Limits

Limits

Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset, There must be one (which, I am not sure) That I by now have walked for the last time Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws, Sets up a secret and unwavering scale for all the shadows, dreams, and forms Woven into the texture of this life. If there is a limit to all things and a measure And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness, Who will tell us to whom in this house We without knowing it have said farewell? Through the dawning window night withdraws And among the stacked books which throw Irregular shadows on the dim table, There must be one which I will never read. There is in the South more than one worn gate, With its cement urns and planted cactus, Which is already forbidden to my entry, Inaccessible, as in a lithograph. There is a door you have closed forever And some mirror is expecting you in vain; To you the crossroads seem wide open, Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus. There is among all your memories one Which has now been lost beyond recall. You will not be seen going down to that fountain Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon. You will never recapture what the Persian Said in his language woven with birds and roses, When, in the sunset, before the light disperses, You wish to give words to unforgettable things. And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake, All that vast yesterday over which today I bend? They will be as lost as Carthage, Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt. At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent Murmur of crowds milling and fading away; They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by; Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me. Jorge Luis Borges

The Magnetic Fields--I Don't Really Love You Anymore

I Don't Really Love You Anymore

True, I'd give my right arm
To keep you safe from harm
And true, for you, I'd move to Ecuador
And I'd keep a little farm
Chop wood to keep you warm
But I don't really love you anymore

I don't have to love you now if I don't wish to
I won't see you anyhow if that's an issue
Because I am a gentleman
Think of me as just your fan
Who remembers every dress you ever wore.
Just the bad comedian
Your new boyfriend's better than
'Cos I don't really love you anymore.

There'll be someday when your eyes do not enthrall me,
I'll be numb but realize you'll never call me.

'Cos I've read your horoscope
And now I've given up all hope
So I don't really love you anymore
'Cos I've read your horoscope
And now I've given up all hope
So I don't really love you anymore.

Borders and Links

The Hemispheric Institute for Performance and Politics and their amazing online journal:

http://hemisphericinstitute.org/hemi/en/e-misferica

Also check out the work of Teddy Cruz, architect extraordinaire from San Diego.

http://www.publicspace.org/en/text-library/eng/b020-from-the-global-border-to-the-border-neighborhood

For the revolution:
http://subtopia.blogspot.com/

http://www.deconcrete.org/

http://www.publicspace.org/en/text-library/eng/b020-from-the-global-border-to-the-border-neighborhood

Strange maps:

http://atlasobscura.com/

http://strangemaps.wordpress.com/

California As the World:

I couldn't help but sit here and wonder about the squareness of the buildings; of how architecturally and geometrically sound they are.

Oddly enough, downtown LA has become the city I know with the confidence and fluency with which I spell my name. I am astounded. I had no idea that this would be the place I know-the place I care about.

I found a garden and a grassy knoll on the third level of the Citi Group building leading to the top of Bunker Hill. For a moment it seems as if I have found an oasis in the Moroccan desert; the last treasured spot left in the city. As the knowledge creeps in that I am being watched by some all-knowing eye, i decide to rise up in defense. I will act as if this space were mine own despite the prying eyes and fast approaching dawn. For this balmy and breezy, almost fully mooned night, I'll pretend as if I really did find that oasis.

I stare up at the great monuments of glass and steel as if they were the Sierra Nevadas with their ancient austerity and natural magnificence, for buildings and great mountains are not much different. Neither makes sudden movements. Both are intricate and dominating: over powering. And both were forged out of a power beyond the myopic sight of one woman. They remind me of where I stand and what the world is capable of creating. I wonder (looking up) if the architects knew their buildings would be so straight.

I felt the Santa Ana winds for the first time tonight. I felt them, at first, as I was walking out of my care late this afternoon in Torrance. Quite windy, I thought, might not make it as pleasant to be outside. It was hotter downtown. I broke into my third apartment opening all the windows, letting the hot winds blow and clack my vertical white blinds. I slowly inhaled my orange-blossom flavored beer, wondering if I needed a real meal, and pondered acting on my desire to call him. I'd toyed with the idea all day after waking up from a vivid dream overwhelmed by his presence. It's difficult to for me to ignore these dreams; they seem to penetrate me deeper than the sting of reality. I woke up at seven in the morning with a desire for him deep in my bones: desire for the man I had always imagined him to be. I was covered in him and couldn't wash him away from my thoughts for the entire day. I battled with calling him. For what reason? I thought. What would I say to him? Come here? I need to be around you? I simply don't know.

As I was reading the hot winds swept through my windows, wrapping the thin hairs around the base of my neck gently about my face; teasing me. Enticing me to do something. I called him. He answered. Then, afterwards, I picked up my guitar and love him as I never have before. He suddenly felt soft and deep. Warm and distant. I let my fingers and the E string hypnotize me for a good thirty minutes. I made him loud so everyone in the street below could hear his cries, and I made him cry softly, falling down to an ending strum.

When I walked outside I felt the hot gusts blow up my legs and caught a full view of the large moon glowing above the city. Fire wind, full moon. this must have been why I woke up so early, so moved by the shadows that touched me in my dreams.

Friday Night in Philly

I have been back and forth between the coasts of this country for the past 3 weeks. What I am left with is an overwhelming urge to make something again, or rather, to comment on/engage with everything that I have seen, experienced, and been moved by since the beginning of it all.

Most recently I landed in Philadelphia, a city I was incredibly surprised by. Ever since I can remember I have been chasing the city of my dreams; the city that I remember I dreamed before I understood the difference between waking life and that of deep somnambulism. The narrow streets and 3-flats of the Phila streets took me back to this place I remember. The proximity of residents to the streets evoked that feeling of home, the one that eludes me despite how many streets I walk down in the middle of the night. Around every corner were monuments to men and moments that exist in the far corners of my memories from high school American history. Statues and gardens helped make bearable the sweltering heat that forced rivers of salt and water out of my pours from 9am until late into the evening. I'll admit that I licked my shoulders at one point, curious as to whether or not I tasted like Mediterranean sea salt or just good old-fashioned Morton Salt from Chicago. The result: neither really, just odd looks from the people walking by me on the sidewalk.

I was lucky enough to come across a small break-dancing circle off of South Street while I was dining at a fabulous middle-eastern restaurant. A band was setting-up in a blocked-off street just off South when we sat down for dinner. After ordering our meal (and a bottle of wine from a man on a cell phone who assured us that his delivery boy could bring us a decent pinot noir) this jazz band started playing. Or rather, a 13 year-old-boy started soloing on the drums like a seasoned pro. He just took the lead for a good 5-7minutes or so, drawing in a crowd intrigued by his ferocious rhythm and rather small stature behind the drum-set. After finishing his solo intro, the rest of the band came in with a funk-jazz sound that drew in a few dancers. As the young men began to dance the bassist turned-up the funk, giving the young men (not women) a solid bassline to get down to.

Black, Asian, White--all young--took to it on the street. On their hands and backs as well as up in the air, these boys threw-down like nobody's business. As they got hot, a crowd began to form around them. It was sparse at first, but filled out after the first 10minutes, without a space left by 15minutes into the street performance. The crowd cheered them on and held out their digital cameras and flip-cams to capture this joyous moment on a hot summer night in Philly. As the crowd thickened the moves got flashier: one kid on his left arm, body up in the air for a full 30seconds which seemed like hours, another kid throwing windmills for a good minute or so, and the crowd eating it all up.

A good 30minutes passed until it all finally died down. The boys moved on and the crowd lingered as a young lady from the street took to the mic to perform and impromptu "At Last" for the last remains of the sidewalk audience. Little by little it died down. Within the hour the band had reached their limit and the street moved on. But for a moment there, all of Philly seemed to radiate out of the soul of that street corner. That is why she'll always have a special place in my heart.