Concerning the works of Room 13: Osseous,

All artwork and words are original to
Hannah Carpenter Pitkin unless noted otherwise.

31.12.11

The Transformation Of The Death Circus

Last night I stood in some strange town. A death circus: my charge to transfer disjointed human portions - all of which painted as horrible clowns, open and bulging - from a deeply rusted pickup and into rows on the harassed sodded hillside. My hair would often become entangled with the hair of the dead; the affixed faces swinging from side to side, looking up at me with a distant echo of evil. Black underbellies of the eyes held home to ravenous maggots, the mouths gapped and without tongue nor teeth.

Upon the placement of the final blackened abdomen a figure appeared port side, imitating the tasteful movement of a swarm of ravens, swollen with the halo of blur. Its face held no recognition for me, nor did the stride. With ease and resoluteness it brought its wings overhead, towering above and shading the hillside and all those laid upon it and as it swiftly brought wings to side once more, the hillside bloomed with fresh flesh appropriately in conjunction and breathing and humming and not one silent. The moment before my eyes opened to dawn commenced the most magnificent chorus of songbirds, thousands. They buried the echos of evil and danced through my window into the earthly morn. A mountain by the Devil's hand now at hand of animate flock.

25.12.11

Heron's Don't Look Back

 The Smartest Heron by hannahcarpenterpitkin

Winter doesn't matter unless you see it fly away,
It all mattered, though. Gracefully it all settled in between.

Alice

Alice C,

Windows sweat in your sway and I dreamt last night that it bled over me in waves of grace and trepidation that only a brush on hide could frame. A bosom is only as wild as the seeds it plants and yours are true Black Eyed Susans. I'd walk away with pale flesh if only I didn't know the elated reality of distended bruises. It doesn't matter the key nor tempo as long as it's a violent reaction. This realm hasn't been bred for meekness. Not for the likes of some I've known, nor for some I will, nor for the child I once was. Welcome to your thrash and radiance; it suits this circumference. 


Regards,

Middle Chapters

Chapter Kringle: A Memo To The Mad

Suckers thought we'd be easy to catch,
But trickster makes this world.
Suckers thought we'd be easy to catch,
If only they knew it like that.

13.12.11

Soft Couch, Crisp Mouse

Chrimbus 2011
Cyclops Shark Absorbs Talented Youth; Youth Dreams Of Sultry Women
Young Girl With Ball On Animal Hide Chair With Pet Primble And Dancing Man

11.12.11


whether she knew
I was watching
was irrelevant
wasn't it



9.12.11

Skeleton

The bones of the body. Man was not aware of his bones. Ah, yes, the bones. The skeleton. Most difficult.
Something concerning an imbalance, an unsympathetic coordination between soul, flesh, and skeleton.

- 'Skeleton'
   Ray Bradbury



7.12.11

Touch Of Evil: Cinematic Villainy

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/12/06/magazine/13villains.html


5.12.11

Skull and Magnifying Glass, Apartment Building


 better scan

2.12.11

Batman Disposition



1.12.11

the neighborhood











30.11.11

A Great Man

I cannot image love nor the atoms which make up all things nor can I image God.
I am overwhelmed by existence and the splendor and misery we call history.


All these things are natural to man. I can hold these things like sand between my hands and be comforted because, although the reason and purpose of life is beyond comprehension, it is within us. It is in stones and flowers, too. In the Natural Law. What is within us, I believe, is the reality that Someone, Something created all things. That the very passion of life, of love and hatred, is the acceptance or negation of God.


The poet E.E. Cummings described a lost soul as "a man falling on all sides". William Blake, a believer, was overwhelmed by creation. He once wrote, "I can look at a knot in a tree until it frightens me". Both these statements are radiant with intelligence. They have become art because they have the power to affect our reality, even our souls.


Great art is about transcendence. It elevates like. This is why I try to make great art. It is my vocation, my prayer. Like the clown before the altar, his "prayer", his art, was to perform. Some thought this blasphemy. The aware knew it was the most sublime act of love of which he was capable. 

- Joel Peter Witkin

Feast Of Fools, Mexico City 1990

29.11.11

Sand Mementos


Corner the word smith shift;
Subtle little chin cleft
Cover to cover like this.
Except you and I thrive homeless.

Didn't mean to leave you with all my charmless clippings,
I cool in ice cubes from your fancy dream drippings.
And you can call me The Receiver,
Right or left ear Dream Weaver,
At my side, the Unfolding Songster singing 
Trickster makes this world stronger.

They call me Little Reckless, and him Mister Far Gone;
Side by side we make The Tall One.
He was a wax president, made out with real hair though.
Smells like a beach accident,
A corpse soul in sand mementos.

28.11.11


suck the holiday bones dry

25.11.11

Flannery O'Connor

is absolutely the best.


‎'In my stories a reader will find that the devil accomplishes a good deal of groundwork that seems to be necessary before grace is effective....To insure our sense of mystery, we need a sense of evil which sees the devil as a real spirit who must be made to name himself with his specific personality for every occasion.'


- In the Devil's Territory



22.11.11

Oh! Your bruises look like really big mistakes.
I'd apologize but I think you deserve them.



21.11.11

Deciphering

The letters are in. Deciphering
drifts from the opposite fort.

'This beetle suit can get away with murder,
shovel him out!'
Linear lines thrust
over other ending flames always folding
in a linear world without you.

How to solve the problem of reunion photographs, and
screaming cardboard women traveling on stage through the city,
[always folding, and]

rearranging Dyl's card table that is a third green and
she is smiling too much;
worry about this.




I'm not children
bushes on the hill
chorus line







10.11.11

Chapter 231: When You Broke Your Arm In My Imagination

if it were only a bone
escaping the captivity of you
i would watch with ease
separating the curls behind my ears
but it's more than a fleeting moment,
it's a brother abandoning
the veins and muscle of you
meant for other worlds
and whiles, it doesn't matter
that it hurts you or changes you
it doesn't have hair on its own
and it doesn't cut its fingers
in the shop on the jigsaw



9.11.11

The Mid Summers



7.11.11

Trifecta


 we do real work


6.11.11

Wings Of Desire

















Wim Wenders' Wings Of Desire is lyrical. I admire it increasingly, as melodies captivate me, but I would dare to say that all who are listeners hear the rhythm of this work.

This particular piece is exceptionally related to my recent studies and explorations of still film and its relation to time, death, and space. When a moment is captured by a light sensitive material, and hence has the ability to imprison (I use this word presently in relation to my current philosophies (and inner battles) towards photography,) a moment in time, impossible to purely repeat; does that not relate to the ideas of the physical and metaphysical ideal of the 'self'?:

"When the child was a child,
it was the time of these questions:
Why am I me and why not you?
Why am I here and why not there?
When did time begin, 
And where does space end?
Isn't life under the sun just a dream?
Isn't what I see and hear and smell
Just an illusion in front of a world
In front of a world?
Does evil actually exist,
and people who are really evil?
How can it be that this 'me' that I am
Wasn't 'me' before I existed,
And that someday this 'me' that I am
Will no longer be 'me'?"


In many ways Wenders reminds me of Fellini - a film of realities, yet firmly rooted in the dreams of men. Both Wings Of Desire and La Dolce Vita are subconscious (yet blessedly conscious,) looks at the human role from perspectives of men in circumstances of power. Wings Of Desire being the 'power' of the angels. La Dolce Vita being the power of the influential.


The delight of lifting one's head
Out here in the open,
Of seeing the colors
In all men's eyes, enlightened by the sun.


At last mad, no longer alone.
At last mad, at last redeemed.
At last mad, at last at peace.
At last a fool, at last an inner light.


My mother -
She was never my mother.
My father -
My father was my father.


She doesn't love you.
Never did.
And you're faking it too.
Be glad they forgot about you.
You're finally free.


"I want to die and live forever,"
She said.
QUIET!



5.11.11

Brushing Teeth | Smiling | Bleeding Knuckles


3.11.11

'It Or You'

In Pre Production.
Poster by Hannah Pitkin.


30.10.11




every universe of vice and dent
hushed itself in the empyrean
wells above and below the storm

29.10.11

Chapter 259: The Cat Is In Heat

Jed:  Claudine! The goddamn cat is in heat again!



Dear Rosemary,
Here she is.

28.10.11

October 27 2011

this little one is happy.

27.10.11

Kazuo Ohno

Happy birthday Kazuo Ohno,
an honor to be born on the same day eightytwo years post.
1906 - 2010

21.10.11

Near The Window, Near The Bath


20.10.11

Porcelain Girls


It wasn't regret, but more of a sad silence in her eyes that gave her away.


19.10.11

emptying out the mosh pit
new home's got a muscle feel


13.10.11

Meet Me In The City




8.10.11

This,


7.10.11

The Dust Blows Forward And The Dust Blows Back

There's ole Gray with her dovewinged hat
There's ole Green with her sewing machine
Where's the bobbin at
Toting old grain in a printed sack
The dust blows forward and dust blows back
And the wind blows black through the sky
And the smokestack blows up in sun's eye
What am I gonna die?
A white flake riverboat just flew by
Bubbles popped big
And a lipstick Kleenex hug on a pointed forked twig
Reminds me of the bobby girls
Never was my hobby girls
Hand full of worms and a pole fishing
Cork bobbing like a hot red bulb
And a bluejay squeaks
His beak open an inch above a creek
Gone fishin' for a week
Well I put down my bush
And I took off my pants and felt free
The breeze blowing up me and up the canyon
Far as I could see
It's night now and the moon looks like a dandelion
It's black now and the blackbird's feeding on rice
And his red wings look like diamonds and lice
I could hear the mice toes scampering
Gophers rumbling in pile crater rock hole
One red bean stuck in the bottom of a tin bowl
Hot coffee from a krimpt up can
Me and my girl named Bimbo Limbo Spam


-Captain Beefheart



6.10.11

The Last Tin Roof

free write October 6, a Thursday


Beady was a small child, had
a bald head but for a few curls.
Didn't know what a train was,
didn't know how the moon felt,
wasn't sure about much but her pet
chicken, Ms. Veronica De La Rose.
Her mother wasn't a woman and her
daddy left when she was a hatchling
so no one cared if the swelling of her ankle
was going down or up.
It was going up and it was getting black
real black, real black.
Beady had a song she liked and
she sang it out loud quite loud
to her little sick chicken, Ms. Veronica De La Rose.
No neighbors minded.
She had a nice voice that floated
like a silk veil over the fences and
the tins of the roofs and it
sounded real nice when it would finally
land in your lap and hush you
usually 'til sleep or sometimes hush you awake.
Beady's bald head was bald all the way now
and Ms. Veronica De La Rose was dead since dawn.
The blackness of Beady's ankle enclosed
and took her eyes and settled them,
and the last tin roof fell
quiet for the echos of the veil.



Biophilia

Björk's latest. October 10th.


Thoughts on this are endless, and they are very full.
A fitting release. A very fitting release.




'Best way to start-a-new
Is to fail miserably.
Fail at loving
And fail at giving
Fail at creating a flow.
Then realign the whole
And kick into the start hole.

To risk it all is the end all and the beginning all.'
-from Moon


'It's the sparkle you become
When you conquer anxiety.'
-from Crystalline



5.10.11

Relativity

A conversation with my father based in the optics and mathematical formulas related to the optimal aperture size in a pinhole camera (riveting, trust me), came to halt at the introduction of another subject: the potential for Einstein's special theory of relativity to be inaccurate. I lost all chins as my jaw dropped when poppa Pitkin told me of the recent studies in the speed of neutrinos. 

(Note: neutrino; a neutral subatomic particle with a mass close to zero and half-integral spin, rarely reacting with normal matter. Three kinds of neutrinos are known, associated with the electron, muon, and tau particle.) 


(Also note: The neutrinos raced from a particle accelerator at CERN* outside Geneva, where they were created, to a cavern underneath Gran Sasso in Italy, a distance of about 450 miles, about 60 nanoseconds faster than it would take a light beam. That amounts to a speed greater than light by about 0.0025 percent (2.5 parts in a hundred thousand). [New York Times] )

He smiled as he told me that if it were true that there was something faster than the speed of light, our entire knowledge and capabilities within time travel would be refashioned. 'You could run a circle so fast that by the time you made it back to where you began, you'd see your own backside.' In response, I told him that they should give the experiment a couple more tries before we considered altering our thoughts on time travel. The idea frightens me. The possibilities, oh!: but I don't want anyone meddling with the past. We have fucked up (pardon to my family who may find the word distasteful), and we deserve the repercussions. Lessons couldn't be learned if they were never had. And what is the point of being a living, intelligent, motivated human being, without the honor of trial and error; of doing wrong and knowing wrong.

I've been looking into it: it seems as though this theory is far from confirmed, which breathes me easier. Though Star Trek may be one of my favorite science fiction television explorations (mm, and The Twilight Zone,) I would prefer that we leave those warps for our imaginations and elaborate screen writing. We are doomed as a planet, largely due to our naughty behavior, but also due to the nature of things. Birth, Adaptation, Consumption, Death. I have the belief that one day, a species similar to ours will have learned from, and heeded to our failures, but if we attempt solving the past's disasters, then we are forever doomed to a world with no present: a never ending cycle of do-overs that inevitably leads us to a barren world that is neither here nor there. The living thing is meant to follow through with its natural cycle. Time travel, in my opinion, is not a part of that, but a disruption of it.


(*CERN is the world's largest particle physics laboratory, located near Geneva at the border between Switzerland and France. The name CERN derives from its original incarnation: the French Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire, or European Council for Nuclear Research, which was formed in 1952 to help establish world-class fundamental physics research in Europe. Two years later, the council was dissolved and replaced by the European Organization for Nuclear Research. The name CERN was retained. [New York Times] )



4.10.11

Wild At Heart

'This whole world's wild at heart and weird on top.'
-David Lynch's 'Wild At Heart'


Endlessly romantic. Endlessly disturbed. A brilliant filmmaker.







3.10.11



only, my forewarned god
does that thing where he tells everyone
before me the bad things,
an encyclopedia of damaged goods
and three drinks in he gets frisky
when i have to say, god.
you stop it now.
i've been trying all along to be as good
as i can and you come along
making it impossible to lift my back up
and say the rights things to people
who can get me places,
big places with those vines you
read all about in the greek type books
so just lay off it.
i'll be on my way if you'd just stop
blocking the doorway.

excuses, excuses.



2.10.11

Fly season is over,
Now we wait.




1.10.11

you will find me at the side rail
229 229 229,
it's easy to remember.
i'm the one who always writes it down,
i'm the one who bought the coffin,
i'm the one who buried you.



30.9.11

Meshes of the Afternoon



Meshes Of The Afternoon   
1943
Maya Deren

I've been waking up before the sun these days. Today I woke up with this.

Eleanora Derenkowsky (Maya Deren) was born in 1917 in the Ukraine, but in 1922, with threats of anti-semitism, her family fled to New York State. Her younger years were spent at The League of Nations International School in Geneva. Deren attended both Syracuse and New York University, where she studied political science and journalism. Much of this educational background really comes out in her later documentary film Divine Horsemen: The Living Gods of Haiti. In her early adulthood, she was primarily a dancer, traveling the United States with the Katherine Dunham Dance Company. It was during a tour with the company that brought Deren in contact with Alexander Hammid, her would-be husband. Together, they produced the film above. Her first, and some would say, most successful work. Her work is often very critical of social rituals, and she uses physical landscapes to represent the complexity and/or spaciousness within our communities, ourselves, and our intimidations. Deren was one of the most influential and distinguished avant garde filmmakers and film theorists. At Land and The Very Eye of Night are two other examples of her incredible work, which involve and make use of Deren's professional knowledge and experience with dance. In 1943, Deren began a collaboration with Marchel Duchamp on a film entitled The Witches' Cradle -the film was never completed. 

'In an anagram all the elements exist in a simultaneous relationship. Consequently, within it, nothing is first and nothing is last; nothing is future and nothing is past; nothing is old and nothing is new… Each element of an anagram is so related to the whole that no one of them may be changed without affecting its series and so affecting the whole. And conversely the whole is so related to every part that whether one reads horizontally, vertically, diagonally or even in reverse, the logic of the whole is not disrupted, but remains intact.'
-Maya Deren



28.9.11

A Letter, A Memo

free write september twenty-eight



sometimes it says it in a medium
drift with words of the best stock,
'small black lines between more of them,
and the grays, the so many of the shade.'
whispers turn into screams even if
you don't hear it.
it's southern gothic to me.

it's endless Bach with organs
and Chopin minors, stinging clarity
and the sore neck of the lady
in the elevator; the contrast
makes it the same.
evacuate your orthogonal plans,
no right angle saves a soul.
no right angle ever saved one.

the effect is what you are becoming:
a rabid thing of sorts,
spewing from the whistles
and grinding through maniac buildings.

I'd rather spin the wheel
and bet against odds.
it wasn't what everyone saw,
nor what everyone painted out.
this was a ruin at exactly the moment
that it became the ruin.

it thrills me to no end,
this freedom of a splintered soul
tends to itself like a nurse.
she feeds me sweets
and I forgive her for the bandages
wrapped too tight, and the sedative
she meant to,
but was actually speed.

I'd watch it for one moment
of sincere movement.
the casting of the cameo fitting.
[applause here.]
only, make it count and make them cry.
tears are their inspiration;
salt it with them and
make them wet with violent consideration.
they'll weep in gratitude,
they'll gift in retrospect.

and into the darkness I'll trend,
gladly and with eager banquet.



27.9.11

' But then is there anything so clear and right that it deserves to live in this world? In the end what we need is some hygiene, some cleanliness, disinfection. We're smothered by images, words and sounds that have no right to exist, coming from, and bound for, nothingness. Of any artist truly worth the name we should ask nothing except this act of faith: to learn silence.


Our true mission is sweeping away the thousands of miscarriages that every day obscenely try to come to the light. And how do you benefit from stringing together the tattered pieces of your life? Your vague memories, the faces of people you were never able to love...
---

What is this sudden happiness that makes me tremble, giving me strength, life? Forgive me, sweet creatures. I hadn't understood. I didn't know. It's so natural accepting you, loving you. And so simple. I feel I've been freed. Everything seems so good, so meaningful. Everything is true. I wish I could explain. But I don't know how to. So. Everything is confused again, as it was before.


This confusion is me. Not as I'd like to be, but as I am. I'm not afraid anymore of telling the truth, of the things I don't know, what I'm looking for and haven't found. This is the only way I can feel alive and I can look into your faithful eyes without shame. Life is a celebration. Accept me for what I am, if you want me. '


-An excerpt from 
   By Federico Fellini



One of the most incredible films I have seen yet.
Fellini constructed an autobiopic (not literal per se, but beyond stage names a biopic most definitely,) that acknowledges the vanity and shallowness that results from the denial of human weakness; the confusion of our essence and failures; our delusions of wealth and greatness. He does not claim purity or genius here, but provides us a narrative of the human condition when confronted with temptation. He is easy to hate, and in spite of that, (or because of that,) easy to identify with. If we analyze beyond the aesthetics, this is about us.

Temptations, though, cannot stop our momentary realizations of our purpose and its simplicity. We feel it in waves; grazing the shores, but are drawn back into a sea of abstraction until one day, when we become tide pools and cannot be pulled back into the depth and draw of darkness. It is my sentiment that the greatest art comes from this transitional place: what we bring back with us when our waves break is what allows us flourishing intellect.

Also recommended, La Dolce Vida.



26.9.11

How To Fly Solo

Do it a lot.



'How To Fly Solo' Written by Nathan Palombo
Filmed by Nathan Palombo, Hannah Pitkin, and introduction by Anna Bromley
Produced and Edited by Hannah Pitkin


Audio:

How To Fly Solo by hannahcarpenterpitkin