It’s only been in recent times that opening credits for TV shows seem to matter artistically, at least to me. I never gave them much thought and would often just skip them if that was an option. But queue up a wonderful show like Pachinko, based on the 2017 novel by Min Jin Lee, and it’s no longer automatic. It can be its own tiny moment of genius, and in this case, the near-perfect blend of music, image, and sheer joy.
The song in question, written originally in Italian, but made famous by The Grass Roots, is arguably the quintessential expression of 1960s rebellion in pop music form. One could say it doesn’t have the philosophical heft of a CSNY, Beatles, or Simon and Garfunkel lyric, but it wasn’t going for that.… Click to Continue “Sha-la, la-la-la-la, live for today!”
at least one mind always open checking out is checking in, time for your elation growth is seldom symmetrical, ticking as I warm with bulbs between my feet, networked so I can fly when my arm’s a world away, a 65 beetle for a bracelet
a city where you don’t have to go outside, borealis in a glass, with my contacts everything’s black & white how decisions are mass-produced—you have to know who to ask I’m living on a ramen budget so I can afford solar-powered wings my ribs are just for cooling and messages
the language of weather is almost translated by our emotions which are polyglot omnivores, a stream 12 inches wide but uncrossable, not water, the other side of a mirror’s internal organs I hear toenails of rain, trans-body supplements calling upon the privilege to exist, tiny clouds of gravy mandating naps at inconvenient moments when everyone is watching the stove changes sides and frosts the august windows so the winded insects can write us instruction hold to the mirror I’ve sanded my palms for hours to create
by looking in one looks behind, look through to out, teach the toes to see through shoes and know colors by their jersey numbers, split formations, shotgun, only the invisible can score, the name you get when you graduate the name you need without water, shelter or company just trees on speed, wind on steroids, how can so much smoke with nothing to burn, rattlers sleeping in dorito bags
Animism versus Dualism. Mother Earth versus Descartes. Seeing ourselves and the world around us as continuous, interconnected, and interdependent, versus Subject/object/Master/slave. Seeing the world like a shaman or a bulldozer.
We can’t keep doing this anymore. We can’t keep treating the earth like a trash heap, like we own it, control it, and owe it nothing.
In Less is More, Jason Hickel makes the case for a massive shift in the way we think about the planet, its limited resources, and our (accelerating) role in depleting its former abundance. He does this by shining a fine light on our present, and takes us through roughly 500 years of recent history as well, with the occasional flashback to still earlier times. Concisely. Coherently. Accessibly. No whitewashing.… Click to Continue “Jason Hickel’s Less is More”
Corber, a founding member and live TV advocate of the innovative art collective, Colab (Collaborative Projects, 1977-1986), is also is a noted filmmaker of “John Cage: Man and Myth” (1990), “Fickle Foliage” (2012), “Leonard Cohen Interview Trilogy” (1988-2013), “Nomads of New York” (2016) and the autobio “A Young 70″ (2019)—viewable online.… Click to Continue “Mitch Corber’s windy mischief”
Why should the phrase “Nothing is hidden” occur ten times a day in my private mumbling? I have no gospel but poems; it’s used in several I know, but in error: no one is watching. Granted, whenever one buys or types something one is oneself a product or potential threat; but those keeping tabs aren’t the viewer I imply. He, it sees nothing; no one does. Yet the data accumulates, and whether its proper metaphor is topsoil or a final document, it will eventually be filed or tended.
Secular monasteries of the mind. Byzantine, Gothic, Romanesque ruins of the unconscious. I dwell in the space between ancient walls, vaulted ceilings, piazzas, and naves, bereft of their original spirits, inhabited now by something else. By my own pantheon — if I could will it.
Watching Verhoeven’s Benedetta brings this full circle. Searching later for monasteries and abbeys online, going back to scenes from that film, I can see the illusions people create, how they need to be in those spaces too. Centuries later, with rare exceptions, these structures don’t hold their youthful majesty. They need nuns, townsfolk, artists, and writers to carry them fully into Being.… Click to Continue “The Poetry of Place, Brick, and Stone”
An idiot’s delight, (What, not dead yet?) Mutterings, the daily scales practiced sometimes (—Who you dancing with?) get carried away. Joy swims upward. The face is raised, throwing off husks, gritty earth, the strain of sighs pushing forth (—here, here it is) the sunflower sky.
Work, work… I’m amazed the further I plunge the more launch happens: morning birds or the midnight Carillon… (—Is that you in there?) Knock, knock , .. the heart aflutter wings keep opening: the tribal, indefatigable pulse breeding breathing this life of seeds
The saying goes “The early bird gets the worm”, but that only happens to the ones who get up late. The ones who are smart like me set five alarm clocks, five reminders to wake up before the bird.
In the Eyes of a Corn Fed Pig
You may think I have no manners, but it is you with none. Oh, the mess you create with all your dirty dishes, pots and pans. You make eating so confusing, no elbows on the table, sit up straight, chew your food with your mouth closed. Wow, you make it hard. Just take a lesson from me and learn how to do it right, the food will taste much better.