A silent protest in Love Park, downtown Philadelphia orchestrated by performance artists protesting the murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson. The onslaught of passerby’s wanting to take photos with the statue exemplifies the disconnect in American society. Simply frame out the dead body, and it doesn’t exist.
Here are some observations by one of the artists involved in the event:
I don’t know who any of these folks are.
They were tourists I presume.
But I heard most of what everything they said. A few lines in particular stood out. There’s one guy not featured in the photos. His friends were trying to get him to join the picture but he couldn’t take his eyes off the body.
"Something about this doesn’t feel right. I’m going to sit this one out, guys." "Com’on man… he’s already dead."
There were a billion little quips I heard today. Some broke my heart. Some restored my faith in humanity. There was an older white couple who wanted to take a picture under the statue.
The older gentleman: “Why do they have to always have to shove their politics down our throats.” Older woman: “They’re black kids, honey. They don’t have anything better to do.”
One woman even stepped over the body to get her picture. But as luck would have it the wind blew the caution tape and it got tangle around her foot. She had to stop and take the tape off. She still took her photo.
There was a guy who yelled at us… “We need more dead like them. Yay for the white man!”
"One young guy just cried and then gave me a hug and said ‘thank you. It’s nice to know SOMEBODY sees me.’
I stockpile amulets against the
old ways, just in case.
The latest from a book about fishing:
There’s nothing interesting about a resistible urge.
Drifted around CVS after he called
stoned in the way where all the world’s a cartoon,
clutching a handful of cheap mascaras.
Each a transformative offering:
cat eyes, ‘wide-eyed manga look’,
something to do with stilettos.
I chose ‘illegal length’,
batted lacquered lashes
over a giant margarita’s rim
in mimicry of some illicit invitation.
Our talk was direct, instead,
close enough to tension-drained.
His voice tilted concerned,
like fidelity’s a disease I caught.
Another round to realize, & not for the first time,
how I remember things all wrong.
Which is to say, incandescently.
Didn’t his eyes use to do something
in the old poems?
Before, the air stilled.
I called it a glitch,
hypergraphia, temporary psychosis,
the flu, the spins.
All my mistaken words
"Jenny Holzer’s famous truism “Protect me from what I want” renders in a very precise way the fundamental ambiguity of the hysterical position. It can either be read as an ironic reference to the standard male chauvinist wisdom that a woman, when left to herself, gets caught in the self-destructive fury, so that she must be protected from herself by the benevolent male domination: “Protect me from the excessive self-destructive desire in me that I myself am not able to dominate.” Or it can be read in a more radical way, as pointing towards the fact that in today’s patriarchal society, woman’s desire is radically alienated, that she desires what men expect her to desire, that she desires to be desired by men. In this case, “Protect me from what I want” means “What I want, precisely when I seem to formulate my authentic innermost longing, is already imposed on me by the patriarchal order that tells me what to desire, so the first condition of my liberation is that I break up the vicious cycle of my alienated desire and learn to formulate my desire in an autonomous way.”" - Slavoj Žižek, How To Read Lacan (via funeral)
"History is a papertrail that leads to a hole.
My personal history is always such that and that which, a dreadful taxonomy of raining men.
Hallelujah I’ve dug up this adorable patriarchy and it wants to live!" - from “Man Hole” by Natalie Eilbert. (via millionsmillions)
Never mind where I was
it was like 6:45
and the bartender had great hair
I was breaking apart and taking notes
I had to stand at the very end
and wave for my drinks—
couldn’t finish my book called Valis because the candle went out on my table and anyway the book was putting me deeper and deeper
into a state where I felt like Buddha
losing my memory in a backroom
surrounded by thugs
I was thinking of stenographer women who type in court houses
while everyone rages around them—it’s a life
of listening and typing
said by other people
it seems like no one in this place
wants to mean anything
which is okay
in my head I’m saying
in 300+ words
I’m afraid and very hopeful
i’m journaling here, because i’ll be a 14 y/o livejournal devotee at heart forever.
You make love like the last
snow leopard. Time hunts your shadows.
Your grooves dip a real x of an arc.
I love your shadow. It’s performance on the wall.
Your white hair flocked. It’s old age that makes
you kill for food. You bring a long blank to
bed in, the weight draws out.
You need someone with skill for the excursion.
Ride through the reservoir of sour peaches.
Your name meanders through the grass. Tall
people are in the way. I crowd surf to get to you.
You spill me into the flood. Water rushes out your sides.
You make a mystery of playing political love.
I could kill for you. I’d bring you an eagle stuffed
with finches. It’s pouch growing large and groaning
in your palm. A cliff of umbrellas and memory
shaping your every move.
“Self-criticism comes in during gaps where I lose my focus, or sometimes when I’m up in front of a room giving a reading and I’m unexpectedly mortified, and there’s nothing else to do but to continue reading with an air of confidence while thinking, How could you write such sick fucking stuff?”
he’s a god, he’s a man, he’s a ghost, he’s a guru (at The Mann Center for the Performing Arts)