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the old sensitive trees you see on the coast here they can make you believe life is sad gods in the forest a character's always he or she or they never it Levinas the French Jewish philosopher my friend, Alphonso Lingis, you can call me Al and when

to you of all people

harvest the leaves of grass harvest all things mottled, bare of charm how can you harvest that like anchors on the seafloor a luminous watery sky a wash a watered silk gather the wings of flies, ...I said, flies. I know what I said. yo, measure the beds... we have

grief, and a sense of loss…

we have to … no, we don’t. wake up? no, we don’t. and it is as if we are passing through a dream… pass through dreams passing through a dream… pass through gathering the images to us we want desire is like turbulence in our transit who has time

on shrinking

In, as part of, Claire Bishop’s original Artforum article, “The Digital Divide,” there appears a ‘media case study’ where Mark Dion says what he’s afraid of in the digital, as part of it. I talked about this in the lectures uploaded here. In a strange serendipity, Mark Dion

a note on Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” from lecture 7, Theory & Context

… Walter Benjamin is misunderstood in his essay of 1935 if it is thought he is referring to what is particular to an artwork, or to what is unique and singular in general: the reproduction he is referring to is not so much to do with the reproduction of an original

from Night Thoughts by Wallace Shawn, published by Haymarket books radical, independent, nonprofit book publisher … make our books a vibrant and organic part of social movements and the education and development of a critical, engaged, international left.

The aggressiveness that has been our daily mode of being can’t help us any more. We wake up and start massacring people whom we see as our enemies. We wake up and break into the earth with gigantic drills and terrifying explosions. We wake up and find our place

reading 4 am the Window by Tony Birch, I want to call him on the phone, let the poet know…

restless after a bout of strange dreams drinking hot chocolate reading poetry by a writer acclaiming sweet light of early mornings I want to call him on the phone let the poet know I knowbut don't have his number and who knows if he would answer having been