'Poets with whom I’ve now learned my trade here’s an old story I’ve remade'..
Some Background:
I had never been in a such a concentrated poetic environment until I went to the University of Iowa for an MA in Painting and Photography, which fittingly associates with one of the top creative writing departments in the world. At Iowa is where I began to understand the development of personal images from photographs as the content itself. However when I arrived at Goldsmiths, which is one of the flagship conceptual art departments in the world I had to somehow reconcile these two extremes of graduate art education for my practice. It came down to words. For this divorce of sorts words had as rich of a potential for the investigation into my work than most of the images I had been using at the time. This didn't imply that I'd lost interest in images but that writing and art making switched roles for me while I was at Goldsmiths, which given the privilege writing has in the Goldsmith's program structure it's...not surprising.
After re-reading Barthes, Bataille, and Yeats among others I realized I had found something that connected. I rearranged 40,000 words of notes into 16,000 words and into groupings of themes. A fluid reading of the approximate 5,000 word portion below now points not only to process but even more important the principle character of one's choices through the shifting subjects of the image, reproduction, and writing. This serves as a more balanced understanding of what 'original' or what I like to call the 'semi-original' means as an update to not only Barthes but also for the generation of Sherrie Levine. Barthes championed against common perspectives of authorship of his time almost 50 years ago with his last line ‘the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the Author’ but earlier in that very work while he navigated the false dualisms between original/unoriginal and author/reader he articulated what happens with writing, and I argue art making generally, more accurately today in it ‘suppressing the author for the sake of the writing’ (italics mine).2 Authors of strong work don’t ‘die’ or mindlessly pastiche anymore than Barthes did when he wrote four and a half pages that’s since become a pillar of our ‘art bible’ today. With this in mind and depending on the reader, poetry can be less about a mechanical material of language and more about what the significance of poetic thought can be or do.
When someone uses a color someone else has used, which is inevitable, no one condemns the painting as a copy. It's because of this sort of elemental exchange in the world that I think there is a 'coming to terms' of sorts with what creating can be or is for, in our present day. Further I think it's important that a history recognized in a work doesn't necessarily empty the work of unique qualities, which only tends to keep the novel from either being only briefly addressed or disregarded altogether. In my years I've never been one to 'narrow down' but perhaps refine an approach and with that I leave you to my pursuit of others and semi-original quotes.
I had never been in a such a concentrated poetic environment until I went to the University of Iowa for an MA in Painting and Photography, which fittingly associates with one of the top creative writing departments in the world. At Iowa is where I began to understand the development of personal images from photographs as the content itself. However when I arrived at Goldsmiths, which is one of the flagship conceptual art departments in the world I had to somehow reconcile these two extremes of graduate art education for my practice. It came down to words. For this divorce of sorts words had as rich of a potential for the investigation into my work than most of the images I had been using at the time. This didn't imply that I'd lost interest in images but that writing and art making switched roles for me while I was at Goldsmiths, which given the privilege writing has in the Goldsmith's program structure it's...not surprising.
After re-reading Barthes, Bataille, and Yeats among others I realized I had found something that connected. I rearranged 40,000 words of notes into 16,000 words and into groupings of themes. A fluid reading of the approximate 5,000 word portion below now points not only to process but even more important the principle character of one's choices through the shifting subjects of the image, reproduction, and writing. This serves as a more balanced understanding of what 'original' or what I like to call the 'semi-original' means as an update to not only Barthes but also for the generation of Sherrie Levine. Barthes championed against common perspectives of authorship of his time almost 50 years ago with his last line ‘the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the Author’ but earlier in that very work while he navigated the false dualisms between original/unoriginal and author/reader he articulated what happens with writing, and I argue art making generally, more accurately today in it ‘suppressing the author for the sake of the writing’ (italics mine).2 Authors of strong work don’t ‘die’ or mindlessly pastiche anymore than Barthes did when he wrote four and a half pages that’s since become a pillar of our ‘art bible’ today. With this in mind and depending on the reader, poetry can be less about a mechanical material of language and more about what the significance of poetic thought can be or do.
When someone uses a color someone else has used, which is inevitable, no one condemns the painting as a copy. It's because of this sort of elemental exchange in the world that I think there is a 'coming to terms' of sorts with what creating can be or is for, in our present day. Further I think it's important that a history recognized in a work doesn't necessarily empty the work of unique qualities, which only tends to keep the novel from either being only briefly addressed or disregarded altogether. In my years I've never been one to 'narrow down' but perhaps refine an approach and with that I leave you to my pursuit of others and semi-original quotes.
Instead of an archetype a condensed allegorical drama,
And to this voice, to which we cannot assign a specific origin
We represent our delirium to ourselves, look it in the face, and try to control how we see.
So with historical hallucinations we spectate psychological plate tectonics of our mind.
Even to the point that some believe we’ve become irrelevant to a representation,
That being in the world is outweighed by mediation.
The reoccurring mirror stage of Moore's Law feels best forgotten.
So it is this space where remains an epitaph for my heart.
I have no shame in regard to a reverence for my identity,
But contempt in always deferring to what we arenʼt.
I will always need nature, a lover, and people who speak directly.
An exchange with people, objects, and whatever between them.
Because for me, those that love the world serve it in action,
Not through fatalistic destinations and unacknowledged origins.
An image archetype through the bridge of the living makes mediation a symbol itself.
An objectification of aesthetic thought, of 'the world, the world of images, the 'imaginary' world'
Doesn’t present the world but our relationship to it.
For our intrapersonal poetics is each of our truths that are not completely the truths of others.
With words and static images in my head that don’t construct a 'self'
But in that process helps reveal what of myself is ungraspable.
As we’re always a viewer only partially informed
Left with these residual but illusive images
From collected affections and waste lands of abandoned duplicates.
From A field of experiential overlaps that must be contained in the present
That metaphorically bear reality and its revision.
So if we close off our sense of vision...
You might get too far inside and only see my reflection
But I don't mind this sun sometimes, the images it shows.
If we could look out of this window without our shadow getting in the way.
With your silhouette so stationary
Believe me what you see is what you get
But believe me what you see you might not get.
Because it's a public mirage when we depict ourselves
Eternal copyists, both sublime and comical
Recognized in such a way from the effects they produce.
So what am I up to?
Perhaps a decoration of a self-magnifying wish.
But connected to the reflective potential of static images,
Not of objective measurement but of illumination.
You can’t be anti-image in text.
Remediation in any medium is always another.
It’s cliche’ to disparage a cliche’
To say we donʼt matter in our work is to say the world doesnʼt matter in each other.
As I am reminded we are in fact still human.
As I am here; there is nothing to say and yet I am saying it.
With this very exercise of the symbol and the disjunction that follows from its function
I watch the floating power of its material.
Writing against this oblique onto which every subject escapes,
and traps where identity is tossed.
And the reader suppresses me for the sake of the writing.
For in refusing to arrest meaning no one can utter it.
Its source, and its voice go unlocated;
And yet it is perfectly read; because the locus of writing is reading.
If there are no questions there are no answers to this.
If there are questions then, of course there are answers
language can do better than solve a problem it has invented.
No one ever asks ‘what did we loose from illiteracy’?
It’s impossible to have a medieval dictionary.
Terms were always defined in the act of writing by cutting the mystical power
of the spoken word into archaic ritual.
In the cathartic aspect of authorship.
In guild-like art and antique metaphors.
In poetry, it creates new meaning: a sensory, mental experience of its own with the poetic experience
Pathologically redirecting you to experience instead of accounting. Regardless if it's a machine of
Emotion, the poem driving poet, mastered by its words turning mysteriously against those who use them.
Should we question to paint or write; it is still an action.
Even in a fly-trap school of language we ask what is this language using us for?
What of the sonorous aspect of these vindictive words that fall onto some linguistic soil?
The things we think without thinking them; obliquely, indirectly, and depicting a thing without depicting it?
By not arresting meaning, writing becomes that oblique into which every subject escapes.
You give up on the genius because it said 'If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough'.
I'll just mistake the critical as opposition everything.
When the day wouldn’t write what the night pencilled in from my friends in history.
With who, me?
Self-description's linguistic affect.
But from where does it speak?
From Tommy who played like a kid out in the rain. Then he lost his mind in traffic
When he went dancing with a train.
Me and writing that is, from a remainder of a self that a meaningless name can’t touch.
Meaning as a given part of the human condition with loneliness, freedom, and mortality...
With the genuine and sincere motivated by vanity through exhibition.
Like the Surrealists' problem of transcribing the unconscious.
For human fulfillment I'll defend that specific naiveté as a badly needed force in philosophy.
As we confront psychiatrists with existential problems, instead of with neurotic symptoms
And refuse to be handed over to community members that would’ve been consulted instead in the past.
It's a ʻsymptom of mass neurosisʼ and that's why I believe in phenomenology,
Its idealism, and my experience in the world.
Why not use the qualitative to find some why and how of decision making?
But all the while I end up like disturbing intrapersonal poetry.
A confession of a dying voice in me reaching out somewhere.
Covered under identified identity or what is cliche or a copy.
Because I read so much and have a graduate degree
Meaning shifts from a noun, to an adjective, and then a verb.
With the challenge of our self criticism, ambiguous.
That there is not me; I'm not here; this isn't happening in the dark matter of the universe.
...There's always some reason to feel not good enough and it's hard at the end of the day.
We need some distraction. A beautiful release from the trouble of sleeping and thinking of what this says
When we spit: I'm only human.
It's always bad timing.
A dark joke that never gets old.
In way of this journey it made me bitter in what made me wise
If we are, in fact, working on building a mystery we should stop choosing so carefully.
Perhaps sacralize the archetype through ritual and symbol.
Hole worshippers pray to an absence in trees,
cover them up and after what has been revealed to themselves; a tree.
“Rituals are a way of bringing symbolic meanings into everyday reality".
The act of making the journey.
Pilgrims sense that they are doing an act that has symbolic meaning while in touch with reality.
Consciously seeking that act into a dynamic symbol.
Then every movement becomes a symbol-in-motion.
Carrying the power of the inner world's potion
Made visible by the act of making directly
Links a psychological state in that
One too could become self-aware
Of their own detachment.
And Pilgrimage
A journey, a ritual, a commemoration, a search for something.
Perhaps something the pilgrim cannot express in words, something the pilgrim does not fully perceive.
Leaving a trail of hundreds of cathedrals and cemeteries visited,
Using accumulative phenomenology as empirical evidence
To consider the possibility of a soul and its mystery
That births Archetypes, and mythology.
Others, mind, body, and world
Remembering how I function helps my thoughts more holistically
Than the semiotic mechanics of post-structural psychology in today’s philosophy.
I need to go ‘there’ and make ‘this’, these sacred objects, mediators of the meaningful.
Football games, concerts, pubs, openings, family reunions, bubble baths, and morning tea.
Tickets and maps left along the way, to thousands of pictures to help me remember.
Four a.m. China Town streets in Antwerp and a beautiful train station for bed.
Why see Florence, Edinburgh, Leipzig, Pompeii?
The place where something happened in Oswiecim and to something sacred in Berlin?
We hope to earn forgiveness, belong, or ask for a miracle, which sometimes feels all the same.
To say ‘thanks’, celebrate, or answer an inner call or phone call to go.
Like when we go to a gallery or show.
We walk around it to ‘know it’ like a sculpture, a gravestone.
Glass boxes, museum cords, the future birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk, and Juliet’s balcony.
I get on a train then plane and I’m free as I’m going in that moving, which is making.
What I know falls aside from what I need when I make the connection by making my journey.
So now they can say everything is free now.
That's what they say…
Since someone hit the big score I should give my work away.
Like accidental procreation it’s quintessential myth making.
Might as well, I'm still poor anyway.
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich.
That's how it goes, and everybody knows.
But everything’s changing, so they tell me.
With a job that slowly kills you and bruises that won't heal.
They know artists will do it anyway, even if it doesn't pay
Because we seem to never mind working hard in a straight job.
It's just who we're working for.
For cultural poverty and economic wealth.
Exhibition/reception in a sphere of perpetual distribution,
A relational exchange.
Hidden from sight
I could get a tip jar and try to make a little change
And grind out all my time for a break that would make it okay.
But little do you know about something that I talk about.
If it's something that you wanna hear, you could say it yourself
Because everything I've ever done is free now.
There seems to be a loneliness everywhere
From a whole spectrum of emotional disconnection.
With Indifference to pagan rituals of stability and renewal
and so terrified of serene tranquility.
Perhaps from a practical apathy living in a big city,
When you walk by the homeless, pollution, bad parents, or the super rich and pretty?
But I fight our existential vacuum and Sunday neurosis.
Our depersonalization, moral deformity, bitterness, and disillusionment.
In the intensification of an inner life I find refuge from the spiritual poverty of their existence.
With a tragic optimism, a proactive incentive to change and be responsible.
And a temporal sense of touch to keep an eye on the world and remember it later,
To relish the duality of discord and harmony.
Because as we all know, it is not irritating to be where one is.
It’s only irritating to think one would like to be somewhere else
When information is the new distraction.
I think it was when the internet got boring or went post-net.
So now there's this haunting religious intimacy, in a fog of public existence
out there in someplace, in nowhere.
When I'm not working I sometimes think I know something,
But when I'm working, it is quite clear that I know nothing.
And then everyone gets this broken feeling like their mother or their dog just died.
The hour of a waning heart is upon us, and weary and worn are our sad souls now.
This time we're in is about something and so, naturally about nothing.
And sometimes it finds me fast asleep and wakes me where I lie.
It'll fade a bit and then at the punch clock I remember,
I realize, they'll take your life apart and call you failures art
The best you can is good enough now.
If connoisseurship is a substitute for experience
then the philosophers forgot what philosophy is.
I said, where'd you get your information from huh?
Empirical data also consists of recorded human experiences.
It demonstrates the effects of meaning in the world.
So I argue for a re-humanization against nihilistic indoctrination
Against contempt for the world and pragmatic ideas
Nothing's ever good enough for them.
You'll have to thrill me with your acumen
To infect me with your poison.
To make war on something that has nothing in its place
And take the only tree that's left and stuff it up that hole in your culture.
The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and its overturned the order of the soul.
Despite what all their studies show
They just don't want to know the reason why.
You really want to ask our esteemed panel why they are alive?
Could we get through a serious point on anything
Beyond academic tunnel vision?
Give me more Sontag, Dan Fox, James Elkins, Hickey, Saltz
Before all our cold work and culture visibly suffer on.
Until then I'll keep my thoughts a little naive
Because ambition makes one look pretty ugly here.
Did you know there's a true story of a man with five degrees
Who died because he didn’t know how to swim?
So tell me doctor, can you quantify
The reason why?
The reason they were all in love with dyin'
And doing it in graveyards?
Sipping from death’s black daiquiri?
The dying choose the living world for text.
So to take part in the tradition
I filched its fragments to shore against my own ruins.
That somehow compelled a need to excavate at all.
The razed, buried, exhumed and resurrected Yeats’s rag-and-bone shop of the heart
When all works that have run from cradle run to grave
And then from grave to cradle run instead.
It was anything but hear the voice that says that we’re all basically alone.
But as your life flashed before your eyes you realize
He’s been living with the living and dying with the dead.
As cold as the man in the moon these little earthquakes hit you in the head
When I knew for certain only drowning men could see me.
Dying in thousands of little ways.
Dancing alone and drinking a lot.
Fully loaded, deaf and dumb and done.
You'll think this is not really happening.
You bet your life it is, it's done.
Who do you think you are?
I live in London where you can't feel a thing
From all the days that we choose to ignore
Like a house falling into the sea
Don’t forget the smell of warm summer air
While my friends are gone and my hair is stained
I ache in the place where I used to play.
Stay who you are.
Who’s afraid of themselves?
Move the hands upon the clock.
Move your hands upon the wall
And I'll keep my little legacy in a bunker underground.
From all of these weird creatures who lock up their spirits
Drill holes in themselves and live for their secrets.
Don’t spend time together walking, just talking about who you were.
What do they preserve?
To stop a cut into the past when the future leaks out?
And as we live, the image of what we see haunts more than we know.
Because time is never time at all.
Experiences are already past for us to move on from.
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth.
So for reasons unreal we can't help but feel that something has been lost.
Block it out.
I only got my name and I only got this situation.
Am I the only man of this that’s bound from my early stages?
Of the memories that seep from my veins
These precious things, let them bleed,
Let them wash away and break their hold over me.
While it had meant the world to hold a faded faith
Now it's just a matter of grace.
And our lives are forever changed.
Dear shadow alive and well where do you intend to go tonight?
It's something about the open road in me.
Should I tell the northern lights to keep shining?
They told me to tell you they're waving.
But it wouldn't make a difference escaping one last time.
I'll do myself a favor and pack my bags
I kept wondering in London, could it be the weather?
Why am I here?
It should be obvious, but it's not.
I'm always digging for the feel of something new.
I kept thinking what if the air could let us breathe?
What if there was silence to let us dream?
Of the lights and towns below faster than the speed of sound.
Faster than we thought we'd go beneath the sound of hope.
It'll begin with your family, But soon it comes round to your soul.
I could close the streets and haunt the cabarets looking for what?
Another five years off my head.
Oh brother you might need a friend any day now,
Any day.
Be careful, you are drifting away.
Did I change my name that often?
But I've got friends! And I feel some of them in me!
I should run into them. I've been traveling too long.
Really? You? Who must leave everything you can't control?
Yes, now I can't wait to take my pen and vanish home.
I hope. Stop thinking they don't know you anymore.
I won't believe that I've discarded friends just by changing scenery.
It's just easier to believe in this sweet madness, than glorious sadness.
Since when was the provincial such a sorry thing?
I have to find out why I always go when the wind blows.
Why I went all over the world, living 'for free'.
So I'll come down from the mountain. I've been gone way too long.
To give you something and some more of what you're having
With only this vision left to come rest my soul.
Then I don't have to make pretend the picture I'm in is totally clear.
A bright ideal, don't go too far.
What are you going to do if what is isn't true?
Why does that mean you've got to lose?
What if my words would bring you here to peace?
Trusting my soul to the ice cream assassin?
To somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.
Where skies are blue and the dream that you dare to dream
Really does come true.
Because nobody knows what waits ahead beyond the black and blue sky
We have no where to hide, we've got no where to go
But if you still decide you want to take a ride
The wind will blow cold, as it moans and cries.
They're convinced they could hold back a glacier but couldn't keep hope alive
With the endlessness that you fear
I search myself and everyone to see where we went wrong.
I'm a reasonable man, please get off my case.
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt
In the woods with me of some inhuman misery.
With stumbling feet and angry voice, an idled life fell asleep
On the streams joyous flocks of aweless birds
Round their stirless feet rocked in sleep and sighs.
Strong farmers hearts like a cup that somebody had drunk dry.
If you need some proof the moral’s yours not mine.
So speak before your breath is done.
For when you find it, it's gone
From the year I was born.
The figure is a felt outline and memorable as an image or tale.
In effect the outer journey made symbolic from the inner journey by doing.
A Migaloo safe zone; like the only known albino humpback whale
With its own government induced exclusion zone
To protect it by and from environmentalists.
Like Migaloo my beliefs do not require them to believe what I do.
A beautiful church escape, unlike the weather
My face, my clothes, my thoughts, my soul in this freezing cold.
Nature's core ongoing distance from me and itself.
The honest look of water nursed in stone.
And the glaze of the lake and dumb face set in stone.
I don't know what takes hold out there in the desert cold.
What was is it you tried to say?
Come on, you forget so easy.
You've got ventriloquists and you think there's no future left at all.
Still there's no point in letting it go to waste.
I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Sleep.
Let this wash all over me.
In the gap between where I end and you begin are you fracturing?
Torn at the seams? Would you do anything?
Do you go out holding half a head and show it off to new found friends?
When the walls bend with your breathing your alarm bells should be ringing.
Karma for a minute there, I lost myself.
These broken branches trip me as I speak
While the sadness of the zoo is our society.
Just because you don't feel it, it doesn't mean it's not there.
While we're still in a river’s dark
Engrossed in differences the patient forgets
Where there's such a chill wishing to be one in everlasting peace.
Graceful in the morning light to follow you softly in the cold mountain air.
Through the forest and down to your grave.
In the quivering forest, where the shivering dog rests.
Where the river got frozen, and turned into a playground.
Watched from a lonely wooden tower with an expression of filth we stumble across
A genie out the bottle.
It says steer away from these rocks
"All people will be sailors then, until the sea shall free them."
Forsaken, almost human, he sank beneath their wisdom, like a stone
It's believed our sisters of mercy are departed or gone.
It's not true though. When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon.
Don't turn on the light you can read their address by the moon.
Away from the art school lobby with nine hundred windows
And the tree where the doves go to die.
They laid down beside me so I made my confession to them.
If there's anything better in this world
Who cares?
It's yours now and it's all that there is.
As I exist to believe otherwise I try to sleep in a desert of the real.
That leaves me vapid while dreaming to feel nothingness as a force.
A force past the entropic, omniabsent gravity of existence in London
Mirrored cold and dark I’m obligated to live with proximity as image's executioner.
A spiritless investor declining bankrupt misery.
Until now it was such a beautiful past upside down.
As the logic of the world disavows me but it is still there,
It is in the thing, during an engraved and immovable eve that controls me.
I only half envy all those in its arrangements with cold tar hearts.
And in whichever way our hearts have hardened the people we go through come too easily
Saying, I want you to speak to yourself and, in time, memory.
For the power of giving love and being with it makes London life just bright enough
Than not living it at all.
Obsession's a lot more disgusting than I thought.
Since loving is giving something one doesn't have
While in amorous panic we fear our own destruction
Inevitable, clearly formed, in the flash of a word and image.
We loose ourselves; identity, psychology, and gender blur.
Lost from the comfort of home into a shuttering calm and departed too soon.
And to this voice, to which we cannot assign a specific origin
We represent our delirium to ourselves, look it in the face, and try to control how we see.
So with historical hallucinations we spectate psychological plate tectonics of our mind.
Even to the point that some believe we’ve become irrelevant to a representation,
That being in the world is outweighed by mediation.
The reoccurring mirror stage of Moore's Law feels best forgotten.
So it is this space where remains an epitaph for my heart.
I have no shame in regard to a reverence for my identity,
But contempt in always deferring to what we arenʼt.
I will always need nature, a lover, and people who speak directly.
An exchange with people, objects, and whatever between them.
Because for me, those that love the world serve it in action,
Not through fatalistic destinations and unacknowledged origins.
An image archetype through the bridge of the living makes mediation a symbol itself.
An objectification of aesthetic thought, of 'the world, the world of images, the 'imaginary' world'
Doesn’t present the world but our relationship to it.
For our intrapersonal poetics is each of our truths that are not completely the truths of others.
With words and static images in my head that don’t construct a 'self'
But in that process helps reveal what of myself is ungraspable.
As we’re always a viewer only partially informed
Left with these residual but illusive images
From collected affections and waste lands of abandoned duplicates.
From A field of experiential overlaps that must be contained in the present
That metaphorically bear reality and its revision.
So if we close off our sense of vision...
You might get too far inside and only see my reflection
But I don't mind this sun sometimes, the images it shows.
If we could look out of this window without our shadow getting in the way.
With your silhouette so stationary
Believe me what you see is what you get
But believe me what you see you might not get.
Because it's a public mirage when we depict ourselves
Eternal copyists, both sublime and comical
Recognized in such a way from the effects they produce.
So what am I up to?
Perhaps a decoration of a self-magnifying wish.
But connected to the reflective potential of static images,
Not of objective measurement but of illumination.
You can’t be anti-image in text.
Remediation in any medium is always another.
It’s cliche’ to disparage a cliche’
To say we donʼt matter in our work is to say the world doesnʼt matter in each other.
As I am reminded we are in fact still human.
As I am here; there is nothing to say and yet I am saying it.
With this very exercise of the symbol and the disjunction that follows from its function
I watch the floating power of its material.
Writing against this oblique onto which every subject escapes,
and traps where identity is tossed.
And the reader suppresses me for the sake of the writing.
For in refusing to arrest meaning no one can utter it.
Its source, and its voice go unlocated;
And yet it is perfectly read; because the locus of writing is reading.
If there are no questions there are no answers to this.
If there are questions then, of course there are answers
language can do better than solve a problem it has invented.
No one ever asks ‘what did we loose from illiteracy’?
It’s impossible to have a medieval dictionary.
Terms were always defined in the act of writing by cutting the mystical power
of the spoken word into archaic ritual.
In the cathartic aspect of authorship.
In guild-like art and antique metaphors.
In poetry, it creates new meaning: a sensory, mental experience of its own with the poetic experience
Pathologically redirecting you to experience instead of accounting. Regardless if it's a machine of
Emotion, the poem driving poet, mastered by its words turning mysteriously against those who use them.
Should we question to paint or write; it is still an action.
Even in a fly-trap school of language we ask what is this language using us for?
What of the sonorous aspect of these vindictive words that fall onto some linguistic soil?
The things we think without thinking them; obliquely, indirectly, and depicting a thing without depicting it?
By not arresting meaning, writing becomes that oblique into which every subject escapes.
You give up on the genius because it said 'If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough'.
I'll just mistake the critical as opposition everything.
When the day wouldn’t write what the night pencilled in from my friends in history.
With who, me?
Self-description's linguistic affect.
But from where does it speak?
From Tommy who played like a kid out in the rain. Then he lost his mind in traffic
When he went dancing with a train.
Me and writing that is, from a remainder of a self that a meaningless name can’t touch.
Meaning as a given part of the human condition with loneliness, freedom, and mortality...
With the genuine and sincere motivated by vanity through exhibition.
Like the Surrealists' problem of transcribing the unconscious.
For human fulfillment I'll defend that specific naiveté as a badly needed force in philosophy.
As we confront psychiatrists with existential problems, instead of with neurotic symptoms
And refuse to be handed over to community members that would’ve been consulted instead in the past.
It's a ʻsymptom of mass neurosisʼ and that's why I believe in phenomenology,
Its idealism, and my experience in the world.
Why not use the qualitative to find some why and how of decision making?
But all the while I end up like disturbing intrapersonal poetry.
A confession of a dying voice in me reaching out somewhere.
Covered under identified identity or what is cliche or a copy.
Because I read so much and have a graduate degree
Meaning shifts from a noun, to an adjective, and then a verb.
With the challenge of our self criticism, ambiguous.
That there is not me; I'm not here; this isn't happening in the dark matter of the universe.
...There's always some reason to feel not good enough and it's hard at the end of the day.
We need some distraction. A beautiful release from the trouble of sleeping and thinking of what this says
When we spit: I'm only human.
It's always bad timing.
A dark joke that never gets old.
In way of this journey it made me bitter in what made me wise
If we are, in fact, working on building a mystery we should stop choosing so carefully.
Perhaps sacralize the archetype through ritual and symbol.
Hole worshippers pray to an absence in trees,
cover them up and after what has been revealed to themselves; a tree.
“Rituals are a way of bringing symbolic meanings into everyday reality".
The act of making the journey.
Pilgrims sense that they are doing an act that has symbolic meaning while in touch with reality.
Consciously seeking that act into a dynamic symbol.
Then every movement becomes a symbol-in-motion.
Carrying the power of the inner world's potion
Made visible by the act of making directly
Links a psychological state in that
One too could become self-aware
Of their own detachment.
And Pilgrimage
A journey, a ritual, a commemoration, a search for something.
Perhaps something the pilgrim cannot express in words, something the pilgrim does not fully perceive.
Leaving a trail of hundreds of cathedrals and cemeteries visited,
Using accumulative phenomenology as empirical evidence
To consider the possibility of a soul and its mystery
That births Archetypes, and mythology.
Others, mind, body, and world
Remembering how I function helps my thoughts more holistically
Than the semiotic mechanics of post-structural psychology in today’s philosophy.
I need to go ‘there’ and make ‘this’, these sacred objects, mediators of the meaningful.
Football games, concerts, pubs, openings, family reunions, bubble baths, and morning tea.
Tickets and maps left along the way, to thousands of pictures to help me remember.
Four a.m. China Town streets in Antwerp and a beautiful train station for bed.
Why see Florence, Edinburgh, Leipzig, Pompeii?
The place where something happened in Oswiecim and to something sacred in Berlin?
We hope to earn forgiveness, belong, or ask for a miracle, which sometimes feels all the same.
To say ‘thanks’, celebrate, or answer an inner call or phone call to go.
Like when we go to a gallery or show.
We walk around it to ‘know it’ like a sculpture, a gravestone.
Glass boxes, museum cords, the future birthplace of Captain James T. Kirk, and Juliet’s balcony.
I get on a train then plane and I’m free as I’m going in that moving, which is making.
What I know falls aside from what I need when I make the connection by making my journey.
So now they can say everything is free now.
That's what they say…
Since someone hit the big score I should give my work away.
Like accidental procreation it’s quintessential myth making.
Might as well, I'm still poor anyway.
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich.
That's how it goes, and everybody knows.
But everything’s changing, so they tell me.
With a job that slowly kills you and bruises that won't heal.
They know artists will do it anyway, even if it doesn't pay
Because we seem to never mind working hard in a straight job.
It's just who we're working for.
For cultural poverty and economic wealth.
Exhibition/reception in a sphere of perpetual distribution,
A relational exchange.
Hidden from sight
I could get a tip jar and try to make a little change
And grind out all my time for a break that would make it okay.
But little do you know about something that I talk about.
If it's something that you wanna hear, you could say it yourself
Because everything I've ever done is free now.
There seems to be a loneliness everywhere
From a whole spectrum of emotional disconnection.
With Indifference to pagan rituals of stability and renewal
and so terrified of serene tranquility.
Perhaps from a practical apathy living in a big city,
When you walk by the homeless, pollution, bad parents, or the super rich and pretty?
But I fight our existential vacuum and Sunday neurosis.
Our depersonalization, moral deformity, bitterness, and disillusionment.
In the intensification of an inner life I find refuge from the spiritual poverty of their existence.
With a tragic optimism, a proactive incentive to change and be responsible.
And a temporal sense of touch to keep an eye on the world and remember it later,
To relish the duality of discord and harmony.
Because as we all know, it is not irritating to be where one is.
It’s only irritating to think one would like to be somewhere else
When information is the new distraction.
I think it was when the internet got boring or went post-net.
So now there's this haunting religious intimacy, in a fog of public existence
out there in someplace, in nowhere.
When I'm not working I sometimes think I know something,
But when I'm working, it is quite clear that I know nothing.
And then everyone gets this broken feeling like their mother or their dog just died.
The hour of a waning heart is upon us, and weary and worn are our sad souls now.
This time we're in is about something and so, naturally about nothing.
And sometimes it finds me fast asleep and wakes me where I lie.
It'll fade a bit and then at the punch clock I remember,
I realize, they'll take your life apart and call you failures art
The best you can is good enough now.
If connoisseurship is a substitute for experience
then the philosophers forgot what philosophy is.
I said, where'd you get your information from huh?
Empirical data also consists of recorded human experiences.
It demonstrates the effects of meaning in the world.
So I argue for a re-humanization against nihilistic indoctrination
Against contempt for the world and pragmatic ideas
Nothing's ever good enough for them.
You'll have to thrill me with your acumen
To infect me with your poison.
To make war on something that has nothing in its place
And take the only tree that's left and stuff it up that hole in your culture.
The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and its overturned the order of the soul.
Despite what all their studies show
They just don't want to know the reason why.
You really want to ask our esteemed panel why they are alive?
Could we get through a serious point on anything
Beyond academic tunnel vision?
Give me more Sontag, Dan Fox, James Elkins, Hickey, Saltz
Before all our cold work and culture visibly suffer on.
Until then I'll keep my thoughts a little naive
Because ambition makes one look pretty ugly here.
Did you know there's a true story of a man with five degrees
Who died because he didn’t know how to swim?
So tell me doctor, can you quantify
The reason why?
The reason they were all in love with dyin'
And doing it in graveyards?
Sipping from death’s black daiquiri?
The dying choose the living world for text.
So to take part in the tradition
I filched its fragments to shore against my own ruins.
That somehow compelled a need to excavate at all.
The razed, buried, exhumed and resurrected Yeats’s rag-and-bone shop of the heart
When all works that have run from cradle run to grave
And then from grave to cradle run instead.
It was anything but hear the voice that says that we’re all basically alone.
But as your life flashed before your eyes you realize
He’s been living with the living and dying with the dead.
As cold as the man in the moon these little earthquakes hit you in the head
When I knew for certain only drowning men could see me.
Dying in thousands of little ways.
Dancing alone and drinking a lot.
Fully loaded, deaf and dumb and done.
You'll think this is not really happening.
You bet your life it is, it's done.
Who do you think you are?
I live in London where you can't feel a thing
From all the days that we choose to ignore
Like a house falling into the sea
Don’t forget the smell of warm summer air
While my friends are gone and my hair is stained
I ache in the place where I used to play.
Stay who you are.
Who’s afraid of themselves?
Move the hands upon the clock.
Move your hands upon the wall
And I'll keep my little legacy in a bunker underground.
From all of these weird creatures who lock up their spirits
Drill holes in themselves and live for their secrets.
Don’t spend time together walking, just talking about who you were.
What do they preserve?
To stop a cut into the past when the future leaks out?
And as we live, the image of what we see haunts more than we know.
Because time is never time at all.
Experiences are already past for us to move on from.
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth.
So for reasons unreal we can't help but feel that something has been lost.
Block it out.
I only got my name and I only got this situation.
Am I the only man of this that’s bound from my early stages?
Of the memories that seep from my veins
These precious things, let them bleed,
Let them wash away and break their hold over me.
While it had meant the world to hold a faded faith
Now it's just a matter of grace.
And our lives are forever changed.
Dear shadow alive and well where do you intend to go tonight?
It's something about the open road in me.
Should I tell the northern lights to keep shining?
They told me to tell you they're waving.
But it wouldn't make a difference escaping one last time.
I'll do myself a favor and pack my bags
I kept wondering in London, could it be the weather?
Why am I here?
It should be obvious, but it's not.
I'm always digging for the feel of something new.
I kept thinking what if the air could let us breathe?
What if there was silence to let us dream?
Of the lights and towns below faster than the speed of sound.
Faster than we thought we'd go beneath the sound of hope.
It'll begin with your family, But soon it comes round to your soul.
I could close the streets and haunt the cabarets looking for what?
Another five years off my head.
Oh brother you might need a friend any day now,
Any day.
Be careful, you are drifting away.
Did I change my name that often?
But I've got friends! And I feel some of them in me!
I should run into them. I've been traveling too long.
Really? You? Who must leave everything you can't control?
Yes, now I can't wait to take my pen and vanish home.
I hope. Stop thinking they don't know you anymore.
I won't believe that I've discarded friends just by changing scenery.
It's just easier to believe in this sweet madness, than glorious sadness.
Since when was the provincial such a sorry thing?
I have to find out why I always go when the wind blows.
Why I went all over the world, living 'for free'.
So I'll come down from the mountain. I've been gone way too long.
To give you something and some more of what you're having
With only this vision left to come rest my soul.
Then I don't have to make pretend the picture I'm in is totally clear.
A bright ideal, don't go too far.
What are you going to do if what is isn't true?
Why does that mean you've got to lose?
What if my words would bring you here to peace?
Trusting my soul to the ice cream assassin?
To somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.
Where skies are blue and the dream that you dare to dream
Really does come true.
Because nobody knows what waits ahead beyond the black and blue sky
We have no where to hide, we've got no where to go
But if you still decide you want to take a ride
The wind will blow cold, as it moans and cries.
They're convinced they could hold back a glacier but couldn't keep hope alive
With the endlessness that you fear
I search myself and everyone to see where we went wrong.
I'm a reasonable man, please get off my case.
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt
In the woods with me of some inhuman misery.
With stumbling feet and angry voice, an idled life fell asleep
On the streams joyous flocks of aweless birds
Round their stirless feet rocked in sleep and sighs.
Strong farmers hearts like a cup that somebody had drunk dry.
If you need some proof the moral’s yours not mine.
So speak before your breath is done.
For when you find it, it's gone
From the year I was born.
The figure is a felt outline and memorable as an image or tale.
In effect the outer journey made symbolic from the inner journey by doing.
A Migaloo safe zone; like the only known albino humpback whale
With its own government induced exclusion zone
To protect it by and from environmentalists.
Like Migaloo my beliefs do not require them to believe what I do.
A beautiful church escape, unlike the weather
My face, my clothes, my thoughts, my soul in this freezing cold.
Nature's core ongoing distance from me and itself.
The honest look of water nursed in stone.
And the glaze of the lake and dumb face set in stone.
I don't know what takes hold out there in the desert cold.
What was is it you tried to say?
Come on, you forget so easy.
You've got ventriloquists and you think there's no future left at all.
Still there's no point in letting it go to waste.
I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Sleep.
Let this wash all over me.
In the gap between where I end and you begin are you fracturing?
Torn at the seams? Would you do anything?
Do you go out holding half a head and show it off to new found friends?
When the walls bend with your breathing your alarm bells should be ringing.
Karma for a minute there, I lost myself.
These broken branches trip me as I speak
While the sadness of the zoo is our society.
Just because you don't feel it, it doesn't mean it's not there.
While we're still in a river’s dark
Engrossed in differences the patient forgets
Where there's such a chill wishing to be one in everlasting peace.
Graceful in the morning light to follow you softly in the cold mountain air.
Through the forest and down to your grave.
In the quivering forest, where the shivering dog rests.
Where the river got frozen, and turned into a playground.
Watched from a lonely wooden tower with an expression of filth we stumble across
A genie out the bottle.
It says steer away from these rocks
"All people will be sailors then, until the sea shall free them."
Forsaken, almost human, he sank beneath their wisdom, like a stone
It's believed our sisters of mercy are departed or gone.
It's not true though. When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon.
Don't turn on the light you can read their address by the moon.
Away from the art school lobby with nine hundred windows
And the tree where the doves go to die.
They laid down beside me so I made my confession to them.
If there's anything better in this world
Who cares?
It's yours now and it's all that there is.
As I exist to believe otherwise I try to sleep in a desert of the real.
That leaves me vapid while dreaming to feel nothingness as a force.
A force past the entropic, omniabsent gravity of existence in London
Mirrored cold and dark I’m obligated to live with proximity as image's executioner.
A spiritless investor declining bankrupt misery.
Until now it was such a beautiful past upside down.
As the logic of the world disavows me but it is still there,
It is in the thing, during an engraved and immovable eve that controls me.
I only half envy all those in its arrangements with cold tar hearts.
And in whichever way our hearts have hardened the people we go through come too easily
Saying, I want you to speak to yourself and, in time, memory.
For the power of giving love and being with it makes London life just bright enough
Than not living it at all.
Obsession's a lot more disgusting than I thought.
Since loving is giving something one doesn't have
While in amorous panic we fear our own destruction
Inevitable, clearly formed, in the flash of a word and image.
We loose ourselves; identity, psychology, and gender blur.
Lost from the comfort of home into a shuttering calm and departed too soon.
1 Yeats, W.B. 1985: Collected Poems, Picador, ISBN 0330316389
2 Levine, S. 1982, Statement, In Style, Vancouver Art Gallery
3 http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/drama, accessed: 22/07/13
4 Camden Arts Centre, File Note #73 ‘Simon Martin UR Feeling’ 2012
5 Parikka, Jussi 2012: What is Media Archaeology, ISBN-10: 0745650260
6 Flusser, Vilem 2004: Writings, Univ Of Minnesota Press, ISBN10: 081663565X
7 Nesbit, Molly 2013: The Pragmatism in the History of Art, Periscope, ISBN-10: 1934772267
8 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Analytical_psychology, accessed: 23/07/13
9 Magnetic Fields 1999, 69 Love Songs, Merge Records
10 C. G. Jung, The Archetypes and The Collective Unconscious, ISBN-10: 0691018332
11 Düttmann, Alexander García 2012, Naive Art: An Essay on Happiness, August Verlag
12 Radiohead 2007: In Rainbows, Warner/Chappell Music
13 Radiohead 1997: Ok Computer, Capitol
14 Butthole Surfers 1996: Electriclarryland, Capitol
15 Sarah McLachlan 1997: Surfacing, BMG
16 David Bowie 1995: Outside, Virgin Records Us
17 Beastie Boys 2005: Solid Gold Hits, Capitol
18 Shklovsky, Victor 1991: Theory of Prose, Dalkey Archive Press, ISBN-10: 0916583643
19 McLuhan, Marshall 2011: From Cliche to Archetype, Gingko Press, ISBN-10: 1584230665
20 Wachowski, Andy & Lana 2003: The Matrix Reloaded, Warner Bros
21 Cage, John 1961: Silence: Lectures and Writings, Wesleyan, ISBN-10: 0819560286
22 Brown, Peter; Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity; Universty of Chicago Press; 1982
23 Mullarkey, John 2002: Henri Bergson Key Writings, Bloomsbury Academic, ISBN-10: 0826457282
24 Riley, Denise 2000: The Words of Selves Identification, Solidarity, Irony, Stanford Press, ISBN 0804739110
25 Riley, Denise 2005: Impersonal Passion Language as Affect, Duke University Press, ISBN 0822335123
26 http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Talk:Albert_Einstein, accessed 24/07/13
27 Cohen, Leonard 2007: Book Of Longing, Ecco, ISBN-10: 006112561X
28 Düttmann, Alexander 2012: Naive Art: An Essay on Happiness
29 Foster, Hal, Rosalind Krauss, Yve-Alain Bois, Benjamin H.D. Buchloh 2005: Art Since 1900
Modernism, Antimodernism, Postmoderism, Thames & Hudson, ISBN-10: 0500285357
30 Harman, Graham 2010: Towards Speculative Realism: Essays and Lectures, Zero Books, ISBN-10: 1846943949
31 C. G. Jung, "Approaching the Unconscious" in C. G. Jung ed., Man and his Symbols (London 1978) p.58
32 Radiohead 2000: Kid A, Capitol
33 Elkins, James 2004: On the Strange Place of Religion in Contemporary Art, Routledge. ISBN-10: 0415969891
34 Clift, Jean Dalby, Clift, Wallace 1996: The Archetype of Pilgrimage: Outer Action With Inner Meaning. The Paulist Press. ISBN 0-8091-3599-X
35 Taylor, Tommy 2011: Art; belief interpretation politics business, CreateSpace, ISBN-13:978-0615502564
36 Heidegger, Martin 2008: Being and Time, ISBN-10: 0061575593
37 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Future_Birthplace_of_Captain_James_T_Kirk.jpg,
38 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Verona-Juliet%27s_balcony.jpg, accessed 29/07/13
39 Gillian Welch 2011: The Harrow & The Harvest, Acony Records
40 Leonard Cohen 2001: Ten New Songs, Sony
41 Marshall, Peter 1992: Demanding the Impossible A History of Anarchism, Fontana Press, ISBN0006862454
42 McHugh, Gene 2011: Post Internet, Lulu.com, ISBN-10: 1447803892
43 Gillian Welch 2001, Hell Among the Yearlings, Acony Records
44 Elliot Smith 1998, XO, Dreamworks
45 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philosophy, accessed 29/07/13
46 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Empirical, accessed 30/07/13
47 Demme, Jonathan 1991, The Silence of the Lambs, MGM
48 Radiohead 2003: Hail To The Thief, Capitol
49 Andrew Bird 2005, The Mysterious Production of Eggs, Righteous Babe
50 http://www.nbcnews.com/id/19719373/ns/us_news-life/t/accomplished-graduate-drowns/
#.UVowBJPq0xF/, accessed 26/07/13
51 Andrew Bird 2007, Armchair Apocrypha, Fat Possum Records
52 Lerner, Ben 2004: The Lichtenberg Figures, Copper Canyon Press, ISBN-10: 1556592116
53 Radiohead 2001: Amnesiac, Capitol
54 Sting 1996: Mercury Falling, A&M
55 Tori Amos 1992: Little Earthquakes, Atlantic/WEA
56 Leonard Cohen 1997: More Best Of, Sony
57 Thom Yorke 2006: The Eraser, Xl Recordings
58 The Perishers 2005: Let There Be Morning, Nettwerk Records
59 Mathews, Harry & Alastair Brotchie 1998: Oulipo Compendium, Atlas Press, ISBN 1900565188
60 Smashing Pumpkins 1995: Mellon Collie & the Infinite Sadness, Virgin Records
61 Smashing Pumpkins 1998: Adore, Virgin Records Us
62 Fleet Foxes 2008: Fleet Foxes, Sub Pop
63 Tori Amos 2002: Sorta Fairytale, Phantom Sound & Visi
64 Erofeev, Venedikt 1992: Moscow to the End of the Line, Northwestern University Press, ISBN-10:0810112000
65 Tori Amos 1994: Under the Pink, Atlantic / WEA
66 Gillian Welch 2001: Time (The Revelator), Acony Records
67 Tori Amos 1998: From The Choirgirl Hotel, Atlantic
68 Judy Garland 1939: The Wizard of Oz, Hallmark
69 Emmylou Harris 1995: Wrecking Ball, Asylum Records
70 Carroll, Lewis 1993: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Dover Publications, ISBN-10: 0486275434
71 Bataille, Georges 2001: Story of the Eye, ISBN-10: 0872862097
72 http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8126237.stm, accessed: 28/07/13
73 http://www.veredart.com/artists/102/emmanuel_man_ray/, accessed 01/08/13
74 Barthes, Roland 2010: A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, ISBN-10: 0374532311
75 Baudrillard, Jean 1981: Simulacra and Simulation, ISBN-10: 0472065211
76 Ranciere, Jacques 2011: The Emancipated Spectator, Verso, ISBN-10: 1844677613
77 Zizek, Slavoj 2005: What’s Wrong with Fundamentalism? Part II, http://www.lacan.com/zizpassion.htm,
78 Zizek, Slavoj 1989: The Sublime Object of Ideology, Verso, ISBN-10: 0860919714
79 Prince, Richard 2011: Collected Writings, Foggy Notion Books, ISBN-10: 0983587000
80 Sutherland, Keston Spring 2007; 53, 1; Hot White Andy, Chicago Review
81 The Cranberries 2007: To The Faithful Departed, Island Records
82 Barthes, Roland 1978: Image-Music-Text, Hill and Wang, ISBN-10: 0374521360
83 University of London Goldsmiths 2013: MFA Fine Art Student Handbook
2 Levine, S. 1982, Statement, In Style, Vancouver Art Gallery
3 http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/drama, accessed: 22/07/13
4 Camden Arts Centre, File Note #73 ‘Simon Martin UR Feeling’ 2012
5 Parikka, Jussi 2012: What is Media Archaeology, ISBN-10: 0745650260
6 Flusser, Vilem 2004: Writings, Univ Of Minnesota Press, ISBN10: 081663565X
7 Nesbit, Molly 2013: The Pragmatism in the History of Art, Periscope, ISBN-10: 1934772267
8 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Analytical_psychology, accessed: 23/07/13
9 Magnetic Fields 1999, 69 Love Songs, Merge Records
10 C. G. Jung, The Archetypes and The Collective Unconscious, ISBN-10: 0691018332
11 Düttmann, Alexander García 2012, Naive Art: An Essay on Happiness, August Verlag
12 Radiohead 2007: In Rainbows, Warner/Chappell Music
13 Radiohead 1997: Ok Computer, Capitol
14 Butthole Surfers 1996: Electriclarryland, Capitol
15 Sarah McLachlan 1997: Surfacing, BMG
16 David Bowie 1995: Outside, Virgin Records Us
17 Beastie Boys 2005: Solid Gold Hits, Capitol
18 Shklovsky, Victor 1991: Theory of Prose, Dalkey Archive Press, ISBN-10: 0916583643
19 McLuhan, Marshall 2011: From Cliche to Archetype, Gingko Press, ISBN-10: 1584230665
20 Wachowski, Andy & Lana 2003: The Matrix Reloaded, Warner Bros
21 Cage, John 1961: Silence: Lectures and Writings, Wesleyan, ISBN-10: 0819560286
22 Brown, Peter; Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity; Universty of Chicago Press; 1982
23 Mullarkey, John 2002: Henri Bergson Key Writings, Bloomsbury Academic, ISBN-10: 0826457282
24 Riley, Denise 2000: The Words of Selves Identification, Solidarity, Irony, Stanford Press, ISBN 0804739110
25 Riley, Denise 2005: Impersonal Passion Language as Affect, Duke University Press, ISBN 0822335123
26 http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Talk:Albert_Einstein, accessed 24/07/13
27 Cohen, Leonard 2007: Book Of Longing, Ecco, ISBN-10: 006112561X
28 Düttmann, Alexander 2012: Naive Art: An Essay on Happiness
29 Foster, Hal, Rosalind Krauss, Yve-Alain Bois, Benjamin H.D. Buchloh 2005: Art Since 1900
Modernism, Antimodernism, Postmoderism, Thames & Hudson, ISBN-10: 0500285357
30 Harman, Graham 2010: Towards Speculative Realism: Essays and Lectures, Zero Books, ISBN-10: 1846943949
31 C. G. Jung, "Approaching the Unconscious" in C. G. Jung ed., Man and his Symbols (London 1978) p.58
32 Radiohead 2000: Kid A, Capitol
33 Elkins, James 2004: On the Strange Place of Religion in Contemporary Art, Routledge. ISBN-10: 0415969891
34 Clift, Jean Dalby, Clift, Wallace 1996: The Archetype of Pilgrimage: Outer Action With Inner Meaning. The Paulist Press. ISBN 0-8091-3599-X
35 Taylor, Tommy 2011: Art; belief interpretation politics business, CreateSpace, ISBN-13:978-0615502564
36 Heidegger, Martin 2008: Being and Time, ISBN-10: 0061575593
37 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Future_Birthplace_of_Captain_James_T_Kirk.jpg,
38 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Verona-Juliet%27s_balcony.jpg, accessed 29/07/13
39 Gillian Welch 2011: The Harrow & The Harvest, Acony Records
40 Leonard Cohen 2001: Ten New Songs, Sony
41 Marshall, Peter 1992: Demanding the Impossible A History of Anarchism, Fontana Press, ISBN0006862454
42 McHugh, Gene 2011: Post Internet, Lulu.com, ISBN-10: 1447803892
43 Gillian Welch 2001, Hell Among the Yearlings, Acony Records
44 Elliot Smith 1998, XO, Dreamworks
45 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philosophy, accessed 29/07/13
46 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Empirical, accessed 30/07/13
47 Demme, Jonathan 1991, The Silence of the Lambs, MGM
48 Radiohead 2003: Hail To The Thief, Capitol
49 Andrew Bird 2005, The Mysterious Production of Eggs, Righteous Babe
50 http://www.nbcnews.com/id/19719373/ns/us_news-life/t/accomplished-graduate-drowns/
#.UVowBJPq0xF/, accessed 26/07/13
51 Andrew Bird 2007, Armchair Apocrypha, Fat Possum Records
52 Lerner, Ben 2004: The Lichtenberg Figures, Copper Canyon Press, ISBN-10: 1556592116
53 Radiohead 2001: Amnesiac, Capitol
54 Sting 1996: Mercury Falling, A&M
55 Tori Amos 1992: Little Earthquakes, Atlantic/WEA
56 Leonard Cohen 1997: More Best Of, Sony
57 Thom Yorke 2006: The Eraser, Xl Recordings
58 The Perishers 2005: Let There Be Morning, Nettwerk Records
59 Mathews, Harry & Alastair Brotchie 1998: Oulipo Compendium, Atlas Press, ISBN 1900565188
60 Smashing Pumpkins 1995: Mellon Collie & the Infinite Sadness, Virgin Records
61 Smashing Pumpkins 1998: Adore, Virgin Records Us
62 Fleet Foxes 2008: Fleet Foxes, Sub Pop
63 Tori Amos 2002: Sorta Fairytale, Phantom Sound & Visi
64 Erofeev, Venedikt 1992: Moscow to the End of the Line, Northwestern University Press, ISBN-10:0810112000
65 Tori Amos 1994: Under the Pink, Atlantic / WEA
66 Gillian Welch 2001: Time (The Revelator), Acony Records
67 Tori Amos 1998: From The Choirgirl Hotel, Atlantic
68 Judy Garland 1939: The Wizard of Oz, Hallmark
69 Emmylou Harris 1995: Wrecking Ball, Asylum Records
70 Carroll, Lewis 1993: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Dover Publications, ISBN-10: 0486275434
71 Bataille, Georges 2001: Story of the Eye, ISBN-10: 0872862097
72 http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8126237.stm, accessed: 28/07/13
73 http://www.veredart.com/artists/102/emmanuel_man_ray/, accessed 01/08/13
74 Barthes, Roland 2010: A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, ISBN-10: 0374532311
75 Baudrillard, Jean 1981: Simulacra and Simulation, ISBN-10: 0472065211
76 Ranciere, Jacques 2011: The Emancipated Spectator, Verso, ISBN-10: 1844677613
77 Zizek, Slavoj 2005: What’s Wrong with Fundamentalism? Part II, http://www.lacan.com/zizpassion.htm,
78 Zizek, Slavoj 1989: The Sublime Object of Ideology, Verso, ISBN-10: 0860919714
79 Prince, Richard 2011: Collected Writings, Foggy Notion Books, ISBN-10: 0983587000
80 Sutherland, Keston Spring 2007; 53, 1; Hot White Andy, Chicago Review
81 The Cranberries 2007: To The Faithful Departed, Island Records
82 Barthes, Roland 1978: Image-Music-Text, Hill and Wang, ISBN-10: 0374521360
83 University of London Goldsmiths 2013: MFA Fine Art Student Handbook
*In the spirit of the above writing I don't have a problem with its reuse but request that you reference where it is used from.
