Mutability is our tragedy, but it is also our hope. The worst of times, like the best, are always passing away”.

18.03.08

senseinnonsense — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 07:52:40 +0000

Before the devil knows you’re dead, you will. Disorientation kicks in. Start walking trying to make some sense of it all. You just forgotten the basic: there is no sense at all. But you keep walking, an automat, left foot follows right. Right foot follows left. A light suddenly appears, it belongs to a car far away. Imagination pictures how the impact will be, the moment your head hits the floor and blood finds its way to the gutters. See the car get closer. And closer. Left foot steps the sidewalk, car goes by. Keep walking, straight line. A shadow surpasses your shadow, it’s bigger, it’s coming fast. Imagination pictures the knife cutting slowly through skin, piercing liver, flowing blood, knees giving up, body bending and… finally the shadow surpasses your shadow. Another working ant in its way home. Right foot follows left, hear the music and see the man. The pathetic show he’d like. Smile and look around, not there, not anywhere, he’s not even at home. Who’s the pathetic show now? Left foot follows right. Walked these streets before. Right foot follows left. Will walk these streets again.

Suddenly you, moving mouth and burping vowels and consonants together in a desperate search towards conversation, catch yourself. Mouth keeps moving and burping while eyes wander around estranged. They notice the eyes of the other: one pretends to be interested as the other one pretends to care. Suddenly you – just as them, the hated- got caught as a useless provider of senseless information in the lonesome path for recognition. Now shut your mouth and walk away.

Close your eyes and fear the mirror. The image gets clearer, stronger. A woman just like you but not quite, a sick woman, almost without hair, with the skin so pale and so damaged, looking at you with rage. You trapped her in, don’t even remember when, don’t even remember she existed. Still, you close your eyes and she appears, you shake your head and the image fades. Open them, slowly, you see your reflection in a mirror, and for a split of a second, you glimpse at her instead. So, you close your eyes and fear the mirror. The image gets clearer, stronger. A woman, just like you but not quite. You shake your head. You feel the rage. You open your eyes and fear yourself. Close your eyes and fear the mirror. The image gets clearer, stronger. A woman just like you but not quite, a sick woman, almost without hair, with the skin so pale and so damaged, looking at you with rage. You trapped her in, don’t even remember when, don’t even remember she existed. Still, you close your eyes and she appears, you shake your head and the image fades. Open them, slowly, you see your reflection in a mirror, and for a split of a second, you glimpse at her instead. So, you close your eyes and fear the mirror. The image gets clearer, stronger. A woman, just like you but not quite. You shake your head. You feel the rage. You open your eyes and fear yourself. Close your eyes and fear the mirror. The image gets clearer, stronger. A woman just like you but not quite, a sick woman, almost without hair, with the skin so pale and so damaged, looking at you with rage. You trapped her in, don’t even remember when, don’t even remember she existed. Still, you close your eyes and she appears, you shake your head and the image fades. Open them, slowly, you see your reflection in a mirror, and for a split of a second, you glimpse at her instead. So, you close your eyes and fear the mirror. The image gets clearer, stronger. A woman, just like you but not quite. You shake your head. You feel the rage. You open your eyes and fear yourself.

mr. cassaday.

senseinnonsense — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 14:04:11 +0000

“Here’s a guy and everybody’s there, right? Up to him to put down what’s on everybody’s mind. He starts the first chorus, then lines up his ideas, people, yeah, yeah, but get it, and the he rises to his fate and has to blow equal to it. All of the sudden somewhere in the middle of the chorus he gets it -everybody looks up and knows; they listen; he picks it up and carries. Time stops. He’s filling empty spaces with the substance of our lives, confessions of his bellybottom strain, remembrance of ideas, rehashes of old blowing. He has to blow across bridges and come back and do it with such infinite feeling soul-exploratory for the tune of the moment that everybody knows it’s not the tune that counts but IT-” Dean could go no further; he was sweating telling about it.

——————

“Oh, man! man! man!” moans Dean. “And it’s not even the beginning of it -and now here we are at last going east together, we’ve never gone east together, Sal, think of it, we’ll dig Denver together and see what’s everybody’s doing although that matters little to us, the point being that we know what IT is and we know TIME and we know that everything is really FINE”. Then he whispered, clustering my sleeve, sweating, “Now you just dig them in front. They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there- and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgency false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls won’t be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end. Listen! Listen!”

Sal Paradise.

manifesto (02.09) for : D

senseinnonsense — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 03:37:03 +0000

I
Surfing on synchronic waves, mapping the web of life.

II
If we dare leap into the void, as Yves Klein once pretended to do, do we fall?, and if we do, where to? Possibilities have become ossified as a result of the misunderstood desires of modernity, along with its linear and assertive way of thinking. The main academic systems have educated people out of their creative capacities by employing homogeneous programs that still stigmatize diversity. Our current way of living, permuted by the debris of the American Dream –which feeds an unsustainable industrialization process in a post-enlightened society–, has altered and fragmented the perceptions of our lives, our surroundings and ourselves.
Speeding by through this ongoing technological revolution, it appears that there is no place left for a Revolution; the institutionalization of the concept has made it completely obsolete and just a mean to impose other ideas. So, where is the turning page? Do we lean on irrationalism to fracture determinism? Or is it that “active” is the only possible prefix left for “ism”?
Maybe the search for meaning, awareness and awakeness resides in revo.ludic.izing our daily life, in applying ludic processes, structures and elements to the commonness of our habits and habitats. Maybe it comes from finding pleasure in playing the game, from chasing synchronicities with our loved ones instead of chasing uncatchable rainbows. Maybe it comes from intertwining some nonsense into the collective unconsciousness, from digressing and dissipating the fixated ideas we are lead to believe.
Art is our physical translation of the process of life, leaping from form to content, from realities to illusions and backwards, leaving seeds along the way, and generating a synthesis of interconnected hybrid roads that feed our subjective consciousness.
Simple propositions arise: put the categorical in play with the unpredictable, let the possibilities emerge and evolve, give space to the contradictions and exceptions, let our codes realign with our inner desires. Because maybe –just maybe– we don’t need to find sense in life, we just need to find joy.
III
Seems that music is just built for headphones, trapping our minds in a permanent present with no future to look up to and no past to remember. If we persist in living in a static sum of chances, if we don’t participate, do we live at all?
Value has shifted place with essence, art as something you own has overshadowed art as something you experience. The concern to dialogue with society has been surpassed by the pursuit to continuously produce new schemes to shape the herd’s mentality. It has all become a shared but scarcely understood disaster and a fear disguised as the hissing noise that no one seems to listen.
So, do we play it out loud?