New Years Resolution

Quiet Homes Bring Out the Noise

I wish I was kidding but the walls are talking.

And they are hungry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwSgXUABEnM

Gotta Be Witchcraft in This Blood

Photographs from when my parents were in their early twenties. The one of the guy in a gray jacket sitting on the couch is my Dad when he first arrived America. And the lady in the red dress is my mom on her "wedding" night. 






and if you haven't check out my second film watch it here! . Overly supporting this one, because I am ridiculously itching to do another one. Ugheee New York how much I need you right now.

It's Shark Week, A Short Film

Watch my second film HERE or HERE.


For some reason its playing super blurry on the blog.

My second film is finally finished, phew, didn't think this one was going to make it. Requirement for this film, plug in your headphones.
Music by, Scott Johnston

Mother of Pearl

You Wont Find Pearls In Frozen Clams
Morning

must have forgotten

to wake-up

I walked down

the streets of

Dominic and Moore

small snow-stars

fell in reflected

rays from street lamps

flickering

flicker off

A Birthmas Dinner

It was my flatmate's birthday and since everyone I live with is going back home for the holiday we decided to have a Christmas dinner. 

For appetizers:

Mint Shrimp Bric

(made up name)

What you need:

1.thin flour wonton "paper" sheets

2.mint

3.soft cheese

4.tomatoes

5.shrimp

How to make it:

1. on the wonton sheet

put a mint leaf, then put 

a dab of soft cheese

a shrimp ontop of the cheese

and two tomato slices around the shrimp

2. roll the wonton into an egg-roll shape

cut the edges off and fold the ends in

3. fry it in a wok!

Salmon with Special Buttered Toast

What you need:

1.bread

2.butter

3.dill

4. garlic

5. smoked salmon

How to make it:

1. let the butter sit in room 

temperature once it is

soft put dill and garlic in

and mix

2. butter the bread

3. put the salmon on top of the butter and bread!

After that we had some linguini with shrimp and parsley

but no photos were taken, sorry!

This is super easy to make, just be very careful when frying anything!

Participation Mystique

Still Life Portrait 

Cigarette papers datebook and tobacco pouch
Life
Ought to be like painting
Still
And literature
A hairless head
Eyes straight
Comma
A flat nose a plane
On the forehead
My portrait
My heart beats
It's an alarm clock
In the mirror I'm full length
My head smokes

Spews mad notes everywhere
That emerge I don't know how
To fly toward other ears

Listen I'm not crazy
I laugh at the bottom of the stairs
Before the wide-open door
In the sunlight scattered
On the wall among green vines
And my arms are held out toward you

It's today I love you

Pierre Reverdy's Still Life Portrait is anything but still, images interrupting images, a combustion of realism. It is only today that he loves, arms held out towards no one, for no one has rang the bell, no one stands outside the wide-open door, his arms open up to emptiness, to his own projection of the one that does not exist but he wishes to love. What we don't have, we project, what we want and desire, we project, "listen I am not crazy" merely interrupts his objective, a mad man racing down the stairs, laughter booming down his flight echoing in a large house and he stops before the wide-open door for a ghost that he perceives, insists exists. We leech onto the distant being, turning them into these projections of our desires, we leech and suck dry. Once there is nothing left to drain the hologram fades, stake to the heart, for dust you are, I just gotta find another electrical outlet, maybe this time it will last a tad longer.  

Nausea

" Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it anymore. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and I was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now it's blossoming. I admire the way we can lie, putting reason on our side."


"I think I am the one who has changed: that's the simplest solution. And the most unpleasant. But I must realize that I am subject to these sudden transformations." Nausea Jean-Paul Sartre


I Am Bursting My Stomach
My life is beginning to unfold like the chapters in Sartre's Nausea. But what is changing is my memory, forgotten words, forgotten "isms", memories erasing slowly. When I catch myself concentrating, obsessing on trying to remember that something that has slipped from a synapse, an overwhelming feeling of madness erupts, nausea, nausea. And then I become Joel Barish, completely separated from reality, chasing thoughts and memories in my unconscious mind, childlike and nervous, facial expressions displaying themselves, fidgeting, fidgeting, causing real people to ask me if I am okay, at first I am not there to answer, then I slip back and I must quickly, quickly produce some untrue excuse. When we were walking today on a path between tall trees, the fog creeping in, I forgot where I was, it felt as if I was on the campus of U.C Santa Cruz, walking to class. When we reached the castle I realized how mistaken my orient was, how mistaken I was, mistaken and the nerves crawling like slugs, slithering synapse by synapse, too slow, too late. But in reality I must try to remain collective, collective, inside the mind I am basket-holding collector of memories, one by one, hovering tightly over the woven willow flesh as it overflows. I should have bought two baskets, I should have made more room. I should slip back now. I should, I should, I should. 

Distancing The Narrative

"He got up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette.In Geneva, as he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be better than these?-- a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne's observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again."

"He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt--a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women--persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability's sake, with husbands--who were great coquettes--dangerous, terrible women, with whom one's relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one's intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn."

Daisy Miller- Henry James

Well You Didn't Get The Prize, But You Got A Piece of Mind.

I know when I come back the first question they are going to ask is, what did you do? And I will have no answer. I don't want to rummage through the memories, picking the finest or the most convenient. What they wont ask, is why did I do it? That answer is more simple. The day God exiled Cain, he also exiled a part of himself. Years in advance my exile was planned. The necessity for displacement, a way in which one fragmented whole could reconfigure itself, recharge and upgrade. The exiled God is even less tangible than God himself, the part that God banished along with Cain in a sense returned, was given another chance to test out the nature of man, I needed a second chance to improve my understanding of patience. I needed to be stripped of comfort, left slipping like Bambi on the icy streets of Dublin, fumbling, falling, losing the center, losing the whole, flailing to grip a pole or gate, but only grabbing the frozen air.  I needed to learn what happens after you grab for the empty. 






importance of writing reflections when researching for essays...essays on medieval dream visions and self-exile. whomp, whomp. 

Life Can Figure Out Anything, Even Ending It

Arrival Morning, a glass door, flashes  Gold names off the new city,  Whose white shelves and domes travel  The slow sky all day.  I land to stay here;  And the windows flock open  And the curtains fly out like doves  And a past dries in a wind.  Now let me lie down, under  A wide-branched indifference,  Shovel-faces like pennies  Down the back of the mind,  Find voices coined to  An argot of motor-horns,  And let the cluttered-up houses  Keep their thick lives to themselves.  For this ignorance of me  Seems a kind of innocence.  Fast enough I shall wound it:  Let me breathe till then  Its milk-aired Eden,  Till my own life impound it-  Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,  A style of dying only.

How Distant

How distant, the departure of young men
Down valleys, or watching
The green shore past the salt-white cordage
Rising and falling.

Cattlemen, or carpenters, or keen
Simply to get away
From married villages before morning,
Melodeons play

On tiny decks past fraying cliffs of water
Or late at night
Sweet under the differently-swung stars,
When the chance sight

Of a girl doing her laundry in the steerage
Ramifies endlessly.
This is being young,
Assumption of the startled century

Like new store clothes,
The huge decisions printed out by feet
Inventing where they tread,
The random windows conjuring a street.

Love, We Must Part Now Love, we must part now: do not let it be Calamitious and bitter. In the past There has been too much moonlight and self-pity: Let us have done with it: for now at last Never has sun more boldly paced the sky, Never were hearts more eager to be free, To kick down worlds, lash forests; you and I No longer hold them; we are husks, that see The grain going forward to a different use. There is regret. Always, there is regret. But it is better that our lives unloose, As two tall ships, wind-mastered, wet with light, Break from an estuary with their courses set, And waving part, and waving drop from sight.

New News on Philip Larkin...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-11909126






Thanks Hannah for this one, its my new painting song. And it makes me wish I had the keyboard over here.

When The Moon Hangs On The Wall

Finally got around to painting again. Its crazy to think I was going to not paint this year in Dublin. For some reason I haven't been able to find a store with a good variety of colors.