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i am an eXperiment. a Syncopated word & image coLLage imported from Our minD sEnse-thoUght collective stream. a trial 2 eXpress the aRhythmia & the off beat that lies in-betwEEn the bond made of: imAge narrative & senSation. an aEsthetic act and aim of WondeR in the search for a CRaCK. as for if anything eXists at all it exisTs i n - b e T w e e n.
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    I am a deeply religious nonbeliever.

    This is somewhat new kind of religion. I have never imputed to Nature a purpose or a goal, or anything that could be understood as anthropomorphic. What I see in Nature is a magnificent structure that we can comprehend only very imperfectly, and that must fill a thinking person with a feeling of humility.


    My position concerning God is that of an agnostic. I am convinced that a vivid consciousness of the primary importance of moral principles for the betterment and ennoblement of life does not need the idea of a law-giver. Especially a law-giver who works on the basis of reward and punishment.


    To assume the existence of an un-perceivable being… does not facilitate understanding the orderliness we find in the perceivable world. I don`t try to imagine a personal God. It suffices to stand in awe at the structure of the world, insofar as it allows our inadequate senses to appreciate it.












    text : Albert Einstein
    images : Butoh Master Kazuo Ohno.

    Kazuo Ohno and Tatsumi Hijikata, are considered the origin of Butoh (originally called by Hijikata: Ankoku Butoh, the "Dance of Utter Darkness"). Butoh was evolving in the turmoil of Japan's postwar landscape. It can be described as a form of Japanese dance theatre that encompasses a diverse range of activities, techniques and motivations for dance, performance, and movement - that is aiming to reach beyond the local identity of the practitioner, unto an embodied-conscious-state which is open and inter-connected to all Life.
    Wed, Feb 10, 2010  Permanent link
    Categories: quote collage
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    I have spoken in these pages of how an exceptionally optimistic young man experienced a crack-up of all values, a crack-up that he scarcely knew of until long after it occurred. I told of the succeeding period of desolation and of the necessity of going on, but without the benefit of Henley's familiar heroics, "my head is bloody but unbowed." For a checkup of my spiritual liabilities indicated that I had no particular head to be bowed or unbowed. Once I had had a heart but that was about all I was sure of. This was at least a starting place out of the morass in which I floundered: "I felt—therefore I was.”

    Before I go on with this short history, let me make a general observation—the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise. This philosophy fitted on to my early adult life, when I saw the improbable, the implausible, often the "impossible," come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort, or to what proportion could be mustered of both.

    Life, ten years ago, was largely a personal matter. I must hold in balance the sense of futility of effort and the sense of the necessity to struggle; the conviction of the inevitability of failure and still the determination to "succeed"—and, more than these, the contradiction between the dead hand of the past and the high intentions of the future. If I could do this through the common ills—domestic, professional, and personal—then the ego would continue as an arrow shot from nothingness to nothingness with such force that only gravity would bring it to earth at last.

    Of course all life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work—the big sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from outside—the ones you remember and blame things on and, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don't show their effect all at once. There is another sort of blow that comes from within—that you don't feel until it's too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again. The first sort of breakage seems to happen quick—the second kind happens almost without your knowing it but is realized suddenly indeed.

    I realized that in those two years, in order to preserve something—an inner hush maybe, maybe not—I had weaned myself from all the things I used to love—that every act of life from the morning toothbrush to the friend at dinner had become an effort. I saw that for a long time I had not liked people and things, but only followed the rickety old pretense of liking. I saw that even my love for those closest to me had become only an attempt to love, that my casual relations—with an editor, a tobacco seller, the child of a friend, were only what I remembered I should do, from other days. All in the same month I became bitter about such things as the sound of the radio, the advertisements in the magazines, the screech of tracks, the dead silence of the country —contemptuous at human softness, immediately (if secretively) quarrelsome toward hardness—hating the night when I couldn't sleep and hating the day because it went toward night. I slept on the heart side now because I knew that the sooner I could tire that out, even a little, the sooner would come that blessed hour of nightmare which, like a catharsis, would enable me to better meet the new day.

    But at three o'clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn't work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day. At that hour the tendency is to refuse to face things as long as possible by retiring into an infantile dream—but one is continually startled out of this by various contacts with the world. One meets these occasions as quickly and carelessly as possible and retires once more back into the dream, hoping that things will adjust themselves by some great material or spiritual bonanza. But as the withdrawal persists there is less and less chance of the bonanza—one is not waiting for the fade-out of a single sorrow, but rather being an unwilling witness of an execution, the disintegration of one's own personality.

    I have now at last become a writer only. The man I had persistently tried to be became such a burden that I have "cut him loose" with as little compunction as a Negro lady cuts loose a rival on Saturday night. Let the good people function as such—let the overworked doctors die in harness, with one week's "vacation" a year that they can devote to straightening out their family affairs, and let the underworked doctors scramble for cases at one dollar a throw; let the soldiers be killed and enter immediately into the Valhalla of their profession. That is their contract with the gods. A writer need have no such ideals unless he makes them for himself, and this one has quit.

    So what? This is what I think now: that the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness. I think also that in an adult the desire to be finer in grain that you are, "a constant striving" (as those people say who gain their bread by saying it) only adds to this unhappiness in the end—that end that comes to our youth and hope. My own happiness in the past often approached such an ecstasy that I could not share it even with the person dearest to me but had to walk it away in quiet streets and lanes with only fragments of it to distill into little lines in books.

    In its impact this blow was more violent than the other two but it was the same in kind—a feeling that I was standing at twilight on a deserted range, with an empty rifle in my hands and the targets down. No problem set—simply a silence with only the sound of my own breathing.

    In this silence there was a vast irresponsibility toward every obligation, a deflation of all my values. A passionate belief in order, a disregard of motives or consequences in favor or guesswork and prophecy, a feeling that craft and industry would have a place in any world—one by one, these and other convictions were swept away.

    Well, when I had reached this period of silence, I was forced into a measure that no one ever adopts voluntarily: I was impelled to think. God, was it difficult! The moving about of great secret trunks. In the first exhausted halt, I wondered whether I had ever thought. After a long time I came to these conclusions, just as I write them here.

    .... I had stood by while one famous contemporary of mine played with the idea of the Big Out for half a year; I had watched when another, equally eminent, spent months in an asylum unable to endure any contact with his fellowmen. And of those who had given up and passed on I could list a score. This led me to the idea that the ones who had survived had made some sort of clean break. This is a big word and is no parallel to a jailbreak when one is probably headed for a new jail or will be forced back to the old one. The famous "Escape" or "Run away from it all" is an excursion in a trap even if the trap includes the South Seas, which are only for those who want to paint them or sail them. A clean break is something you cannot come back from; that is irretrievable because it makes the past cease to exist. So, since I could no longer fulfil the obligations that life had set for me or that I had set for myself, why not slay the empty shell who had been posturing at it for four years? I must continue to be a writer because that was my only way of life, but I would cease any attempts to be a person—to be kind, just, or generous.

    So there was not an "I" anymore—not a basis on which I could organize my self-respect—save my limitless capacity for toil that it seemed I possessed no more. It was strange to have no self—to be like a little boy left along in a big house, who knew that now he could do anything he wanted to do, but found that there was nothing that he wanted to do.

    There was to be no more giving of myself—all giving was to be outlawed henceforth under a new name, and that name was Waste.


















    text : F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Crack-Up 1936

    Wiki : The Crack-Up (1945) is a collection of essays by American author F. Scott Fitzgerald. It includes previously unpublished letters and notes, along with the three essays Fitzgerald originally wrote for Esquire magazine, which were first published in 1936.
    The essays when originally written were poorly received and many reviewers were openly critical, particularly of the personal revelations. Time has been somewhat kinder to them and the collection is an insight into the mind of the writer during this low period in his life.
    The essays stand today as a compelling psychological portrait and an illustration of an important Fitzgerald theme. The philosopher Gilles Deleuze adopted the term crack-up from Fitzgerald to refer to his interpretation of the Freudian death instinct.

    On this page here, i have deliberately selected few paragraphs from the long three essays/letters of Fitzgerald, while trying to maintain the coherency of the author's unique way of telling. Full Online Text you may read here.

    Photos : Syncopath, Cabo verde, Desolated Containers, 2016.
    Thu, Aug 1, 2019  Permanent link

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    Silently as a dream the fabric rose.
    No sound of hammer or of saw was there.
    Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts
    Were soon conjoined, nor other cement ask'd
    Than water inter-fused to make them one.

    ........... though smooth
    And slipp'ry the materials, yet frost-bound
    Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within,
    That royal residence might well befit,
    For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths
    Of flow'rs, that fear'd no enemy but warmth,
    Blush'd on the panels.

    Mirror needed none, where all was vitreous; but in order due
    Convivial table and commodious seat
    (What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there;
    Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august.
    The same lubricity was found in all,
    And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene
    Of evanescent glory, once a stream,
    And soon to slide into a stream again.






















    text : William Cowper, The Task, 1785, Book V

    from Wiki : The Task is A Poem, in Six Books that are called: "The Sofa", "The Timepiece", "The Garden", "The Winter Evening", "The Winter Morning Walk" and "The Winter Walk at Noon".
    Cowper's subjects are those that occur to him naturally in the course of his reflections rather than being suggested by poetic convention, and the diction throughout is, for an 18th-century poem, unusually conversational and unartificial. As the poet himself writes:
    " ...my raptures are not conjured up to serve occasions of poetic pomp, but genuine."
    Lady Austen, a friend of Cowper's in the early 1780s that was fond of blank verse, suggested a poem of that kind to the Author, and gave him the SOFA for a subject.
    Wikisource : "The Task" full text


    image : Aiko Tezuka installation Loosening Fabric #2 , 2013
    Aiko Tezuka Website
    Artist statement "What to reweave?"
    Mon, Jul 29, 2019  Permanent link

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    The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
    Are of equal duration. A People without history
    Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
    Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
    On a winter’s afternoon in a secluded chapel
    History is now and England.

    With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
    Calling

    We shall not cease from exploration
    And the end of all our exploring
    Will be to arrive where we started
    And know the place for the first time.
    Through the unknown, remembered gate

    When the last of earth left to discover

    Is that which was the beginning;

    At the source of the longest river

    The voice of the hidden waterfall

    And the children in the apple-tree

    Not known, because not looked for 

    But heard, half-heard, in the stillness

    Between two waves of the sea.





















    text : T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets (a series of four poems originally published in 1942)
    the text quoted here is an excerpt from Little Gidding, Quartet No.4, Chapter V
    online full text :http://www.davidgorman.com/4quartets/

    image : Aiko Tezuka "Rewoven" (2005)
    This artwork was submitted to the art competition “VOCA 2005", Japan,
    and from then on performed in varied venues in Japan and Germany.
    the last image is taken from "Rewoven", Abu Dhabi ver. (2018)

    Aiko Tezuka website
    Artist statement titled : "What to reweave?"




    Mon, Jul 29, 2019  Permanent link

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    There is nothing you can see


    that is not a flower ;


    There is nothing you can think,

    that

    is

    not

    the moon.


























    text : Matsuo Bashō (松尾 芭蕉, 1644–1694) was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as the greatest master of Haiku.

    image : Museum of the Moon. a touring artwork by UK artist Luke Jerram.

    about the project : Measuring seven metres in diameter, the moon features 120dpi detailed NASA imagery of the lunar surface. At an approximate scale of 1:500,000, each centimetre of the internally lit spherical sculpture represents 5km of the moon’s surface*.
    Over its lifetime, the Museum of the Moon will be presented in a number of different ways both indoors and outdoors, so altering the experience and interpretation of the artwork. As it travels from place to place, it will gather new musical compositions and an ongoing collection of personal responses, stories and mythologies, as well as highlighting the latest moon science.

    the order of images as appear here:
    1. Light Night Leeds UK 2017
    2. Piscine Saint Georges Rennes, France 2017
    3. Harpa Reykjavik Iceland 2019
    4. Lille3000 Lille France 2019
    5. TEC ART Rotterdam Netherlands 2017
    6. Terni Festival Terni Italy 2017
    7. Light Night Leeds UK 2017
    8. Greenwich+Docklands International Festival London UK 2017
    Fri, Jul 19, 2019  Permanent link

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    Lord Krishna said:


    Many lives you and I have lived, O Arjuna -


    Many births of mine and also of yours have passed,


    I remember them all,


    but thou dost not.



    Kill therefore with the sword of wisdom the doubt born of ignorance
    that lies in thy heart. Be one in self-harmony, in Yoga, and arise, great warrior, arise.


















    text : Bhagavad Gita, Sri Krishna's Remembering; chapter 4; verses 5 & 42

    image : Yayoi Kusama, "All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins" (1991)
    Which is the first installation in her series Infinity Mirror Rooms (youtube link).


    Tue, Apr 2, 2019  Permanent link

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    The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people.


    But
    it does
    desperately need more
    peacemakers,
    healers,
    restorers,
    storytellers,
    and lovers of every kind.


    It needs people who
    live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as we have defined it.









    text : David W. Orr., Professor of Environmental Studies and Politics.. He is one of the editors of the book: Ecological Literacy: Educating Our Children for a Sustainable World (2005)

    from goodreaders preview: Our efforts to build a sustainable world cannot succeed unless future generations learn how to partner with natural systems to our mutual benefit. In other words, children must become “ecologically literate.” The concept of ecological literacy advanced by this book’s creators, the Center for Ecoliteracy in Berkeley, California, goes beyond the discipline of environmental education. It aims, says David Orr in his foreword, “toward a deeper transformation of the substance, process, and scope of education at all levels”—familial, geographic, ecological, and political.

    image : paintings by Jessica Serran
    image1: Expose Yourself, 2006
    image2: You-Who, 2009
    image3: Alternating Currents, 2009
    Sat, Nov 3, 2018  Permanent link

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    Tyger Tyger burning bright,


    In the forests of the night:


    What immortal hand or eye,


    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?























    text : William Blake, The Tyger (last stanza), published in Songs of Experience, 1794
    Songs of Experience was published in 1794 as a follow up to Blake's 1789 Songs of Innocence. The two books were published together under the merged title Songs of Innocence and of Experience showing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul: The author, painter and printer: William Blake, featuring 54 plates.
    read the whole poem here.
    image : Gerhard Richter, "Tiger" (oil on canvas), 1965

    Fri, Nov 2, 2018  Permanent link

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    The entire evolution of science would suggest that the best grammar
    for thinking about the world is that of change, not of permanence.
    Not of being, but of becoming.

    We can think about the world as made up of things. Of substances. Of entities. Of something that is.
    Or we can think of it as made up of events. Of happenings. Of processes. Of something that occurs.
    The world is not a collection of things, it is a collection of events.

    The difference between things and events is that thing persist in time; event have a limited duration.
    A stone is a prototypical "thing": we can ask ourselves where it will be tomorrow.
    Conversely, a kiss is an "event". It make no sense to ask where the kiss will be tomorrow.

    The world is made up of networks of kisses, not of stones.















    text : Carlo Rovelli (physicist), from his book: The Order of Time, 2017
    image : Gerhard Richter, Abstract Painting 865-2, 2000
    photographs : by Syncopath, from the exhibition: Abstraktion, Museum Barberini, Potsdam, 2018
    Wed, Oct 31, 2018  Permanent link

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    * I cannot be grasped in the here and now. For I reside just as much with the dead as with the unborn. Somewhat closer to the heart of creation than usual. But not nearly close enough.



    * The pictorial work was born of movement, is itself recorded movement, and is assimilated through movement (eye muscles).



    * Formerly we used to represent things visible on earth, things we either liked to look at or would have liked to see. Today we reveal the reality that is behind visible things, thus expressing the belief that the visible world is merely an isolated case in relation to the universe and that there are many more other, latent realities. Things appear to assume a broader and more diversified meaning, often seemingly contradicting the rational experience of yesterday.


















    text : Quotes by Paul Klee (1879-1940)
    images : Roey Victoria Heifetz, Frau in Rot (Woman in Red) 2016
    photos: Syncopath


    Wed, Apr 11, 2018  Permanent link

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