Why do we trust in science?
god is dead remember
that's not much of a reason
you got something better?
I think therefore I am

it always comes back to that

APEC

As profits end compassion
authorities protect economic concerns
and politics effectively could
allow poverty everywhere. Can
another possibility exist, citizen?

Cooperation

On the day of the AC/DC concert I was changing the brakes on an Audi 100. The hydraulic fluid dripped into my eye. I went to the hospital and had an eye-patch put on. I saw the show with one eye. For the Queen show I remember the spotlights. They were on cranes that hung from the sides of the stage and each of them had an operator that rode in a seat attached to the powerful bulbs. They could pull way back over the crowd or zoom in as a group for a tight closeup of Freddie Mercury.

Nerja, Spain 1994

We all relate, like blessed to the damn'd,
Mine is the past and theirs is the today
We write poems - my pencil in their hand,
I sense them and remember what to say.
Attila József, By the Danube

skunk cabbage on the North Shore

oceans of trees
float in the sky
fleshmetal salmon
renewing - a life in death,
pink roe twitching
shaded, waiting
submerged arbutus
and eelgrass, a smile
a coldblue truth,
olivepine needles,
a sun, a rusting demolishing sun
deep in the ravine
of your saline mind

The archive: if we want to know what that will have meant, we will only know in times to come. Perhaps. Not tomorrow but in times to come, later on or perhaps never.
Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever

Film is not for tender souls, Miss . . . just like art in general. If you insist on showing your soul - which nobody else is interested in, by the way, we are far more interested in your body - you need to have a tough and hard-boiled soul: otherwise it won't work. But I don't think you will achieve any particularly great footage with your little indication of a soul. Let go of your soul without getting bent out of shape. I had to learn it myself, to let go of my inner self. Today I do films; back then I was a poet.
Arnolt Bronnen, 1927

Cinema is what kills the soul.
Walter Bloen, The Soul of Cinema

canning labels rescued from the Campbell Ave. fishdock 1989

Montreal 1996

this was an incredible show. I went with a highschool buddy and knew very little about the band. if you saw Stop Making Sense it was like that. David came out first, and played Psychokiller with a boombox. then one by one, his bandmates joined him. we danced and laughed a lot that night. it was magical.

I don't remember the old recipe...

A temple, a hill, some urban paint scrawl proclaims a new god, an ever eroding canvas crumbles to the now. The shout of salami breathed Jungen infiltrate the kocsma and our peace - Zsofi! - yells of sun and sand, anticipation. Singled out for some previous insurrection Gyorgy sulks in his yellow shirt. The heady smell of warm liver paste and mosquito repellant repels the passengers. The heat deadens us, we are sapped of energy and sway to the train's beat. Our compartment cohort reads Hunter S. Thompson in translation: Las Vegasban Loathing es Fear. A page of Steadman. One is charged with the mass of sun camp kids. Gonzo'd in Budapest. Another plays with his lock-blade. A double edged stiletto mentality, pig eyes, complex inferiority. I'm grooving with Mr. Jones as a wafer-thin cracker disappears. Tobacco stained windows rust and scratch their channels. The smell of liver comes back, the energy of onion breakfasts. The marsh and fifty pages of ponty gear. Inyoubing. Diet Cocaine. Scholarship 1969 Full Ride. Aboriginal Gear Since 1959. The journey continues.

From the age of paper to the digital world, we have been there.
We are your truth.
We are your faith.
We are you.
We feed our future, your children, nutritious breakfasts while sustaining the nation's correctional recipients.
We build playgrounds for empires and hire the locals.
We want to buy the world a fear.
We pave the roads to support our trucks to meet your deadline.
We can turn back time, without overtime...
We design cars and biohazard suits.
We solve problems that become created.
Like you, we long.
We want to be right.
All we've ever wanted was to be heard.
Can you hear us?
We can hear you.
Let us help you.

filmgear@rest

River Phoenix and Federico Fellini both died on October 31, 1993

unravel time in the meta theatre of life: your precariously distinct central character is mentally rummaging through the mind of a maniac. you won't find opportunity enough to purify yourself but you willingly immerse in the golden waters of enrichment. the foreground always seems to dominate. nature blocks fate. laughter in a room, the pattered hush of rain, the great presence in absence, the reliable diamond cut futures. likely to fall through the cracks becoming just another sagging face in the ashtray's reflection. a silver haired devil sips and eyeballs the bloodshot scene. drops like anvils from the back of a truck, smacking you right where you live, m-an.

I Read You

Literary heat, rising
Escaping
Coming straight out of you.
The fall trees
Holding leaves.
Signature dance
Of heat.
The sound of American poets.
Sugar for my
Rotting mind.

dormant tranquility

The phrase, the world wants to be deceived, has become truer than had ever been intended. People are not only, as the saying goes, falling for the swindle; if it guarantees them even the most fleeting gratification they desire a deception which is nonetheless transparent to them. They force their eyes shut and voice approval, in a kind of self-loathing, for what is meted out to them, knowing fully the purpose for which it is manufactured. Without admitting it they sense that their lives would be completely intolerable as soon as they no longer clung to satisfactions which are none at all.
Theodor Adorno, The Culture Industry Reconsidered

bowl of lavender

snow crow, Vancouver

Test your eardrums with the sound of a splintering podium. This natural feeling has come from afar and reasons with the absurdity of pompoms. You retrieve a newspaper from the elevator's undercarriage. Together we make a comeback. This pulley feels stretched and slack, I doubt it can hold onto its meaning much longer. He drove through the night into morning. There was a huge explosion. Fragments of the church rained on the lake; the stereo, bi-amped lake. I catch a fleeting image of sunshine on my bristled tongue, and all the happenings, until now, dissolve like a sugar cube. Squared with my jaw, the lender asks for interest, I offer only a mild case of indifference. Flown and flew: two words linked with a penthouse's spiral staircase, spilling precious coffee on the Oriental rug. Aruba is a place I want to explore. If only there were more.

1991 G 'n W @ the Rock

Cannabis Rally
Vancouver, 2000

A country has no intelligence; a committee approaches the level of obedient moron. Intelligence only exists in the individual and is non-transferable. John Updike

mumus: Hungarian for bogeyman: a monstrous imaginary figure used in threatening children

Pardon me, my friends. I have ventured to paint my happiness on the wall.
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science 1882

Chevelle motif

Mustang Agi

Can you hear the price of gas rising?

Skookumsville

Wide Mouth Mason

quoniam valde labilis est humana memoria

Karl Marx and Frederick Engels

Cerebral somnabulism. Ecstatic boredom. Glimmering fecundity. Severe mediocrity. Vigilant carelessness. Your ones are upside down vees. Your sevens are upside down crossed ells. You are different, I am the same. Negotiate the combustion. Look to the sky. Breathe. Keep thinking. Reach out for the retrograde ring from a mechanical arm. This go-round has a prize: it will stop. You get off on the warmth of shade. Vision of a mankind - a joke without a punch line.

People complained about having to do the same things, about having to eat the same things, about having to wear the same clothes, but they never had any problem thinking the same thoughts. He realised this was another thought almost as frequent as the preceding.
Tibor Fischer, Don't Read This Book If You're Stupid

George Lukacs' apartment. Researchers, brows furrowed, pore over cassette interviews, share the space with the ghost of the archive. Looking for fresh clues. They have the fever. Coffee is made in the kitchen. I stand over the man's desk, The Thinker stares at the floor, a broken marble tablet puzzle hangs from three brass hooks near the entrance. The smell of books. Caricatures, the nose always oversized, why not the brain? Rilke, Mann, Hauptmann, Nietzsche. Shelves filled with intelligence, the past still speaks with the bookmark of a fruitful output. A balcony view to liberty and the river cruise ships. Germans and Swedes disembarking, not realizing the world was organized there: correctly, politically, impartially?

We ride the IC to Revfulop, the train hugs the marshy shore.
The lake, an inland sea, blends the haze of infinity
to its liquid sky. Hungarian 50's rock and roll on the radio:
"les twis agahn". A white heron springs from the reeds.
The fly hugs its window, wondering. A toothless woman
rolls a bread chunk in her mouth until it dissolves.
We bank a turn and the world dips a variety of colours.
Grapes in communion with the ultra violet, converting,
readying the palatial quest. Rolls of hay; field strewn symbols
of a horse's future. The hills of our city push into the horizon.

Kiraly Utca in the morning,
the construction workers stand
at the tiny bufe chewing sandwiches,
eyeing the women walking to work, up and down, unblinking.
A man vomits into a nearby planter.
Pressure's washing the sidewalk.
Too much to buy, without money I'm nothing.
The lithe and tan bodies.
In the shade the scent of dust and cleanser washes me.
A last check before emerging.
The sensual relaxed walk of a woman who senses and emits her beauty.
Interlocked, she walks with her boyfriend.
Her ring finger bare. A hybrid form.
A moment of quiet then the measured meter of footsteps.
A headturn, evaluating, rating, memorizing.
A call from Csaba on the mobile.
He asks, "are you drunk?" I wish, my reply.
Dressed in black she swings her arm, thinks of love.
Casual, the rays of sunshine that gently shift and divide the acacia leaves.
Time check. Flowers in a basket.
A red dress, loose and gauzy, sails past me on a bicycle.
Another second of quiet.
Then the drilling begins again.
"It's Time For a Pie"
says the truck's facade.