Room 13: Osseous

Paris, Texas

2012-02-13T21:33:00.001-05:00

T: For five days he ran like this until every sign of man had disappeared.

...

J: Every man has your voice.

pie

2012-02-11T18:00:00.001-05:00

me, tonight, but this was long ago.

2012-02-10T23:25:00.000-05:00

put your goddamn skin back on. dinner in twenty fucking minutes. grow up.

In The Desert

2012-02-10T23:01:00.002-05:00

Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, 'Is it good, friend?'
It is bitter -- bitter,' he answered,

But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.

guillotine

2012-02-10T22:47:00.000-05:00

the back of it un-smooth dark with the

jesus christ what am i saying
if it was ok i'd be there
if i knew i had proof

i'd put you under the blade and kiss your sandy lips
don't pray before you go,
don't try to find me, i'm behind them all
telling myself the artery and muscle and tissue
are welcomed by some dark thing
mostly wet
mostly unreal
and only where i put my black colors

The Evidence of Men That Made Them

2012-02-09T22:41:00.000-05:00

Plate Vb Human Skull, engraving by William Miller
Engravings of the Skeleton of the Human Body. John Gordon MD. Blackwood, Edinburgh 1818
(http://guildofscientifictroubadours.com/2009/12/27/science-art-human-skull-by-william-miller/)

Anonymous [Treatise on physiognomy. (Netherlands?, ca. 1790)
(http://morbidanatomy.blogspot.com/2008/02/anonymous-treatise-on-physiognomy.html)

Physiognomy is the science of relating an individual's character, personality, and temperament to the shape of his or her face, head, and/or body. The theories behind it go back to Hippocrates, who believed that physical characteristics of the human body revealed personality traits; Aristotle performed studies on how hair, limbs and facial features predicted personality and temperament. Such theories thrived throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and the noted Girolamo Cardano (1501-1576) was one of its main proponents. By the 18th century, the study of physiognomy was still taken very seriously as a medical topic, with important additions to the field made by Johann Caspar Lavater (1741-1801). Franz Josef Gall (1758-1828) attempted to make its study even more scientific by measuring human and animal craniums to find correlations between skull shape and behavior, founding the field of phrenology.

- Unknown Auther, 1790s

Giuseppe Arcimboldo: [top to bottom,] Water, Air, Earth, Fire

2012-02-09T21:35:00.000-05:00

2012-02-08T20:01:00.000-05:00

'It comes down to whether you can, or cannot. Now, I see in you, I see, a kid with spunk. You got spunk but, but where you gonna put that all spunk when it comes to the whether or not you can or cannot? Ach. Listen, I'll do you a solid. And solids are rare comin' from me, but I like you. Mostly cause you got spunk, but also for the tits, too. You'll find what you need in a shit brown canvas case under the third booth at Gladys' joint. I give you nine days. I'll be back here in nine days. For your own good you should impress me. I should be impressed when I come back here. Psh. Spunk. Goddamn I'm gettin' fuckin' old. You gonna eat that coleslaw? Fucking cabbage is good f'you. Learn a little somethin' about your goddamn health, would you? Jesus Christ kid, you look like a shit my cat took after it starved for four days.'

Brick, Steel, & Stacks

2012-02-07T21:56:00.001-05:00

Delicatessen, 1991

Rear Window, 1954

In which a cloud sliced the moon in half, "like a razor blade slicing through an eye."

2012-02-07T14:41:00.003-05:00

No idea or image that might lend itself to a rational explanation of any kind would be accepted. We had to open all doors to the irrational and keep only those images that surprised us, without trying to explain why.

Louis Buñuel

I Walked Alone

2012-02-06T21:58:00.000-05:00

I Walked Alone from Hannah Pitkin on Vimeo.
'I Walked Alone' sung by James Brown
Photograph, editing by Hannah Pitkin

a real indication

2012-02-06T18:54:00.001-05:00

Filmed on Hi-8 in 1992, this DIY music video is a rare visual document of Lynch & Badalamenti's 'Thought Gang.' An esoteric jazz side-project born amidst the landscape of Twin Peaks, 'Thought Gang' featured several talented players in a mostly improvisational setting with Badalamenti providing vocal duties. 'A Real Indication' was the first of around 10 tracks to be recorded under the Thought Gang moniker, and one of only two Thought Gang tracks to have been released over the years (both 'A Real Indication' and 'The Black Dog Runs at Night' are included on the soundtrack to Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me). The remaining tracks await an LP release in 2011.

Stay Awake

2012-02-04T22:26:00.000-05:00

More or less in dedication to David Lynch.
More than less an interpretation of Mulholland Dr.

[set quality to HD]

'I've Told Every Little Star' sung by Linda Scott
Photographs, Editing by Hannah Pitkin

Inspired by David Lynch and Joel Peter Witkin

Genius Loci: Inferno

2012-02-04T18:38:00.000-05:00

annabell, or anonymous young

2012-02-03T18:19:00.000-05:00

It was as if she didn't hear me. My hands were over my mouth, but my temperature and volume made them sweat. I let it drip over her forehead and watched it peel through her eyebrows and drown her lashes as if they were tears of her own. She didn't say a word, she didn't look up or open her mouth. I saw her lips paling and shrinking slightly, like I was watching a flower die. Her hair was thin. She was screaming, now. No one else could hear her. But I had to run from the room. I had to run.

kill me and thrill me and kill me

2012-02-03T00:08:00.002-05:00

mambo |ˈmämbō|
noun ( pl. -bos )
a voodoo priestess.

spiritus sanctus |spiː.ri.tʊs ˈsank.tus|proper noun ( genitive spīritus sānctī )The Holy Spirit

John Enters Store; Spits Chew On Shoe; Rubs In With Opposite Heal; Places Three Dimes And Two Pennies On The Counter;

2012-02-01T22:49:00.000-05:00

Hey. Buddy. Where's the information super highway or whatever.

Bluer Than Velvet, Was The Night

2012-02-01T14:19:00.002-05:00

'there is trouble until the robins come'
blue velvet

007

2012-01-31T06:42:00.001-05:00

Militia Ape

creation of Dylan McAvenia

They Are Only Human, And Therefore Mistakes Do Occur

2012-01-31T06:18:00.001-05:00

dictionaryhuman |ˈ(h)yoōmən|

adjective

• of, relating to, or characteristic of people or human beings : the human body | the survival of the human race.

• ofor characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines,esp. in being susceptible to weaknesses :they are only human, and therefore mistakes do occur | the risk ofhuman error.

• ofor characteristic of people's better qualities, such as kindness orsensitivity : the human sideof politics is getting stronger.

•Zoologyofor belonging to the genus Homo.

thesaurushuman

adjective

1they'reonly human:mortal, flesh and blood; fallible, weak, frail, imperfect,vulnerable, susceptible, erring, error-prone; physical, bodily,fleshly.

2thehuman side of politics:compassionate, humane, kind, considerate, understanding, sympathetic,tolerant; approachable, accessible.

3inhuman form:anthropomorphic, anthropoid, humanoid, hominid.

fourthbus this January. in Brooklyn: walk and forage forsilver sidewalks. most of the time it's gum, but it goddamndeceivingly looks a lot like quarters. eating 25 cent bagged potatochips and mini snickers. 33 cent bagels at C-Town and Associated.bodega on the corner felt bad for me (always paying in dimes andnickels), fat bagel toasted with butter: 75 cent. broke out on mychin from the poverty foods - grease and sugar are cheap in america.George street caked in dog shit, never look up, never look up oryou'll have the air of mold married city dog pissy-shit partying in thetread valleys of your stupid girly heeled boots. I wore the(Brunswick, ME) Salvation Army fur coat over baggy t-shirtsand jeans with holes in the ass almost every day. usurped Russ' hugegreen corduroy button up|down so I could hide (in it) the holes easy.no one wants to see that. it's rude. unsavory. Gaby's Bakery.assorted baked goods for little to nothing. 75 cent generous raisinscone and usually a complimentary coffee or pineapple cookie. 85 centsparking waters with probably fatal helpings of aspartame. Coors fora little over a bone. it's amazing how much money people drop on thestreet. probably holes in their pockets. or maybe it's some peopledon't give a fuck about the two dimes in change they got afterordering up an egg sandwich. (I always called them breakfastsandwiches but was recently made aware that no one says that in newyork city. it's egg sandwich.ok.) I could smell them on my walks to Glendale. which is basically abizarre Lowell with a huge Jewish cemetery. walk through Ridgewood,past all the Mexican joints and hello Glendale white jocks playingpool through neon beer signs giving me the once over while I frownfuriously speed walking through like a middle-to-older aged woman worriedabout the drooping where once was once was. ('Droopy was the goddamn missing dwarf; hebelongs at snow white's heals, not around the ass and thighs of the Wicked Witch of the fucking East.') the frown came first, though.apparently that's how I get when I concentrate. (I think I dosomething weird with my nose and upper lip too. very unflattering.)walking is a prime time to concentrate. there's a lot to work outbefore sitting down again. in the Glendale Jewish cemetery - MountLebanon Cemetery if I recall correct - I walked one day to the top ofthe hill and looked out towards the east end of the place andcuriously noted the exceptionally compact nature of that particulararea in the graveyard. turning to my right, the sun came from behinda cloud. it was off and on like that all day. sickly little skinclouds, but pretty dark gray and highly persuasive on my mood. I gavea nod to the sun and continued on towards the further end of the plotand in the corner of my sky eye line I saw a flock of red balloons.must have been a birthday or any sort of event really; but none ofthat seemed of any actual significance. this particular sequence ofevents cloaked me all day. my skin wasknotted |unkempt| in my gut while my insides lay stretched wetabsorbing the slug clouds and the sun and the shrinking red stars. Iwalked on and later that night was in a better mood than the few daysbefore. inevitably ended up watching Forbidden Planet or War Of TheWorlds or some goddamn brilliant old sci fi flick. probably had agreen pepper and Roma tomato bowl with multiple tablespoons of hotsauce. (peppers and tomatoes are cheap too. hot sauce is around threeor four bucks but it lasts and it clears out your sinuses like amotherfucker, so I'd opt to blow a chunk of change on a bottle asoften as necessary.) of course, the charity of kind souls is acharity I couldn't begin to express thanks for. probably not inEnglish or human talk at all. I try to say it with my eyes becausewhatever is in there I always find to be far more truthful thanwhatever bullshit comes out my mouth. I'm real sloppy that way. not agreat talker. problems with saying things unless I've got it allfigured out and it's completely accurate to whatever the feeling is.that can be pretty hard for me. usually comes out terrifyinglyabstract (& days too late) which I'm told can be pretty frustrating to deal with. jesus christ there are a lot of mack trucks out this timeof night.

In the Desert

2012-01-30T21:12:00.001-05:00

by Stephen Crane

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, "Is it good, friend?"

"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;

"But I like it

"Because it is bitter,

"And because it is my heart."

Centerpiece, [Feed of Intention, Filmmaking]

2012-01-29T05:49:00.000-05:00

busy candles

Permanent Vacation, 1980, Jim Jarmusch
Earl Bostic – 'Up There in Orbit'

Mulholland Drive, 2001, David Lynch
Angelo Badalamenti- 'Jitterbug'

Brazil, 1985, Terry Gilliam
Music by Michael Kamen

Pina, 2011, Wim Wenders
Music by Juan Llossas, Charlie Chaplin, Anton Karas, Sibelius and others

Llorando: Cidade dos Sonhos

2012-01-29T02:14:00.001-05:00

All that is left now is the tears, and so Rebekah del Rio comes out to sing the Spanish version of a song called "Crying," written by Roy Orbison. Before singing the song, Rebekah del Rio is introduced in Spanish as "The Crying Lady of Los Angeles." This title is also the name of a legendary Spanish woman who was jilted by her husband who left her with their two children for another woman. Overwhelmed by the loss of her lover, she kills her two children and herself. In a certain sense, this is a hint that Diane's grief in the real world has made her homicidal as well as suicidal.

- from Allan Shaw's 'A Multi-Layered Analysis of Mulholland Dr.'

In One Are Two

2012-01-28T21:18:00.003-05:00

In The Gallows of Saint Teresa of Avila

2012-01-28T21:05:00.003-05:00

I thought I recognized her.

It was hard to tell.

I was at a place where a certain person died who for many years had lived a wicked life, from what I knew. But he had been sick for two years, and in some things it seems he had made amends. He died without confession, but nevertheless it didn't seem to me he would be condemned. While the body was being wrapped in its shroud, I saw many devils take that body; and it seemed they were playing with it and punishing it. This terrified me, for with large hooks they were dragging it from one devil to the other. Since I saw it buried with the honor and ceremonies accorded to all, I reflected on the goodness of God, how He did not want that soul to be defamed, but wanted the fact that it was His enemy to be concealed.

- from the Collected Works of St. Teresa of Avila

Third Floor, East Wing, Sporting Room

2012-01-28T13:32:00.000-05:00

Meanwhile, who the fuck could have been late? How many guests did I tell you to expect? Am I ever fucking off target? What do you think I pay you for, you dumbscumsheepfucking piece of shit? When I say to you, when I say, 'absolutely NO ONE is to be admitted unless they're on the list. Under absolutely no goddamn circumstances is anyone else allowed the fuck in,' what, exactly, did you take that to mean? You motherfucker. You goddamn motherfuck.

[Takes deep breath. Wipes palms on suit jacket. Composes himself. Looks down. Smiles. Looks up. Makes eye contact with henchman.]

Do you know what you've cost me?

[Still smiling. Leans in so that his lips touch henchman's ears. Whispers:]

There is no excuse and I afford no second chances. You've cost me. Do you understand? And now, you'll have to repay me with something ... hm, extremely valuable. Some call these things priceless. I call them little piggies. Say oink you stupid fuck.

The Dripping Sink ( _______'s Husk)

2012-01-27T20:14:00.000-05:00

The point of the _________ was to understand further what Fatherhood was. My son was just a son. My eyes just two, and empty. I didn't anticipate the following sequence; the moods between the beams of a Paris, Texas realm. __________ ________ was my professor that spring. __________ had the longest hair of all the women in the room most days. She wore hers in the low pony. Th'others wore top buns like morning breakfast pastries dripping with large egos that looked more like egg yolk if you ask me. I saw nothing but samurais. Fatherhood looked like the long end of a sword held suspended by my mother's gut. I wasn't fond of that side of her. It produced a somewhat unflattering anger within me. _________ was intrusive. But something in her salted corn husk hair bled me out of my feather bed, far further than the running water wore me down - the dripping sink. The fucking dripping sink.

A Dangerous Street In The Winter For Pedestrians

2012-01-27T19:56:00.000-05:00

daub it on the rocks, over there
grab my gin and bring it to me on the porch
i'll sway over these stones until the music starts
in the basement
on the longest street

the rhodes is a marvelous thing

accomplice |əˈkämplis|

2012-01-26T01:16:00.001-05:00

the twins were henchmen; [informal] sidekicks.

'Left,'

'Guess'

there wasn't a one remained to be troubled by nightmarish intellect.

The White Room (or, Disrupt Of The Womb)

2012-01-25T23:42:00.000-05:00

'Describe your appetite, or at least, the force feed. I see the thickness of the tubes, vertical. Very vertically organized. The story, what was the story about?

'...'

'Your volume is uneasy, please focus on the volume.'

In The Barren Lands

2012-01-21T12:18:00.000-05:00

As far as it will mind to go, dammit.
That's the problem with these things. They don't mind to get nowhere.

1946 January 20 - Present

2012-01-20T23:38:00.001-05:00

The world is getting louder every year,
but to sit and dream is a beautiful thing.

D. Lynch

2012-01-16T18:32:00.000-05:00

carry beam whitening the ether sides, both tall with flair, romantic feelings between them, sharp steel always reoccurring forcefully and unwanted, isn't it. two youngs dating for red breath reason, both for mother and the step who's off this weekend business-ing prominently and resourcefully. no phone call no letters, in fact pens extinct by now. some breeze heavy with tin soil trash melt the alley above the strays and loose fur pets, don't touch don't even look; rabies futuristic rabies. she lowers her pasty thumb out the pocket and soon all four others down to touch the gray. sores immediately, swollen tongue, but well hidden. clever thing wants what it was down there, twisted, angry, breathing slow. intimidating for some who don't go out much anymore, but not between. understand the stroke and weather the calm, weather the rain. at least another three hours under the garbage dream. four eyes all showing wet, all showered with ash. round again to the tall where slow light is indeed slow and spies them only after they've gone too empty a song for such a time. it's flown by now tipped off and without so much a spat farewell pattern. vapor metal doesn't melt, it follows bending, leading them home, away from the wet breathing thing, away from each other. home is this empty hallway, hoarse leather cud, heat by mantel dream.

before sleep among the last thoughts of day,

2012-01-14T01:50:00.002-05:00

when I close my eyes this time the distance between my fists is measured by miles and there are valleys absorbed in reflection of steam and steel, absorbing itself in forms of tectonic mission unearthly crude vast expansions between my two fists with my eyes closed

I feel sea sick or motion sick with the tide my breathing is steady but warns the guests with reaching ache lungs - really no one is between them now at all and I could open them and shrink the scape

absorbing itself between crude fists now the eyes are open fists remain fists.
really no one is between shrinking the scape open steady she goes wide unearthly tin cylinders about,
one more shut before the last oscillation measured in miles of steam itself nauseous but shifting impressively

by my standards.

Are You Ever Going To Get Married

2012-01-10T23:23:00.000-05:00

2012-01-06T13:26:00.002-05:00

Greek Vines Vs. The Forewarning God by hannahcarpenterpitkin

Maxion Voldrahnaix

2012-01-04T12:47:00.002-05:00

go to it http://dylanmcavenia.tumblr.com/

The Transformation Of The Death Circus

2011-12-31T13:19:00.001-05:00

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.

Heron's Don't Look Back

2011-12-25T22:13:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-25T22:08:00.003-05:00

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

2011-12-25T21:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Soft Couch, Crisp Mouse

2011-12-13T15:47:00.003-05:00

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

2011-12-11T22:46:00.001-05:00

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

Skeleton

2011-12-09T17:17:00.001-05:00

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

Touch Of Evil: Cinematic Villainy

2011-12-07T15:33:00.001-05:00

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

Skull and Magnifying Glass, Apartment Building

2011-12-05T20:13:00.001-05:00

better scan

Batman Disposition

2011-12-02T11:49:00.001-05:00

the neighborhood

2011-12-01T14:25:00.001-05:00

A Great Man

2011-11-30T14:25:00.001-05:00

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.

Allthese things are natural to man. I can hold these things like sandbetween my hands and be comforted because, although the reason andpurpose of life is beyond comprehension, it is within us. It is instones and flowers, too. In the Natural Law. What is within us, Ibelieve, is the reality that Someone, Something created all things.That the very passion of life, of love and hatred, is the acceptanceor negation of God.

Thepoet E.E. Cummings described a lost soul as "a man falling onall sides". William Blake, a believer, was overwhelmed bycreation. He once wrote, "I can look at a knot in a tree untilit frightens me". Both these statements are radiant withintelligence. They have become art because they have the power toaffect our reality, even our souls.

Greatart is about transcendence. It elevates like. This is why I try tomake great art. It is my vocation, my prayer. Like the clown beforethe altar, his "prayer", his art, was to perform. Somethought this blasphemy. The aware knew it was the most sublime act oflove of which he was capable.

- Joel Peter Witkin

Feast Of Fools, Mexico City 1990

Sand Mementos

2011-11-29T10:18:00.001-05:00

Sand Mementos by hannahcarpenterpitkin

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.

2011-11-28T09:18:00.001-05:00

suck the holiday bones dry

Flannery O'Connor

2011-11-25T23:57:00.001-05:00

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

2011-11-22T15:07:00.001-05:00

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

Deciphering

2011-11-21T08:25:00.001-05:00

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

Chapter 231: When You Broke Your Arm In My Imagination

2011-11-10T13:56:00.001-05:00

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

The Mid Summers

2011-11-09T17:56:00.002-05:00

Trifecta

2011-11-07T16:11:00.000-05:00

we do real work

Wings Of Desire

2011-11-06T23:44:00.001-05:00

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!

Brushing Teeth | Smiling | Bleeding Knuckles

2011-11-05T21:11:00.001-04:00

'It Or You'

2011-11-03T13:19:00.003-04:00

In Pre Production.
Poster by Hannah Pitkin.

2011-10-30T21:16:00.001-04:00

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

Chapter 259: The Cat Is In Heat

2011-10-29T17:25:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-29T12:28:00.001-04:00

Dear Rosemary,

Here she is.

October 27 2011

2011-10-28T15:54:00.001-04:00

this little one is happy.

Kazuo Ohno

2011-10-27T19:21:00.003-04:00

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

Near The Window, Near The Bath

2011-10-21T12:07:00.002-04:00

Porcelain Girls

2011-10-20T16:35:00.004-04:00

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

2011-10-19T21:02:00.005-04:00

emptying out the mosh pit

new home's got a muscle feel

Meet Me In The City

2011-10-13T02:07:00.000-04:00

This,

2011-10-08T16:22:00.000-04:00

The Dust Blows Forward And The Dust Blows Back

2011-10-07T23:22:00.001-04:00

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

The Last Tin Roof

2011-10-06T14:12:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-06T11:43:00.000-04:00

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

Relativity

2011-10-05T19:11:00.003-04:00

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] )

Wild At Heart

2011-10-04T20:16:00.001-04:00

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

Endlessly romantic. Endlessly disturbed. A brilliant filmmaker.

2011-10-03T20:17:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-10-02T19:03:00.001-04:00

Fly season is over,

Now we wait.

2011-10-01T00:58:00.000-04:00

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.

Meshes of the Afternoon

2011-09-30T06:33:00.000-04:00

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

A Letter, A Memo

2011-09-28T21:54:00.000-04:00

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.

8½

2011-09-27T22:17:00.000-04:00

' 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 8½
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.

How To Fly Solo

2011-09-26T01:11:00.000-04:00

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

La Jetée

2011-09-24T12:24:00.000-04:00

An incredible short by Chris Marker. Brilliant example of the power of photomontage, with an exceptional score by Trevor Duncan. Released in 1962 - one of the most influential science fiction films to be made. [Marker wins bonus points for referencing Hitchcock's Vertigo. Find it.]

'They are without memories, without plans. Time builds itself painlessly around them. Their only landmarks are the flavour of the moment they are living and the markings on the walls.'

In Heaven

2011-09-23T23:33:00.000-04:00

In Heaven by hannahcarpenterpitkin
(Written by Peter Ivers for David Lynch's Eraserhead)

an autumnal equinox of sincere and exhaustive rumination.

forthcoming maneuvers will be exceptional.

Cy Twombly

2011-09-20T17:01:00.000-04:00

Cy Twombly

Quattro Stagioni: Autunno 1993-5
Cy Twombly

2011-09-19T21:53:00.001-04:00

I sat to consider the silent news.

a formidable coast ahead,

the wrenching wails,

and there, by the bluff;

the last sediment.

a horrible toss which unsettled me that day.

frightful in its casting of old puck and sad.

poor little dream thing caught by the blow

of a tormenting landscape.

hollow, but only for a moment more.

Fur

2011-09-19T21:48:00.000-04:00

Chapter (Towards The End, But Followed By A Sequel): The Alliance

2011-09-16T12:28:00.000-04:00

It was something tangible, I know that. But what it felt through my fingers was more of a beam, yes - a beam. Or, was it tangible at all? That may be irrelevant, hinging between the creative and the scientific. Of course now you've got me all wrong! Science is quite a creative thing! It's more of a matter of perspective - right or left brain, you see. Let me begin again: it was (or was not) a tangible element that somehow came to be in union with me. I feel sorry for it, in a way, (I hope) / hoping there was no mind meld. Of course, mind melding would entrust all parties involved with experiential comprehension, so that couldn't be it. No, but it could have been a parasite: a virus. One which penetrates you for a fraction of time which, seeming to a Human might feel less than a tenth of a second, but - oh! but this parasite must feel it for hours, days, years! What a world my insides must be - an ocean of red, violent arches! Swaying and thrusting and thirsting. Yes, I imagine I gave the little bugger quite a fright! But - having been inside me for so long (in its outrageous time warped existence), building its contemplative timeline and developing relations with my muscles...relations! What the devil would that entail, I wonder? I suppose, regardless now, it has gone. Or - I feel an emptiness rather. Perhaps it replaced some hidden ethereal part of me, some beautiful score within - and now it is just the Parasite and I. All beauty expired; an empire of parasitic-muscular alliance, preparing to sacrifice its own sentience in order to destroy the Monarch: the sad, graying inventor confined to the dome. Perhaps though, if it really is tangible...

It can be removed.

The Smartest Heron / Medjool Dates

2011-09-13T22:32:00.001-04:00

The Smartest Heron by hannahcarpenterpitkin
Written by Nathan Palombo

Medjool Dates by hannahcarpenterpitkin
Beat: Nathan Palombo
Lyrics: Hannah Pitkin

Where Have You Been My Pretty One

2011-09-12T17:35:00.000-04:00

[ for more go to here: http://flic.kr/ps/21uHWZ ]

2011-09-11T17:42:00.000-04:00

While we were digging up Hemingway's bones, you told me you loved me.
Now I don't know what to believe.

postcards from home

2011-09-11T16:47:00.000-04:00

Get well soon!

May we always live to serve you and your crown,

Someone In Meatland Loves You

2011-09-11T15:48:00.000-04:00

FOR SALE : SOLD

2011-09-09T16:01:00.000-04:00

Get at me if interested - hpitkin@gmail.com

Chapter Death: Bones

2011-09-08T17:13:00.000-04:00

To exhume ones own bone collection is quite a thrill, isn't it Gracie?

Quite... the thrill... Gracie.

Chapter 136: The Confrontation

2011-09-07T21:25:00.000-04:00

Annabelle: Now is not the time, George! Stop thinking of the perfect murder!

the lilt

2011-09-07T19:21:00.001-04:00

I would love to hear you write
a poem about the lilt,
the splendid way it tilts.
If tongues knew the ride,
(if they saw the pause)
the way you lilt sincere:
it is the cause, and the rise:
the momentous surprise without.

2011-09-07T14:30:00.000-04:00

In the evenings he would wash his hands in the basin, amen.

Boris Mikhailov

2011-09-06T13:41:00.000-04:00

Props to Boris -

Boris Mikhailov: Case Studies

Boris Mikhailov (Ukrainian, born 1938)
Untitled, from the series Case History
1997-98

2011-09-02T22:00:00.000-04:00

It was years before they knew she was gone.