5 May 2022
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland (from V. What the Thunder Said )
Il n’y a même pas de silence dans les montagnes. Mais un tonnerre sec, stérile et sans pluie. Il n’y a même pas de solitude dans les montagnes. Mais des faces rouges et renfrognées qui ricanent et montrent les dents. Au seuil de maisons en boue séchée
FR translation by Guy Le Gaufey
We made computers, they didn't make us ...
29 April 2021
Art for me holds the highest energy in the stack. I think art is the purest human energy.
22 April 2021
I remember I had one of those moments of lucid thinking a few years ago while on my walk down 58th st towards where I used to work at the Brooklyn Army Terminal.
It was in the brutal summer heat in New York, where the concrete begins to melt your feet at 8am and your skin becomes a swamp emerging from the subways.
Jackhammers mercilessly tearing the street.
Sirens. Planes. Horns.
Fumes and exhaust.
Tires screeching beneath the overpass.
Repulsive bass blasting from a car.
The sun bearing down.
People rushing for no reason.
I thought to myself, “this is not sustainable.”
Two years later the streets are empty.
A global slowdown.
A word on creativity...
21 April 2021
Everyone wants your attention.
Trash and processed junk.
Your world becomes what you consume.
Watch only great films.
A good place to start is with Jean Epstein.
Only give it to those who sublimate.