Saturday Morning Desire

October 7, 2017

It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? The way we love each other…

If nothing will save us from death, perhaps love will save us from life…

Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck are infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes…

Sex is art. It is all art and all life. It is everything…

The price an artist pays

September 15, 2017

An artist must be open to the muse. The greater the artist, the more he is open to “cosmic currents.” He has to behave as he does. If he has “the courage to be an artist,” he is committed to behave as the mood possesses him. . . .

The price an artist pays for doing what he wants is that he has to do it.

William S Burroughs
Last Words: the final journals of William S Burroughs

In the story of the rape of Hippodamia, a Lapith woman is saved from the clutches of drunken Centaurs, guests at her wedding feast. The oft-treated motif, allegorized as the struggle between bestiality or barbarism and humanity or civilization, ends quite clearly in the latter’s triumph. As with other erotic subjects, mythical or legendary scenes of abduction, depictions of lecherous violence and abuse, were long bound to a higher, moral purpose, while heroism and procreation as pretexts for titillation were deemed unworthy of art.

The sublimation called art is still aligned with nobility and morality. Art does not just represent — and that in two senses, of showing and standing for — the struggle against barbarism; it functions as a talisman. The choice and proper framing of scenes of this struggle fulfill art’s civilizing mission, contributing head-on to the mastery over monstrosity, ugliness, and evil looming large. The mission’s goal was to impress upon our minds the seriousness and high stakes of the fight for, in this case, sexual entitlement. The artist wanted us to know, none too subtly, that he had done his part.

S. D. Chrostowska
Burn the Evidence

witchy-woman

The advantages of treating magic as an art seem at first glance to be considerable. For one thing, there are no entrenched and vested interests capable of mounting an objection to magic’s inclusion in the canon, even if they entertained objections in the first place, which is hardly likely. This is patently far from the case with either science or religion, which are by their very natures almost honour-bound to see that magic is reviled and ridiculed, marginalized and left to rust there on history’s scrap-heap with the Flat Earth, water-memory and phlogiston. Art, as a category, represents a fertile and hospitable environment where magic’s energy could be directed to its growth and progress as a field, rather than channeled into futile struggles for acceptance, or burned uselessly away by marking time to the repeated rituals of a previous century. Another benefit, of course, lies in art’s numinosity, its very lack of hard-edged definition and therefore its flexibility. The questions “what exactly are we doing and why are doing it”, questions of ‘method’ and of ‘aim’, take on a different light when asked in terms of art. Art’s only aim can be to lucidly express the human mind and heart and soul in all their countless variations, thus to further human culture’s artful understanding of the universe and of itself, its growth towards the light. Art’s method is whatever can be even distantly imagined. These parameters of purpose and procedure are sufficiently elastic, surely, to allow inclusion of magic’s most radical or most conservative agendas? Vital and progressive occultism, beautifully expressed, that has no obligation to explain or justify itself. Each thought, each line, each image made exquisite for no other purpose than that they be offerings worthy of the gods, of art, of magic itself. The Art for The Art’s sake.

Alan Moore
Fossil Angels

catlight

Diary 29th November

A vague trembling of stars behind the eyes this morning. Indicative of a hangover, perhaps. Still dark outside. Winter morning, cold – very cold.

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Melancholy may be found at the heart of most great art. Or so it seems to me.

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And of the water witch? What of her? Smelling of salty deeps, wearing rags, burlap and pearls, and with those misty-grey eyes that see so very deeply inside of you. Soul deep, she can see. She has the ocean for her heart. Listen carefully for the rolling beat of her tides. She traps your tears and keeps them in little crystal bottles for her spells. Her head is full of the crashing of waves, and she overflows with such dark magic…

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Do you hear them? The whispering voices, when you are alone? Hidden presences that have crossed the line between dark and dawn. Eerie and inexplicable, but terribly real for all that. You may not realise it, but you have called them over to be with you.

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And in that climatic moment, she will do all in her power to steal the breath from your lungs. That is the simple truth of her wild nature…

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I thought we might become lovers, or, at the very least, indulge in a variety of sexual acts together, even if only on an infrequent basis. But no. Une baise sauvage. That and nothing more was all she wanted.

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Recently seen on the internet HERE:

Aleister “Crowley was adamantly opposed to such manipulative tactics and strongly against rape of any kind. He upheld the right of every woman to be the master of her own sexuality, in strong contrast to the prevailing mores…”

What total nonsense. As to Crowley’s “manipulative” nature one only has to see what the young William Gray had to say on the matter:

“…Seemingly Crowley could hypnotise Victor (Neuburg) with ridiculous ease and especially liked to do so before company in order to impress them with his evident ‘powers’. He would make Neuburg behave like a dog, barking and groveling at his masters feet. Then he would order poor Victor to empty his pockets of money and hand it over immediately. Since his father was usually generous there might be as much as five pounds on his person. Crowley would throw back about half-a-crown contemptuously saying: ‘Get yourself some fish and chips. We’re going to the Savoy with the rest.’ And forthwith do so. In those days it was perfectly possible, and there could be change left over. “

As to Crowley’s views on women, let the great man speak for himself:

The real inferiority of women to men is shown by their hate of pederasty, which they regard as unfair competition. Men on the other hand rather approve of Sapphism, as saving them trouble and expense.
Aleister Crowley
Diary Entry, March 9th 1929

Practically all women ought to be chloroformed at 35.
Aleister Crowley
Diary Entry, January 3rd 1931

In Berlin all the whores look like ‘respectable women’; in New York all the ‘respectable women’ look like whores. Reflection: they’re all whores, anyhow.
Aleister Crowley
Diary Entry, January 4th 1931

And so on and so forth. One could build a complete website containing Crowley’s outpourings on the subject of women. He really didn’t have a very high opinion of them despite what his advocates and revisionists may say to the contrary.

freedom of imagination

November 11, 2016

dancer

The unstated warrant for the composer, as for the poet, is to stretch the limits of the form, to try to fly within the narrow corridors of a cage. That tension between the bright prison of a form and the freedom of imagination is what artistic genius is all about.

Diane Ackerman
A Natural History of the Senses

head-bird

This, then, is the ultimate, that is only, consolation: simply that someone shares some of your own feelings and has made of these a work of art which you have the insight, sensitivity, and — like it or not — peculiar set of experiences to appreciate. Amazing thing to say, the consolation of horror in art is that it actually intensifies our panic, loudens it on the sounding-board of our horror-hollowed hearts, turns terror up full blast, all the while reaching for that perfect and deafening amplitude at which we may dance to the bizarre music of our own misery.

Thomas Ligotti
The Nightmare Factory

Eugène Berman - View in Perspective of a Perfect Sunset

Diary 2nd June

I might steal words from the mouth of Beckian Fritz Goldberg to describe last weekend: words seeming coy or used to shock! However, it’s her “extravagant, sensual fabulations of obsessive memory and the longing it inspires” that I most desire to plagiarise. Not the ice idly dropped “right where, right where” on her you know what – so, yes, something more than titillating erotica is required. Her poetry is suffused with longing – for an old lover, for the past, in particular a “cryptic” childhood partly idealised by wounded memory. Here there be both pleasure and pain. Unlike the plain catastrophe of my own childhood, Ms Goldberg evokes a lush musicality from out of her past…

“Furtively my father would slip a hand under the table and knock. I was three so I’d look around and look under the table wanting to know where it came from and how and that’s when father would drink my milk. I’d sit back up to a drained glass. What happened to my milk? My father would tell me it was the little girls who lived under the floor. They were hungry and wanted my milk. They might want my peas. I knew enough to sense it was a game, to half-believe there weren’t really girls living below us. But I had a vision of them anyway, all blonde with long straight hair, dressed in chambray smocks with frilled white aprons, reaching up, up toward my floor. Otherwise, they seemed to accept their world which must be dark and musty. They’d knock. A chicken wing would disappear.”
(From: My Descent by Beckian Fritz Goldberg)

Quite, quite beautiful, these milk and pea thieves – or, rather, the idea behind them! An “affirmation of the fantastical”. Imagination as damaged memory…

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Mark Rothko once said, “It is important to the human spirit to create art, to experience art, to be open to art. It allows the exultation of the heart and spirit.”

In visual art words are unimportant. The artwork is what it appears to be to the viewer and no more than that. The viewer, by definition, becomes an inherent part of the artwork and any meaning it possesses belongs to the viewer…
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So, last weekend?

A long weekend, yes, with the hours flowing over us like moth clouds. You in white. Me – seething within like a hungry wolf and running with the changing tides – organizing a BBQ for everyone, but wanting only to taste the endless salt flats of you…You who can teach me the sky once again…Ignoring the dead sound of champagne corks and the conversation like the sound of children talking to sunbeams…

Eventually night must fall and our guests depart. Then we will find ourselves hopelessly tangled in its wide-cast nets, in its oceanic depths. Lost in unfathomable majesty. In the delights of the flesh, entwined, a good dream at last.

Oh, to drown in this wine-dark sea of desire with you…

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Having to talk destroys the symphony of silence…

Art Truth & Politics

March 3, 2016

Harold Pinter was the most influential, provocative and poetic dramatist of his generation. He enjoyed parallel careers as actor, screenwriter and director and was also, especially in later years, a vigorous political polemicist campaigning against abuses of human rights. But it is for his plays that he will be best remembered and for his ability to create dramatic poetry out of everyday speech. Among the dramatists of the last century, Beckett is his only serious rival in terms of theatrical influence; and it is a measure of Pinter’s power that early on in his career he spawned the adjective “Pinteresque” suggesting a cryptically mysterious situation imbued with hidden menace.

Art is its own excuse…

August 10, 2015

sandandsea

I should think that many of our poets, the honest ones, will confess to having no manifesto. It is a painful confession but the art of poetry carries its own powers without having to break them down into critical listings. I do not mean that poetry should be raffish and irresponsible clown tossing off words into the void. But the very feeling of a good poem carries its own reason for being… Art is its own excuse, and it’s either Art or it’s something else. It’s either a poem or a piece of cheese.

Charles Bukowski
1959 letter to his friend Anthony Linick