Falco Buzzcock's Journal
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Below are the 19 most recent journal entries recorded in
Falco Buzzcock's InsaneJournal:
| Tuesday, January 10th, 2006 | | 4:11 am |
talking too much http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/48062.html Tonight I was the only one yoga-ing in the living room of the house where I go to yoga. Asking the instructor for some variation I got a lecture. He seemed, as he often seems, more concerned with being a teacher than what is learned. So I refused to do well to secretly invalidate his method of instructing. But then deep breaths, and forgetting everything to sustain an ovular void between collar and pelvic wall. A clean empty; no discomfort, only the discipline of its maintenance. [And I said to her once, You don't know what a catch I am. But things are better now, they feel so good with her. I'm not trying to prove anything, and so it happens that magnetic clusters find simple resolutions of push and pull.] At breakfast a friend who wants me to act as the image we've co-created (me by defense, she by admittance) of myself: something wild and wise. But I don't feel it and it fails. So much invested in presentation; but how easy self can be; debris in a whirlwind. | | Sunday, January 15th, 2006 | | 5:13 pm |
Stock Show. http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/48357.html Very nice few days. Walked around behind a minivan from the passenger to driver side. There was a bumper sticker with either police or military related shields, and the words "Judge me by my actions." As I came around the driver's side was open, a man's ass was all that was clear as he climbed into his seat. He let out a great series of farts of varied texture. I wondered it flatulence counted as action. Then she and I went to the 100th anniversary of the Western National Stock Show. omg. The whole place smelled of meat, cooking and living. We saw the llamas paraded about, some led through an obstacle course by little kids. I ate a pretzel the size of my forearm that greased its way through wax paper to stain my jeans. In the bar we pet the llamas, and learned that geldings can be raised with the sheep to become guard llamas. Their hair is very soft. Their bodies are a wonderful collision of elegance and clumsiness. She'd gotten tickets to what we'd thought was merely (!) a capuchin riding a dog. It turned out to be an act in the rodeo. The space was huge, shaded everywhere but the central arena. When we sat the announcers announced themselves. Then the lights went out. A cowboy strung in lights rode around on an unlit horse in the darkness. He/she carrying a lit American flag. There was a video on a huge screen. More lit riders doing figures. Some firework explosions. A laser light show. Let's-get-this-party-started techno. And then bucking broncos, MUTTON BUSTING (in which six year olds wear helmets and see how long they can cling to a galloping sheep, so funny), hog tying, roping, bull riding, barrel riding, stage coaches driven around, and a monkey in a cowboy outfit riding a dog to herd some small deer(?). The monkey wasn't actually doing anything but holding to the dog with its tail, but sometimes would grow impatient and chuck clods of dirt at the deer. The monkey's name is Whiplash. He has a website. The final show was spotlights coming up on a soldier standing alone and saluting in the middle of the darkened arena. The announcers spoke the whole whole time. And now they were saying that a cowboy is just like a soldier, or as good as, and our boys over there are all that keeps us in freedom. The cowboy handed the reins of a white horse draped with an American flag to the soldier. Music swelled. Hearts were touched and fondled. I'm really not used to feeling out of place. Even in foreign countries I feel more in common with those I'm around. This is a distillation of an American I've never seen so much of. And it was grand. Despite the rampant sexism, racism, ethnocentrism... despite the seeming celebration of narrow minded self hood, solipsistic cowboy hood. It was primitive, and grand. But between events cowgirls would do a lap holding the flag of whichever company had sponsored the event. A boot dealer, Dodge Ram. Banners for companies girded the arena. And is it too cynical? I couldn't help but wonder who had paid for the patriotic segments of the show. Military recruitment, I understand, targets poorer communities. Certainly this was one, and the pageantry used to advertise the military could have come out of an advertising office. | | Tuesday, January 17th, 2006 | | 9:09 pm |
Drowning Myron. http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/48599.html I was gonna write a post about identifying this mood or tone I've been in for maybe years now. A post about attempting to be authentic, and dismantling maybe too many motivations and/or at least their manifestations to their inauthentic cores. Maybe this began in earnest with Hellerwork. Maybe Eliade really sucked the wind from the sails in showing that Real Being--as I'd pursued it--was still just will to power or some crap. Anyway, I was gonna write this post about looking under my motivations and seeing primary motivations having nothing to do with either the surface motivation or its projected manifestation. For instance, wearing some crazy pants today because of the joy of self expression or whatever the fuck instead becomes a need for love and acceptance. At which point wearing crazy pants no longer seems like a fun or honest experience. What I really want won't be achieved so easily. So I don't do it. And I was gonna write about how so much of me feels this sort of dullness of inauthentic motivation. Why do it if it doesn't align with an authentic experience? How the hell do I wear crazy pants that say love and accept me, need me need me need the real me? Why bother with charming? Why learn too much, talk too well, be too buff, know too much, have too much music or books when what I really want is to be like loved for being the person whose authenticity led to the accumulation of these things? No doubt much of this is (false) fallout from Adam's Evo Psych. No doubt it's a general purposelessness. And perhaps, moving into architecture, it's better to have it come up now, where it can die. And I was gonna sort of elaborate on this debris in a whirlwind imagery from a couple of posts ago. How Dionysian it all is. The feeling of being inhabited by an authentic Force, of being primarily and absolutely a FORCE. And how masks are constructed to give a knowable face to that Force. Where masks are at best these sort of sorcerer's foci of being. The point at which self-creation is infused with the real thing, where the mask becomes being. But at worst, and most commonly, they're just the habit and detritus of self. Empty calories. OBSTRUCTIONS. There are so many masks I've made with differing levels of success. And sort of seeing how others see me makes it clear how much a construction even those best caricatures of myself are. That seeing me from outside I'm nothing but a well constructed character. But beyond that each mask is a great investment. I've spent countless hours researching, faking, fine tuning, retracing, modifying these roles to get them just right and righter. What a waste, says my goal oriented mind, to just dump them all. If I don't have these things, this self, what the hell do I have to show for 26 years of life? I was gonna write all this and probably more, had it mapped out in my head on the walk home. Then yes of course it became clear that even writing it was inauthentic. So I just got so bored instead, and wrote something else. "As the faithful, in the Dionysian mysteries, invoke the god by miming scenes from his life, I call up the visitation of sleep by imitating the breathing and posture of the sleeper. The god is actually there when the faithful can no longer distinguish themselves from the part they are playing, when their body and their consciousness cease to bring in, as an obstacle, their particular opacity, and when they are totally fused in the myth. There is a moment when sleep 'comes', settling on this imitation of itself which I have been offering to it, and I succeed in becoming what I was trying to be: an unseeing and almost unthinking mass, riveted to a point in space and in the world henceforth only through the anonymous alertness of the senses- The body's role is to ensure this metamorphosis. It transforms ideas into things, and my mimicry of sleep into real sleep. The body can symbolize existence because it brings it into being and actualizes it." Maurice Merleau-Ponty | | Tuesday, April 4th, 2006 | | 1:43 pm |
Hi, I'm Penny Kings... http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/49079.html This is my favorite Craigslist spam artist. There's a series that never changes, but keeps recycling. The style is meandering, troubadourian. Stories that in trying to assert the woman's authenticity become increasingly unreal. Also, there's probably a language gap: CULTURED DECENT SEPARATED LADY(28) FANTASIES ABOUT STRANGE MEN Yes, its true, I fantasize about meeting a stranger in a crowded lift, pressing against my whole body, or sharing a cab with an unknown man who feels up my skirt!! Hi, I'm Penny Kings...I've everything that money can buy, included maybe a husband!!!(Not that I need to, I'm knock dead attractive!) But thats not want I desire, thats why I love my separated status, I had a cad for a husband and have no fantasy about blissful married life. I hate clinging men. Once I take someone as my lover, he wants to be a part of my life. Where I go, what I do, whom I meet is what each one of them wants from me. My last boyfriend threatened to commit suicide! Hence I left town and have decided to shift my software business, into this city. The fact remains that I need men for fulfilling my sexual desires and fantasies, thats all. NO STRINGS ATTACHED. I want to meet total strangers, who have good taste in beautiful women, food and wine!! (Women I mean exotically beautiful!) My looks are very deceiving, I'm petite, with an hour glass figure and bright smiling blue eyes! But please dont fall in love! I can't stand lovesick, mournful glances!! Please do not reply me directly , I prefer safer ground to meet up , hope you understand my stand too.. my profile id is "SOFTPETALS" and more of me on ###Spamsite### If you are absolutely confident about yourself and your ability to understand that I'm not available on a permanent basis and this will last only as long as I'm satisfied with you and you have the maturity to accept that. Please feel free to contact me. AGE NO BAR! YOur finesse is important. Goldenly yours, Penny!! | | Friday, April 7th, 2006 | | 12:22 am |
| | Thursday, April 20th, 2006 | | 7:46 am |
| | 4:47 pm |
http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/50754.html Here's something interesting: http://www.spr.org/en/ps_hookingup.htmlSara's talked about it before, but I just heard it on This American Life. Does it remind you of anything? The oil link I posted last has me bugging. The plan is to buy chickens, and retreat to the mountains to learn the ways of survival from my new brother in law. He's some kind of man's man survival instructor/gunsmith type. Makes his own sausage. I'll have to start eating sausage. Sara suggested a cave. I'll draw up some plans for a zero emissions love den, asap. Hopefully I won't have to trade sex for protection. The prospects aren't good. | | Sunday, May 7th, 2006 | | 8:30 pm |
| | Saturday, June 24th, 2006 | | 4:34 pm |
http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/52836.html I've spent hours looking at stuff on YouTube. Most recently researching Parkour. I love the element of urban reclamation, dynamic and fluid adaptation to obstacles. There are a bunch of kids into it for the acrobatics, but some of the older guys seem to flow through it like a discipline. Hot. Also its connection to George Hébert and (quasi) connection to Alexander Technique. And the alcoholiday of a week or so past was very nice. I'll having worried about having so many people here. But everyone was a light and delightful guest. School a bit preoccupying, a bit distracting from deep bacchanalia. But, eh. | | Monday, August 7th, 2006 | | 3:22 am |
Where love comes from. http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/53054.html Struck just now by a memory of my mom, on my prone dad's back, popping pimples. How fully is my sense of love informed by those private scenes. The simply inclusive power of the tactile. The mundane intimacies whose warm windings resist morals and grotesqueries. | | 3:23 pm |
Rilke on my mind. http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/53422.html Sonnets to Orpheus, Second Part, 13 Be in all advance of parting, as if it were behind you like the winter just now going by. For among winters there's one so endlessly winter that, wintering, your heart will win through. Be forever dead in Eurydice--, and climb more singingly, climb more praisingly, back into pure relation. Here, among the vanishing, be, in the realm of decline be a ringing glass that shatters even as it rings. Be--and know as well the terms of nonbeing, the infinite ground of your inmost vibration, so that, this once, you may wholly fulfill them. To the used, as well as the mute and muffled stock of nature's fullness, to the inexpressible sums, add yourself jubilantly, and erase the score. --- Nietszche's self-propelled wheel? | | Thursday, November 23rd, 2006 | | 2:01 am |
From the second Duino Elegy http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/54721.html ... You lovers, secure in one another, I ask you about us. You hold each other. Have you assurances? It sometimes happens that my hands grow conscious of each other, or else my weary face takes refuge in them. That gives me a slight self-sensation. Yet who, from something so unwarranted, would dare conclude, "I am"? You though, who keep increasing through the other's rapture, until, overwhelmed, each begs the other: "No more"--; you who amid each other's hands flourish like vines in vintage years; you who disappear sometimes, only because the other grows rampant; I ask you about us. I know you touch so fervently because the caress preserves, because the place you cover up, O tender ones, doesn't disappear; because, underneath, you feel pure permanence. Thus your embraces almost promise you eternity. And yet, after you survive the terror of the first look, and the long yearning at the window, and that first walk--the one walk--together through the garden; lovers, are you still the same? When you lift yourselves each to the other's lips--drink unto drink; O how strangely the drinker slips from the sacrament. ... | | Tuesday, November 28th, 2006 | | 4:24 am |
http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/54974.html Hey, could some of you Bostoners do me a favor while trying to read my mind? Go here: http://www.aias.org/forum/tours.html and tell me which are most interesting, from an architectural perspective? I'm signed up already for the ICA (to which my heart is committed) and the Kennedy whatever it is (to which my heart is not). What's the best of the best to sign up for? Thanks, I love you, and will tongue your ears. | | Wednesday, December 6th, 2006 | | 4:52 am |
Something to hold on to. http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/55110.html Strange, powerful emotions, having sorted old papers and photos. The collage of memories and images--many not my own--inspired a nostalgia for things as I remembered them, and weren't. Out of the pile a strange homesickness for a proximity of moments that never existed, experiences as immediately juxtaposed as their symbols. The vague, saddly desperate hope that a discarded passport photo of Sara, a scavaged poster for a lost dog, the receipt for a now years old computer, and a high school medal might somehow form a steelcabled web of relationship through time and time's increasing distance. | | Wednesday, December 20th, 2006 | | 10:34 pm |
Snow Day http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/55420.html Who knew the Apocalypse would be so soft? Outside, waiting for a bus that never came to accomplish a rescue mission I would have needed rescuing from; outside, boundaries of falling snow, the world disappears in all directions, the world a boundary penetrated by dots of snow, inside touching outside, a self-penetrated boundary; white except for a stop sign made more red for all the white. Wind chimes gonging from a nearby porch, rung more from the force of snow than wind. I'm at a crossroads. In a Kurosawa film. Death is there in the chondrichthyan passage of cars. Worry about the comfort of my almost-soon-to-be guests. Do I have enough board games. Will the roof cave in. I want to make a room like this. | | Tuesday, March 20th, 2007 | | 2:40 pm |
Loop of posts http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/55811.html Responding to this post. "Not finding in aesthetic experience, which here is primary, the determined purpose or end from which we are cut off and which is found too far away, invisible or inaccessible, over there, we fold ourselves back towards the purpose of our Da-sein. This interior purpose is at our disposal, it is ours, ourselves, it calls us and determines us from within, we are there [da] so as to repond to a Bestimmung, to a vocation of autonomy. The Da of our Dasein is first determined by this purpose which is present to us, and which we present to ourselves as our own and by which we are present to ourselves as what we are: a free existence or presence [ Dasein], autonomous, that is to say, moral. That is what our Da is called and it passes through the mouth. The Da of the Sein gives itself what it cannot consume outside, while not-to-consume forms the condition of possibility of taste understood as what relates us to purpose-lessness." -Derrida, Economimesis And as you say, "push this essential principle outward," --and here in this quote the medium is aesthetics--and at the moment when the "gap" is found (the meaninglessness behind any symbol, work of art, natural form), when the (aesthetic) order is found and dissolves, is too far away, is inaccessible, unconsumable (because the things out there always are); when that happens the desire for those things can either substitute ("depression, addiction, suicide," and let me add--distraction) or, in the important moment that requires discipline, weariness, self-sacrifice, an unbearable anxiety or nausea, "fold ourselves back towards the purpose of our Da-sein," back toward the root of the purpose of the initial desiring. Self-propulsion? Is this what you're getting at? And I see the theta waves metaphor and feel it like it's right. At that moment of utter (and sometimes desperate, sometimes the most the most get me out of my skin desperate) outward seeking the outer is found to be no solution, not a conceivable goal, an inconceivable goal, a goal whose whole premise is a cultural fallacy motivated by cultural agenda, a social power play ("The Truth is INSIDE that thing, the only way INSIDE that thing or to bring that Truth OUTSIDE that thing is known by me/us, is by my/our means."): the OUTER does not exist except as an accepted social formation, as a convenience or metaphor by which to establish INNER. And so at that moment of utter outward seeking the outer's falseness is intuited(?), and folding back toward the purpose of our Da-sein requires a simultaneous pushing outward AND back towards the beginning, towards the purpose of our original seeking, side-by-side and altogether and allatonce. | | Saturday, April 21st, 2007 | | 10:45 pm |
| | Thursday, August 30th, 2007 | | 8:10 pm |
| | Friday, July 24th, 2009 | | 6:04 pm |
My favorite part of last night http://buzzcock.livejournal.com/58141.html was, having spent all day returning from Helsinki, and having eaten decadent mac'n'cheese with Salamander and friends (and also happy hour mojitos), and having walked to the Wrangler to meet an already drunken Adam--boozed and in love with summer, coming from a symphony in the park, the sun under his skin, escaping through the happy crack of his face--and having proceeded to drink, and to love each other, and be close and talk--and to be close to that missed closeness that is never far but with our bodies there face to face, closer--and having been close and happy and talking and drunk on Wrangler slushies and one dollar well drinks, close--he'd introduce me--for twelve years--the number Jesus had of disciples, the number of months closed inside the circle of a year--and having drunk and talked and closed the bar, my favorite part of last night was walking to his house, my bicycle between us, sharing the steering, leaning our heads in close to each other so we could share his headphones, listening to "Execution" by David Thomas Broughton, and trying to harmonize it into the warm dark of summer's 2am, a kind of melancholy dirge for the happiness of that close hour, I wouldn't take her to an execution,
I wouldn't take her to a live sex show,
I wouldn't piss or shit on her, would I?
Because I love her so.over and over, and the drunken harmonies, probably never quite in key, but close. |
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