these are the timesdirty beloved


leylop, Hangzhou girl
blogging from Hangzhou, China
leylop photolog
leylop photo albums

from S/Z:
In this ideal text the networks are many and interact, without any one of them being able to surpass the rest; this text is a galaxy of signifiers, not a structure of signifieds; it has no beginning; it is reversible; we gain access to it by several entrances, none of which can be authoritatively declared to be the main one; the codes it mobilizes extend as far as the eye can reach, they are indeterminable...; the systems of meaning can take over this absolutely plural text, but their number is never closed, based as it is on the infinity of language.

Roland Barthes

A Reflection on the Performance of Treading Water
Directed by VOID:Performance

Liz Swift
The Quay Thing
Wrights and Sites
link Place and Space in Art, Art History, Design
Research on Place and Space

link path thru Parking Lot Nov.20.03



Jim Powell


Liberty Bush
Ω{I swear it was an accident, I hit C-Span on my way to bed, I'd already seen the Roseanne rerun two weeks ago, and there was E2 and PP, and lo and oh my, the Usurper. He was giving it a speech. His speech was a mention of liberty and then liberty and then liberty again, and then again liberty. The third one tipped it. I was like, hey, what's up with the liberty, Geo-man? He finished its speech, the look of relief settling on his features like dust onto a two-track after a Hummer slams by. After he sat down. But then ah ha. Right after its speech for liberty liberty liberty.
They played 'God Save The Queen'.
Right after.
Ah ha ah ha. Well you cheap little sons of bitches. We own England now too don't we? The termite king, no that makes him sound like the Pope. I dunno some insect metaphor <here>. The Republic for which he stands won't/can't get the duality, and so must hear within the melody 'Sweet Land of Liberty' 'Of Thee I Sing'. Chump company stole the National Anthem of Britain. "Land Where My Fathers Died".
How so very courageous of you boys. You champions of the downtrodden and all. You brave things you.}


...His wife is shining the flashlight
into the sky...

Parable of the Moth
Robet Cording
Poetry Daily Nov.19.03


Patrick Farley's Electric Sheep continues apace

from Novgorod {in cyrillic}

link Art of Onfim
link path thru Anton Sherwood


Dona Veva, Chichimila, 1976
Macduff Everton The Modern Maya

Kureishi Interview Reviewed
"...and who Kureishi depicts, in this pathetic state, with a little too much relish."
Moorish Girl Nov.17.03

Ω{I'm thinking it's 'whom', being the object of depiction and everything. But that well-metered phrase, and its insightful clarity laid out with perfect restraint, is why she's here.}

before and after Armegeddon


Silbo Gomero
Whistle-talkers of the Canary Island hollers.
Sarah Andrews/AP Nov.16.03
link language hat

old web references to works on Whistling Languages

'Where Does Writing Come From?'

It's as though arguing for invention and its fragile, wondrous efficacy was indelicate, wasn't quite nice. And even though arguing for it wouldn't harm or taint invention's marvels (we all know novels are made-up things; it's part of our pleasure to keep such knowledge in our minds), still I always feel queasy doing it—not like a magician who reluctantly shows a rube how to pull a nickel out of his own ear, but more like a local parish priest who upon hearing a small but humiliating confession from a friend, lets the friend off easy just to move matters on to higher ground.

Wallace Stevens wrote once that 'in an age of is for the poet to supply the satisfactions of belief in his measure and his style'. And that takes in how I feel about invention—invented characters, invented landscapes, invented breaks of the heart and their subsequent repairs.
Richard Ford
Granta 62: What Young Men Do
Ω{It's as though, or it really is, that we only get the dots, fine as can be but dots, and we put them together, the pointilism of all the senses combined still just dots, so that in fiction, in art, there doesn't have to be anything in back of it on the other side, the way the real is hidden behind the dots we see and turned into an image of the real that is the real, for us, and all we know of it, that's what art is, to make that interface real enough to fool the mind, and then play with it.
The batting cage scene in the Cooperstown section of Richard Ford's Independence Day is an evocation of paternity, at a moment in America that was exactly that, all of it, the machine the controlled environment, the man the boy the tradition and rite of passage and the move into the unknown world of the unthinkable.
Realism is by its nature accessible, and there's a mirror of blind acceptance in the rejection of anything that's realistic in art now, as though there were only the approach and retreat from the representational and the abstract.}

2003 was officially proclaimed "The Year of the Blues" by the United States Congress in February.

If it had not been for that extra hand...

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