just links and a poem
in 1984 a bunch of west german teenagers on a school trip to east germany smuggled an east german back with them. this was, shall we say, controversial. but impressive. the kids were apparently surveilled pretty heavily when they were in the gdr, but somehow the stasi (the secret police) missed the two girls plotting to smuggle an east german over the border in the back of their bus.
if you, like me, are kind of a voyeur, you might appreciate a view from the easel, a series of photos of artists' studios with artist commentary.
I can never have the field. I can never halve the
field, make a helix of my hands and hold the
halves
like pictures of the field - or fields - and affix one
feeling to the fields - or the infinite field - and stay
that way
I can walk down to the bog, the field
under-foliate-feet, in a bloodflow motion towards
the beating
of the bullfrogs’ black-lacteous tactile pool and
listen to the unilluminable below-surface stirring,
gravid ruckus of drooling purr and primordial bluebrown
blur. I can aggravate the grating godhood and glisten
of preening slime - its opaque, plumbeous,
tympanic slurps - an inside-outside alertness
bur-bur-bur-bur -
burrowing, harping with pings and plops
(lurches), and make the mossy froth go
berserk with silence,
then foofaraw when the bog in the field senses I am
nothing to fear. I can hear amphibious amour fou
pulsing
under a blue-green gasoline film, spongiform but
formless, boiling with blotched air-bubble let-go, life
fumping
the surface in slicks of upward rain and glossopalatine
pops and liquid crop circles. I can stop here and
listen
in time with the bobolink and make my bel
memento, my untremendous tremolo and
rinky-dink dictation.
In the fable, the animal smells fear and so does the
fool. I think to myself - in my skull’s skeletal
bell-shape -
I am both. I am both. I am both, and I can hold it
together.
--"All I Can Have are Field Recordings of the Field", Kristina Martino
if you, like me, are kind of a voyeur, you might appreciate a view from the easel, a series of photos of artists' studios with artist commentary.
I can never have the field. I can never halve the
field, make a helix of my hands and hold the
halves
like pictures of the field - or fields - and affix one
feeling to the fields - or the infinite field - and stay
that way
I can walk down to the bog, the field
under-foliate-feet, in a bloodflow motion towards
the beating
of the bullfrogs’ black-lacteous tactile pool and
listen to the unilluminable below-surface stirring,
gravid ruckus of drooling purr and primordial bluebrown
blur. I can aggravate the grating godhood and glisten
of preening slime - its opaque, plumbeous,
tympanic slurps - an inside-outside alertness
bur-bur-bur-bur -
burrowing, harping with pings and plops
(lurches), and make the mossy froth go
berserk with silence,
then foofaraw when the bog in the field senses I am
nothing to fear. I can hear amphibious amour fou
pulsing
under a blue-green gasoline film, spongiform but
formless, boiling with blotched air-bubble let-go, life
fumping
the surface in slicks of upward rain and glossopalatine
pops and liquid crop circles. I can stop here and
listen
in time with the bobolink and make my bel
memento, my untremendous tremolo and
rinky-dink dictation.
In the fable, the animal smells fear and so does the
fool. I think to myself - in my skull’s skeletal
bell-shape -
I am both. I am both. I am both, and I can hold it
together.
--"All I Can Have are Field Recordings of the Field", Kristina Martino