Worth the sweltering heat of stone discharged from the arbors of the living, amplifying the rise and fall of expectations to locate any trace of memory of the fratelli Rosselli in this their first burial site: a stone’s throw from Toklas and Stein, a porquoi become genital and mouth of Jacob Epstein’s direct carving softened, [...]
On the way from voodoo exhibition to Tamaas seminar in translation: passionate bisous for philosophers.
Scoping it out at a press conference overlooking the whole city: the space we’ll perform in (Exit 43 with the Difforme Ensemble) before bidding goodbye to the site of Rome’s preGothic sustenance and our ravishment.
Henry James ardently to the friend (lover?) Hendrik Christian Andersen, coaxing his companion toward specific lived experiences and places, expressing doubt regarding “any use on all the made earth … for a ready-made city, made-while-one-waits, as they say, & which is the more preposterous & the more delirious, the more elaborate & the more ‘complete’ [...]
Delighted to find a poem by the counter of the Casa del Caffé in the Campus Martius—a tradition in Italy, it seems—so that even the hairdresser’s business card is full of rhymes— “Coffee, it rustles my soul, like wind on the mount that breaks in amongst the oaks and loosens and agitates the limbs, sweetbitter, [...]
“YOU…SPACE WITHOUT LIMITS” Sensing exactly what the vandal means, gazing out beyond the cordoned Villas, cordoning Cupola and its arcade embrace, at this pastel haze in company.
Is the message on the aqueduct that has become bench, carpet, stadium seat for these Romans. Thinking it in retrospect & somewhat belatedly true.
Why shouldn’t poems roll across the floor? From Emilio Villa’s The Rolling Balls: Hydrological Antistructures, With 6 Silkscreens (Rome: Edar, 1969), in collaboration with Silvio Craia and Giorgio Cegna….
& the proposal some days ago to climb a sinuous Scarpa “tromba delle scale” / “conch-shaft of stairs— that’s how, late one night, we solved the phrase in translation of Amelia Rosselli’s “The Libellula”— wrong foot first: more infant steps up through the byways of history & love at first insight, & second & third.
In this museum at Castelvecchio reconfigured like a game of chess, where the becoming-aesthetic of civic objects such as requisite ubiquitous equestrian statues on our floors become platforms, surrounded by virtual moats, triggers not a thinning of substance, but some brief redemption of charging history— as the windows drop veils on the heroes, as the [...]
Love cancelling love against all chancels, trespassing crossbars toward a serenade perch at the Capulets’.
Reeling from the loss of a pillar of the poetry and activist communities, today I am wishing that the death of Akilah Oliver’s son Oluchi McDonald, the graffiti artist “LINKS” (1982-2003), in a beleaguered Los Angeles hospital will not have been in vain. Temporarily uninsured, black, male, and therefore invisible, he was neglected and died [...]
And the dawning in corporal terms that life mediated, in its entirety, through this remote apparatus indeed implants in a mere, after all, and very temporary human the yank of neglect.
“Well you’ll just have to document them,” says Simon upon my inexplicable sadness. Dreams of limbs missing or tense after operation linking one to biology across the waters. Capriciousness of pixels and the strange emotional recovery implicit in digital salvage. Sharing the choice of representative image.
From a country that hasn’t, despite every marketing effort, adopted it as commercial enterprise: that redefinitions of relations continue to press toward equity, here, where the gender gap is such that it scores 74th among world nations (meaning, to choose a seemingly petty example, that 95% of Italian males have never operated a washing machine)— [...]
Momentousness as infant hue captive in unexpressed digits, waiting to be discharged in the procession of daily remark, patient habit of this gift of time, of noticing presence, here inserted hurriedly in the place of the week’s missing record, wordless, taking on words: “[I]t is as if the acquisition of language were possible only through [...]