tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43289406610911956852024-03-20T04:04:35.300-07:00TrashCan LullabiesLe Citta InvisibiliPykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-4019691666102844992013-01-10T09:51:00.001-08:002013-01-10T09:51:27.327-08:00'Mirror"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1B9_cecWxIZs_T15w1B59PPOg3gqlt5N3OeJpWW3Z9NZwqtg9t3jveXMBQRs8Qk_9A6gJKUa7Kb9xB3BkNqhbS0p9f4TyLRXLSu02X6bzNpFc6DBk2KjqeJgnSJxVoH8mhqZKoveQ6xD/s1600/MARKOS+KAMPANIS+-+MIRROR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1B9_cecWxIZs_T15w1B59PPOg3gqlt5N3OeJpWW3Z9NZwqtg9t3jveXMBQRs8Qk_9A6gJKUa7Kb9xB3BkNqhbS0p9f4TyLRXLSu02X6bzNpFc6DBk2KjqeJgnSJxVoH8mhqZKoveQ6xD/s640/MARKOS+KAMPANIS+-+MIRROR.jpg" width="364" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.markoskampanis.gr/#/en/works/monotypes/image1">MARKOS KAMPANIS "Mirror"</a></div>
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Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-91069496031443266342010-12-28T03:14:00.000-08:002010-12-28T03:29:07.145-08:00Control<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40kKJBZhsqODZ1rwf9BRcnh-3tXwmgMxOmY8B7Sa4SJNE89B5G-ZiTNa-IINHqTcKd_u7JLvX7mVjNJNsXWOu399yXabtVQbHSk5jveFahbNkeH8k2roAg9ZHtzEOLLC6vthy7TejhHwH/s1600/sakura.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40kKJBZhsqODZ1rwf9BRcnh-3tXwmgMxOmY8B7Sa4SJNE89B5G-ZiTNa-IINHqTcKd_u7JLvX7mVjNJNsXWOu399yXabtVQbHSk5jveFahbNkeH8k2roAg9ZHtzEOLLC6vthy7TejhHwH/s320/sakura.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555693037758064082" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;">"On the most rudimentary level there is simply terror of feeling like an immigrant in a place where your children are natives--where you're always going to be behind the 8-ball because they can develop the technology faster than you can learn it. It's what I call the learning curve of Sisyphus. And the only people who are going to be comfortable with that are people who don't mind confusion and ambiguity. I look at confusing circumstances as an opportunity--but not everybody feels that way. That's not the standard neurotic response. We've got a culture that's based on the ability of people to control everything. Once you start to embrace confusion as a way of life, concomitant with that is the assumption that you really don't control anything. At best it's a matter of surfing the whitewater."<span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:Verdana;"><p>Words by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Perry_Barlow"><span style="font-style: italic;">John Barlow</span></a> - photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shapeshift/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shapeshift </span></a></p></span><br /></div></div><span style="font-family:Verdana;"> </span>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-8520868169819576612010-12-27T19:24:00.000-08:002010-12-27T19:31:39.677-08:00Less Than Zero<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizrEZD9FgVxqx9JTZbPJf0PZD0FPHxLbnvX2nClbqC8c9kB8myZtKCR6AwU4I4G9FFsYNSASJF9U6ZzHEGe-7KtPx40VDBAjSJcxasNbyMt7_mAVAGd1eEUrf-iYESL_AhIIsPo_3LdpWx/s1600/cuba+gallery.jpg"><img 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mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--><br /><p style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:16pt;">T</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:12pt;">here was a song I heard when I was in Los Angeles by a local group. The song was called "Los Angeles" and the words and images were so harsh and bitter that the song would reverberate in my mind for days. The images, I later found out, were personal and no one I knew shared them. The images I had were of people being driven mad by living in the city. Images of parents who were so hungry and unfulfilled that they ate their own children. Images of people, teenagers my own age, looking up from the asphalt and being blinded by the sun. These images stayed with me even after I left the city. Images so violent and malicious that they seemed to be my only point of reference for a long time afterwards. After I left.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:12pt;">Words by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bret_Easton_Ellis"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bret Easton Ellis</span></a> - photo by <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cubagallery/">Cuba Gallery </a><br /></span></p>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-2554158755248498132010-12-27T18:35:00.001-08:002010-12-27T18:48:28.202-08:00Flow of Life<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="margin-top: 0px;font-size:0.9em;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/late_night_photography/3174611966/">(7/365) Flow of Life</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/late_night_photography/">Photography is an art...</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/late_night_photography/3174611966/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3117/3174611966_30ed9657b1_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0); width: 350px; height: 229px;" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"The facts, even when beaded on a chain, still did not have real order.<br />Events did not flow.<br />The facts were separate and haphazard and random even as they happened,<br />episodic, broken, no smooth transitions,<br />no sense of events unfolding from prior events"<br /><br />Words by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_O%27Brien_%28author%29"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tim O' Brien</span></a> - photo by <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/people/late_night_photography/">Jonathan Gonzalez </a><br /></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-44423364243372107092010-05-19T02:10:00.000-07:002010-05-19T02:15:13.063-07:00ArtAttacked<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/JYImHa45gPA&hl=el_GR&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/JYImHa45gPA&hl=el_GR&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><em>I don’t quite know to whom I am addressing this letter, but I do know why I’m writing it and I believe that under the circumstances it is both critical and inevitable because two Iranian filmmakers, both of whom are vital to the Iranian wave of independent cinema, have been incarcerated.</em><br /><em> </em><br /><em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jafar_Panahi"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jafar Panahi </span></a>and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1488024/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mahmoud Rasoulof</span></a> are two filmmakers of the Iranian independent cinema, a cinema that for the past quarter of a century has served as an essential cultural element in expanding the name of this country across the globe. They belong to an expanded world culture, and are a part of international cinematic culture. I wish for their immediate release from prison knowing that the impossible is possible. My heartfelt wish is that artists no longer be imprisoned in this country because of their art and that the independent and young Iranian cinema no longer faces obstacles, lack of support, attention and prejudice.</em><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abbas_Kiarostami">By Abbas Kiarostami<br /></a></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-38478256821422450412010-05-18T07:59:00.000-07:002010-05-18T08:06:06.504-07:00Soccerisation of society<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgPj4xOmVauW8YMkKEC2jTeF-goQMxIeKu2rfW0Xo7_zkMEn1zrCPzQ9K_B1ZAUo45uiTKu2p6yykQ8X4GRrppOPX_8FGCElSVr2GKzLpyl1mlaxtMvGDe4GBZGQew9xpYEfAuPRghW1d/s1600/Sarah-Lucas_SarahLucas01.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgPj4xOmVauW8YMkKEC2jTeF-goQMxIeKu2rfW0Xo7_zkMEn1zrCPzQ9K_B1ZAUo45uiTKu2p6yykQ8X4GRrppOPX_8FGCElSVr2GKzLpyl1mlaxtMvGDe4GBZGQew9xpYEfAuPRghW1d/s320/Sarah-Lucas_SarahLucas01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472625120537476834" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Lucas">Art by Sarah Lucas </a><br /></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-34008470252121721352010-05-14T15:40:00.000-07:002010-05-14T15:46:20.588-07:00"Two"<object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4rkDlgu95PQ&hl=el_GR&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4rkDlgu95PQ&hl=el_GR&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br />Staged and directed by <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.dimitrispapaioannou.com/">Dimitris Papaioannou</a>, music by <a href="http://www.kbhta.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Konstantinos Bhta</span></a>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-56962645407518284872010-05-14T15:33:00.000-07:002010-05-14T15:36:54.734-07:00Prometheus Imprudent<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvUR-C4Kk-GJvc4vJb87bSmZ1bXKkMmXhgraAOYiE7WpW9n8n4dVIzBh_Sn85EXnXnoXJxODtb_ZSQ0RqYGKScj47m9HLw_xsAv2GPt-dAk-RJf2OUOpTKg0SX2hUmjm8-1F-nePBNxZ9/s1600/tsoklis.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvUR-C4Kk-GJvc4vJb87bSmZ1bXKkMmXhgraAOYiE7WpW9n8n4dVIzBh_Sn85EXnXnoXJxODtb_ZSQ0RqYGKScj47m9HLw_xsAv2GPt-dAk-RJf2OUOpTKg0SX2hUmjm8-1F-nePBNxZ9/s320/tsoklis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471257710674862658" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">artwork by Kostas Tsoklis<br /></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-9881520202647545442010-05-05T17:27:00.000-07:002010-05-05T17:38:15.564-07:00Laurie Anderson - World Without End<div style="overflow: hidden; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; border: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qLW2q-brMeE&hl=el_GR&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qLW2q-brMeE&hl=el_GR&fs=1" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />" I remember where I came from There were burning buildings and a fiery red sea I remember all my lovers I remember how they held me. World without end remember me. East. The edge of the world. West. Those who came before me. When my father died we put him in the ground. When my father died it was like a whole library Had burned down. World without end remember me ..."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.laurieanderson.com/">words and music by Laurie Anderson<br /></a></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-63626987653172916232010-01-16T02:44:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:44:05.752-08:00Sputnik Sweetheart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJI6PDae9RMR3MkPWpVIwehE4krEuW69d6I1EiNRPD2eYlrycnYDb4-zR9LYU2URqWE_Gb6LITgVwxCDI6Sgx7g0RiwKMefaTOuSpRrReE1WPcSTe7v_nFH2Nab7YEsDSURrOfn5XN9gN-/s1600-h/4b7c5e7e2-7e24-4541-854a-9e79a48ba1bc.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJI6PDae9RMR3MkPWpVIwehE4krEuW69d6I1EiNRPD2eYlrycnYDb4-zR9LYU2URqWE_Gb6LITgVwxCDI6Sgx7g0RiwKMefaTOuSpRrReE1WPcSTe7v_nFH2Nab7YEsDSURrOfn5XN9gN-/s320/4b7c5e7e2-7e24-4541-854a-9e79a48ba1bc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427287299477781970" border="0" /></a><p style="text-align: justify;">The first time Sumire met Miu, she talked to her about Jack Kerouac's novels. Sumire was absolutely nuts about Kerouac. She always had her literary Idol of the Month, and at that point it happened to be the out-of-fashion Kerouac. She carried a dog-eared copy of On the Road or Lonesome Traveler stuck in her coat pocket, thumbing through it every chance she got. Whenever she ran across lines she liked, she'd mark them in pencil and commit them to memory like they were Holy Writ. Her favorite lines were from the fire lookout section of Lonesome Traveler. Kerouac spent three lonely months in a cabin on top of a high mountain, working as a fire lookout. Sumire especially liked this part:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"> "No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength."</p><p style="text-align: justify;"> "Don't you just love it?" she said. "Every day you stand on top of a mountain, make a 360-degree sweep, checking to see if there're any fires. And that's it. You're done for the day. The rest of the time you can read, write, whatever you want. At night scruffy bears hang around your cabin. That's the life! Compared with that, studying literature in college is like chomping down on the bitter end of a cucumber."</p><p style="text-align: justify;"> "OK," I said, "but someday you'll have to come down off the mountain." As usual, my practical, humdrum opinions didn't faze her.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"> Sumire wanted to be like a character in a Kerouac novel - wild, cool, dissolute. She'd stand around, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, her hair an uncombed mess, staring vacantly at the sky through her black plastic-frame Dizzy Gillespie glasses, which she wore despite her 20-20 vision. She was invariably decked out in an oversize herringbone coat from a secondhand store and a pair of rough work boots. If she'd been able to grow a beard, I'm sure she would have.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Words by <a href="http://www.murakami.ch/hm/bibliography/bibliography_sputnik_sweetheart.html">Haruki Murakami</a>, photo by <a href="http://www.altphotos.com/Gallery.aspx?&a=MemberGallery&memberid=2138">Jasek Gasiorowski</a></span><br /></p>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-59213207224942794642009-05-12T16:06:00.001-07:002010-01-16T16:45:05.859-08:00Baraka<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object width="425" height="350"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/aa_VUrys0j8" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/aa_VUrys0j8" width="425" height="350"></embed></object></p></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-78775412023552246382009-05-12T16:01:00.001-07:002010-01-16T16:45:49.315-08:00Tokyo Moods<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object width="425" height="350"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/F9D7Hh67pX4" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/F9D7Hh67pX4" width="425" height="350"></embed></object></p></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-63550674758478893072009-04-11T04:14:00.000-07:002010-01-16T16:47:17.581-08:00Northern Lights<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifLZDnPfxqBErVjw_pOPbN2zUvzUawvE8TIOHBW8_qyslvupAN1i_UY0nXrvEJsDHfn_YXy7pATzxka7V6fLrG258-EBuEDUTYo2Pfz87dIRaZ6ZIGiJBSt5l2MPhZpCjB_FBcgdAnCrEC/s1600-h/northern-lights-over-the-fjords.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifLZDnPfxqBErVjw_pOPbN2zUvzUawvE8TIOHBW8_qyslvupAN1i_UY0nXrvEJsDHfn_YXy7pATzxka7V6fLrG258-EBuEDUTYo2Pfz87dIRaZ6ZIGiJBSt5l2MPhZpCjB_FBcgdAnCrEC/s320/northern-lights-over-the-fjords.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323394736015719474" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />JJ emails from the top of the earth.<br /><br />"I'm in Canada mate, off to see and shoot the Northern Lights. I only wish things could be so beautiful, mysterious and simple. A trick of the light, shifting into the midnight sky. Yeah, it only takes a natural phenomenon to wake up my poetic self! I'm scared to fly back to a bombarded London, the silliness, the globalised economic turkey thrown upon all of us. I have to stay there for a couple of weeks then head up to Northern Scotland to catch the Aurora once again...and even if I do know that could not survive in the wilderness for more than a week, it feels nice daydreaming. Just me and my closest friends looking up trying to capture the uniqueness yet totally fluid and continuously passing effect of the Northern Lights.<br />I met a girl called Aurora just the other day...Here they still name their children after a trick of the light... "<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(Photo From <a href="http://aurevoirgoodbyesolong.wordpress.com/">AurevoirGoodbyeSoLong</a> blog)<br /></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-53612835069986074172009-03-28T07:14:00.001-07:002010-01-16T16:47:58.497-08:00Something Wicked This Way Comes<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object width="425" height="350"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/ByohIr0JWp0" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/ByohIr0JWp0" width="425" height="350"></embed></object></p></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-84576411469921235252009-03-19T12:35:00.000-07:002010-01-16T16:48:19.803-08:00Immortel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeo35TmxZ5t69k4HGwzn7EfNcgnA4cxR25i12rR9KTvkRHiWaGd5Sur-fAu0iMIeN1fj0VbL1kIF-PaJMhFhGtuxyAg9VEAR5o4Kf6e-4IZBBoqE0-6kGcWjFcXgHwFgHX_L6LeCDIOua/s1600-h/oeuvredeEnkiBilal.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314988367781987538" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 217px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeo35TmxZ5t69k4HGwzn7EfNcgnA4cxR25i12rR9KTvkRHiWaGd5Sur-fAu0iMIeN1fj0VbL1kIF-PaJMhFhGtuxyAg9VEAR5o4Kf6e-4IZBBoqE0-6kGcWjFcXgHwFgHX_L6LeCDIOua/s320/oeuvredeEnkiBilal.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Remember the sign we saw, my soul. That beautiful, soft summer morning... round a turning in the path. A disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones. Its legs in the air like a woman in need... burning its wedding poisons... like a fountain with its rhythmic sobs. I could hear it clearly with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound. I am the vampire of my own heart. One of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughter who can no longer smile. Am I dead? I must be dead.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="center"><blockquote></blockquote>(<a href="http://bilal.enki.free.fr/">words & artwork by Enki Bilal</a>) </div><div align="center"></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-43485809446125258302009-02-26T08:20:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:49:21.900-08:00The Speed is The Point<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHJhjeP2Ak62GiyAd-VJowQO4PpBFsVmMudumNCoFa85Fq73Zk4P1KQ6wijW8H0X0eOEbyzeeCxi_qZFqFtHugODVztDn16E9h4M4UNaxXyuIM-kAQuhjbhIZwKhT3lKqHe1UgIlZQLhz/s1600-h/2579653441_d8b91ff4a1_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHJhjeP2Ak62GiyAd-VJowQO4PpBFsVmMudumNCoFa85Fq73Zk4P1KQ6wijW8H0X0eOEbyzeeCxi_qZFqFtHugODVztDn16E9h4M4UNaxXyuIM-kAQuhjbhIZwKhT3lKqHe1UgIlZQLhz/s320/2579653441_d8b91ff4a1_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307500223388833458" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"The speed is the point. Never mind the speed that makes it hard to follow what passes before the eye. The speed is the point. Never mind the urgent and endless replenishment, the way the data dissolves at one end of the series just as it takes shape at the other. This is the point, the thrust, the future. We are not witnessing the flow of information so much as pure spectacle, or information made sacred, ritually unreadable. The small monitors of the office, home and car become a kind of idolatory here, where crowds might gather in astonishment."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(Words by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_DeLillo">Don DeLillo</a>, photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/iainholden/2579653441/">Iain Holden</a>)<br /></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-34184214595601600832009-02-20T01:41:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:54:04.165-08:00Swimming Against Time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5AxX4Mj0BA9eEBpzhmhHaQPtN5aA82npO5bpZblluCWvtZqteijpuSh-7lwoZ6AxGNvNcii2FQlbd-7LolSIaxPW83oaCKe0fq9YUyS-3xQAe-alZs7OCf-sThMFDtW50hB586Pd6yg5k/s1600-h/001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5AxX4Mj0BA9eEBpzhmhHaQPtN5aA82npO5bpZblluCWvtZqteijpuSh-7lwoZ6AxGNvNcii2FQlbd-7LolSIaxPW83oaCKe0fq9YUyS-3xQAe-alZs7OCf-sThMFDtW50hB586Pd6yg5k/s320/001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304812538989154306" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">I would like to swim against the stream of time:<br /><br />I would like to erase the consequences of certain events<br /><br />and restore an initial condition.<br /><br />But every moment of my life brings with it an accumulation of new facts<br /><br />and each of these new facts brings with it its consequences;<br /><br />so the more I seek to return to the zero moment from which I set out,<br /><br />the further I move away from it;<br /><br />though all my actions are bent on erasing the consequences of previous actions<br /><br />and though I manage to achieve appreciable results in this erasure,<br /><br />enough to open my heart to hopes of immediate relief,<br /><br />I must,<br /><br />however,<br /><br />bear in mind that my every move to erase previous events<br /><br />provokes a rain of new events,<br /><br />which complicate the situation worse than before<br /><br />and which I will then,<br /><br />in their turn,<br /><br />have to try to erase.<br /><br />Therefore<br /><br />I must calculate carefully every move<br /><br />so as to achieve<br /><br />the maximum of erasure<br /><br />with the minimum of recomplication.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(Words by<a href="http://www.des.emory.edu/mfp/calvino/">Italo Calvino</a>, photo by <a href="http://www.altphotos.com/Gallery.aspx?&a=MemberGallery&memberid=5548">Mad Alice</a>)<br /></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-32987086932689162102009-02-13T10:46:00.001-08:002010-01-16T16:52:31.899-08:00'Do you trust me ...first?'<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object width="425" height="350"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/JTok_lIkHPc" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/JTok_lIkHPc" width="425" height="350"></embed></object></p></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-29172805674894307642009-01-21T08:26:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:52:55.050-08:00The incredible shrinking people<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsToaoLi3Q02pnRh_K9DDMAaoCoBlzcqSOyKIjo1DB0bnNLGu18hanIlcHMpcVccHBrHBxy-vrJPP2s7bleoeRphGWt-kM1BYg3sRritjbbRuTua7JST7gVW8j8sBNG0IM-oHkvCujulu/s1600-h/murat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsToaoLi3Q02pnRh_K9DDMAaoCoBlzcqSOyKIjo1DB0bnNLGu18hanIlcHMpcVccHBrHBxy-vrJPP2s7bleoeRphGWt-kM1BYg3sRritjbbRuTua7JST7gVW8j8sBNG0IM-oHkvCujulu/s320/murat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293784520492428722" border="0" /></a>Those weary eyes. Torn, buffled, blurry, unrecognisable. We seeked modernity, we found construction deals. Now we're forced to find a new town or stay and get oblivious in the city. "You know all this nonsense about going to live in the village, deny your urban past. C'mon man it's crappy out there too. We were always city people, they don't listen to Mingus in the wilderness...you'd go nuts if you did!" says Billy who once you used to live in the suburbs, now a city centre slave stuck in a 2room apartment. "I can fit in less space you know...and i'm happy to wake up every day from car 'horns', way better than those freakin' roosters".<br />"I know we can all fit in less space, mate, question is how more you can shrink yourself to fit in. How small can you become by your own will!"<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(<a href="http://www.altphotos.com/Gallery.aspx?&a=MemberGallery&memberid=14854">photo by Murat Sekerci</a>)<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-47875809960001279032008-12-29T10:08:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:55:07.729-08:00Dreams Burnt Down # 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSOaK9Q-RQJ8SL0rVyLew03zeuZZWy098xVr70yYdta8C6W41WKuotFrk1aZOexi5g_9KWDzNpimYuiukI-GA0nQvz5iX0-IOfU9sDkYl24owIbWLqDimHXzEkqlaDMoSlXPejuHltfEK/s1600-h/suhaib+salem+-+reuters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSOaK9Q-RQJ8SL0rVyLew03zeuZZWy098xVr70yYdta8C6W41WKuotFrk1aZOexi5g_9KWDzNpimYuiukI-GA0nQvz5iX0-IOfU9sDkYl24owIbWLqDimHXzEkqlaDMoSlXPejuHltfEK/s320/suhaib+salem+-+reuters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285275722602998386" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Makes you feel much older<br />Sublime the blind parade<br />It wrecks me how they justify their acts of war<br />They assemble, they pray<br />Take good care of what the priests say<br />'After death it's so much fun'<br />Little sheep don't let your feet stray<br />Happiness is easy<br />Joy be written on the earth<br />And the sky above<br />Jesus star that shines so bright<br />Gather us in love<br />Guilt upon their shoulders<br />How well the cause evades<br />Infecting your religions, claiming pacts<br />It's easy to shoulder the blame<br />Happiness is easy<br />Try to teach my children<br />To recognise excuse before it acts<br />From love & conviction to pray<br />Happiness is easy<br /><br />(words by <a href="http://users.cybercity.dk/%7Ebcc11425/">Talk Talk</a>, photo by Suhaib Saleb/<a href="http://www.reuters.com/">Reuters</a>)<br /></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-42104767411166330142008-12-16T18:26:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:56:17.379-08:00Dreams Burnt Down<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvPaZM-D3_dgkaslHlRd0rF7ruxg56aWSjIyMksD6nxvOW83e0wO4Dyo8qJvQe6AL5IC2pGCNy0Q7f29xNn_5jaTdPUB2jH5r5cMDMWknHS1-UxOBw7io0n88oKeZrr59XzZqGf2hjH8j/s1600-h/battuta_ca_cop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvPaZM-D3_dgkaslHlRd0rF7ruxg56aWSjIyMksD6nxvOW83e0wO4Dyo8qJvQe6AL5IC2pGCNy0Q7f29xNn_5jaTdPUB2jH5r5cMDMWknHS1-UxOBw7io0n88oKeZrr59XzZqGf2hjH8j/s320/battuta_ca_cop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280580042529463698" border="0" /></a>So we finally made it! Thousands years of evolution, art,science, wars and lessons well learned, urban guerrillas, religion fallout, egos tripping at the gates of hell and we find ourselves before the sight of 15 year old gunned down by a police hatch man! It's not his fault...it's ours! "The kid died of our own collective neglect" says Arlo amongst coughs and police sirens, "now everybody wants a part of him for his own cause. A second burial if you ask me..."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(Artwork by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enki_Bilal">Enki Bila</a>l)<br /></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-48037941456822863892008-12-07T04:37:00.001-08:002010-01-16T16:56:49.042-08:00All Things to All Men<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object width="425" height="350"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/S-rZdfZfMPw" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/S-rZdfZfMPw" width="425" height="350"></embed></object></p></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-75111877537714445842008-12-03T16:21:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:57:51.964-08:00Hidden Cities<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNiLqnkxuV-3mb_FdGIy37fgaI5Vd9FEoj2YlsV7Z2bBqtzQB_oD4NadtI1LwS8IlXU0DjSp3S2c9_I9TC9inA27jhZq6dMVPLQOvPgVXvCohTFdpYSmnUMH6n_EoHX_SXuijEdoQP_5n/s1600-h/001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNiLqnkxuV-3mb_FdGIy37fgaI5Vd9FEoj2YlsV7Z2bBqtzQB_oD4NadtI1LwS8IlXU0DjSp3S2c9_I9TC9inA27jhZq6dMVPLQOvPgVXvCohTFdpYSmnUMH6n_EoHX_SXuijEdoQP_5n/s320/001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275725568095532162" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><dd>In Olinda, if you go out with a magnifying glass and hunt carefully, you may find somewhere a point no bigger than the head of a pin which, if you look at it slightly enlarged, reveals within itself the roofs, the antennas, the skylights, the gardens, the pools, the streamers across the streets, the kiosks in the squeares, the horse-racing track. That point does not remain there: a year later you will find it the size of half a lemon, then as large as a mushroom, then a soup plate. And then it becomes a full-size city, enclosed within the earlier city: a new city that forces its way ahead in the earlier city and presses its way toward the outside. </dd></span><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><dd><br /></dd><dd>Olinda is certainly not the only city that grows in concentric circles, like tree trunks which each year add one more ring. But in other cities there remains, in the center, the old narrow girlde of the walls from which the withered spires rise, the towers, the tiled roofs, the domes, while the new quarters sprawl around them like a loosened belt. Not Olinda: the old walls expand bearing the old quarters with them, enlarged but maintaining their proportions an a broader horizon at the edges of the city; they surround the slightly newer quarters, which also grew up on the margins and became thinner to make room for still more recent ones pressing from inside; and so, on and on, to the heart of the city, a totally new Olinda which, in its reduced dimensions retains the features and the flow of lymph of the first Olinda and of all the Olindas that have blossomed one from the other; and within this innermost circle there are always blossoming--though it is hard to discern them--the next Olinda and those that will grow after it.<blockquote></blockquote> </dd></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><dt>(Words by <a href="http://www.des.emory.edu/mfp/calvino/">Italo Calvino</a>, photo by <a href="http://www.altphotos.com/Gallery.aspx?&a=MemberGallery&memberid=1808">Mitchell Miller</a>) </dt></span><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><dt><br /></dt></span></div></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-262063382618314822008-11-10T06:29:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:58:38.307-08:00Welcome To Tokyo<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QiMj3QcB5N0&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QiMj3QcB5N0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />(from Chris Marker's Sans Soleil)Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4328940661091195685.post-10964868250687980332008-11-06T05:48:00.000-08:002010-01-16T17:00:00.639-08:00Planet Manga<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8o9FNeNrYvmep6gFsnVTmEoumADzArAg_YEBqKl0_Vli8eRQsW5qNQKY-uMRg4RT3dZpgi2EneeHoievMbebCabWqMVpMaucBi7sr7q0lyIwXUet3pYILdTbBlGSm7hZzkyCcUeK6VN_/s1600-h/japan2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265543989997315234" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 213px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO8o9FNeNrYvmep6gFsnVTmEoumADzArAg_YEBqKl0_Vli8eRQsW5qNQKY-uMRg4RT3dZpgi2EneeHoievMbebCabWqMVpMaucBi7sr7q0lyIwXUet3pYILdTbBlGSm7hZzkyCcUeK6VN_/s320/japan2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">He wrote: Tokyo is a city crisscrossed by trains, tied together with electric wire she shows her veins. They say that television makes her people illiterate; as for me, I've never seen so many people reading in the streets. Perhaps they read only in the street, or perhaps they just pretend to read—these yellow men. I make my appointments at Kinokuniya, the big bookshop in Shinjuku. The graphic genius that allowed the Japanese to invent CinemaScope ten centuries before the movies compensates a little for the sad fate of the comic strip heroines, victims of heartless story writers and of castrating censorship. Sometimes they escape, and you find them again on the walls. The entire city is a comic strip; it's Planet Manga. How can one fail to recognize the statuary that goes from plasticized baroque to Stalin central? And the giant faces with eyes that weigh down on the comic book readers, pictures bigger than people, voyeurizing the voyeurs.<br />At nightfall the megalopolis breaks down into villages, with its country cemeteries in the shadow of banks, with its stations and temples. Each district of Tokyo once again becomes a tidy ingenuous little town, nestling amongst the skyscrapers. </div><br /><blockquote></blockquote><br /><div align="center">Excerpt from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0084628/">Sans Soleil</a> by <a href="http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/directors/02/marker.html">Chris Marker</a>, photo by <a href="http://www.casimiri.org/">Matthieu Kasimiri </a></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://www.markertext.com/sans_soleil.htm">Full script can be found here </a></div>Pykehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12634928968018513502noreply@blogger.com0