June 2009

In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden table and a bench. In that circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing in letters I cannot understand a long poem about a man who in another circular cell is writing a poem about a man who in another circular cell . . . The process never ends and no one will be able to read what the prisoners write.

A DreamJorge Luis Borges


Evening. Public bar. The stonemason. His friend. They’ve been drinking heavily. The stonemason is reading a newspaper

– What do these people know? who ever told them they knew anything? I know things too


Here’s a guy who got stabbed in the eye! here’s someone who works for the poor!

He turns a page

Here’s someone who flies model aeroplanes he’s World Champion!

He turns a page. He reads

‘The African wild dog long persecuted as vermin is down to a few thousand but it may not be too late for a rescue’ that’s interesting

He turns a page

Here’s a man sent to prison for twenty years


You  got any prior convictions? yeah I got prior convictions what have you done? armed aggravated resisting are you sorry? yes I’m sorry we’re going to lock you up now down the slot you’re locked up you’re locked in you’re locked out now lick my balls yes sir stick this up your arse thank you don’t mention it be a good boy I will thank you


I wish I could stop talking to myself

scissors, paper, rock (scene 12, excerpt), Daniel Keene

I have never been very interested in focusing on the differences between cultures, as this assumes that one can define one’s own to begin with: that a kind of vantage point can be created, from which one can observe those ‘others’ who are not like you. This inevitably leads to the creation of comparisons. But once they are created, those comparisons are, by their very nature, one-sided. Who is making the comparison? Who is the subject (or perhaps the victim) of this comparison?

Of course differences between cultures exist; they are inevitable, and they are vitally important. Self definition is an instinct, for cultures as much as for individuals; the expression of difference is the manifestation of identity. Strangely enough, or perhaps it isn’t so strange, identity is the first step towards solitude, which may perhaps be the natural state towards which all human beings aspire.

– from Different Moments, Daniel Keene

Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.

– Henry David Thoreau (via I Shot Frida Kahlo)

It’s almost too early for coffee and the sun glares at me as it pulls itself over the windowsill, but I’m happy. I’m making an omelet. I’m standing in the kitchen, whistling in my boxer shorts, and my testicles are swinging in perfect time. It’s going to be a great day. It’s already a great morning and the first egg I broke was a double yolk. The rest of the eggs are quite normal, as is the milk, and the butter. And just when I reach for the onion to liven things up, three mice appear from behind the toaster. They are dressed like Mexican bandits and demand my cheese. They have little sombreros, little pistols, and the one in the middle has its whiskers waxed into a handlebar mustache. As I stand there pondering the intricate mechanics of their tiny firearms, they inch across the counter and repeat their demands. No one moves. The only sound is the slow suck of hot water through coffee grains. Just then the toaster goes off and we are all struck by the image of hot toast framed against a window full of angry sun.

Stand-off in the Kitchen of the Angry Sun from The Bible of Lost Pets, Jamey Dunham

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