sleepless nights in berlin

Jonas presents his filmPeter Sempel was there making the third part to his trilogy of films about JonasHe carries hundreds of filmposters and hand made postcards with himFlorian Kremb in the nightSempel with this great guy Denisas Kolomyckis who is a young performance artist from Vilnius, and this girl who carried a flute with her everywhere and played it in bars and restaurantsSebastian Mekas in the nightwith peter,jonas and benn northover in the nightwatching Bruce Baillie’s ‘All my Life’which P Adams Sitney presented as his perfect short filmJonas, always filming….

Heimat!

Sleepless Night Stories @ Berlinale 2011

Sisters and Brothers in or of Berlin, ‘Sleepless Night Stories’, a new film by Jonas Mekas will world premiere at Berlin Film Festival this Friday and Sunday. Jonas will also be in conversation with P Adams Sitney on Saturday. Click on the links for more information.
Touch down at Schonefeld on the 06.50 Easyjet tomorrow morning. Bag: 1 change of clothes; 2 books (Identity Parade: New British & Irish Poets; Granta Young Spanish-Language Novelists); dictaphone; hat; camera; passport; notebook; charger. See you on the streets.

silences

21 June 2006
In a small hotel facing the Atlantic ocean. The sky is black, or deep blue, deeper, and it is midday. Outside a gale has cleared the streets; the air is ice cold; the wind whips at the building, like paper cuts on skin or like the draft that sits on the empty horizon after the end of the world. I sit in the balance between sleep and the calm yellow light of this old room. In my stillness, everything I see from the window acquires a new intensity, a vehement relevance. It’s like Im caught in an interminable dream. Like Im in someones home movie and they are watching it backwards ( I can hear the rewind screech) at half or quarter speed. It is too cold to move.

22 June 2006
Blizzard today.

23 June 2006
The blizzard continues. Whiteout. I am hungry. It is put to me, by the dwarflike creature behind the reception desk, that I would be mad to leave the hotel; that there is no cafe for four miles, and even if I made it, it would be closed. In my hunger I suspect she is lying. She (or someone, the manager?) is trying to keep me at the hotel. What plans do they have? I stare at her for a very long time. She does not budge. Finally, I mutter something about lizards, about the third mind, and about irregular procedures in major drug companies, and walk backwards to the front doors, pointing my finger at her as I continue my outburst.
Outside, I lift the collar of my coat up, bow my head and walk into the tempest. I cross the road and onto the white beach. My boots chew at the snow and make the sound of a huge wooden door closing slowly; a door that is most definitely behind me. I walk for what seems minutes but could well be miles. Ahead there is a cafe on the sea front and as I draw closer I see lights on and movement, hands moving amongst candles.
There is ploughmans on menu. Ploughmans, please, I say to the waiter. No Ploughmans today, he replies. I pause for a minute to think what he really means by that. I look around – yes, this is definitely a cafe. Do you have bread? Yes. Do you have cheese? Yes. Pickle? Yes. Apple? Yes. Do you have celery? Probably. Do you have pickled onions? No. Ok, well, do you have tomato? Yes. Ok, great put all of those things on a plate, I say and then turn to look out the window at the sea.I eat my food quietly and order a bottle of real beer which I don’t touch.

The sea stretches across the limit. The Atlantic sea; that strange sea that stretches the compass, that alters and disturbs time. Water and time: irrevocably linked. The lonely and the lost gravitate (or should I say fall or sink) towards the the water. The banks of the Thames, the Seine, the Danube, lined with lost and forgotten people watching the water, sensing the time as it, thankfully, passes.

24 June 2006
Blizzard continues. Stay in room and look out of window until night falls.

25 June 2006
This morning there was a change. The sea was populated with fishing boats. Beyond the boats the sea was restless, grinding. The caprice of the Atlantic ocean, like two bodies under a duvet. The undersea: a room full of fireworks or a never ending celebratory wave around earth’s stadium. The jagged dance of time. An inexorable clock of birth and death, of memories and missed opportunities. The lips of armageddon.

2 January 2011
At the end of December 2010, I was helping my mother pack her belongings up. And as we stood boxing her shelves, I discovered many books and films that I remembered from childhood, some with the handwriting of a young me scrawled across the pages. And it was then that the feeling returned. The singular sensation of time moving away, separated. That obscure, untitled force, magnetising us all in. Time passing, an odd phrase of time, as if it was less time and more time’s ghost, a shadow against the walls of time. A strange strain of time, as if time had run out, or was about to.

The next morning, after breakfast, I left and took with me (as a token of thanks) a bag full of books: The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin; The Letters of Van Gogh; A Personal Anthology by Borges; Selected Poems of Neruda, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera (inside a price tag from 1981 for $10.95 from Scribner’s); an old copy of Heart of Darkness and a copy of Penguin Modern Poets series No.25, published in 1975 featuring Gavin Ewart (?) , Zulifkar Ghose and B.S Johnson.

As I settled on the train, I stuffed my hand into the bag to pick a book at random. Blindly, I came across some papers left in a dust cover. The first page had hundreds of telephone numbers written at random; a second page was full of notes on african musicians; but the page that sat on my lap for the remainder of my journey was a photocopied page from a book on the Romans. Highlighted in pink, top right hand corner of page, was a quote by the emperor Aurelius: ‘Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.’

Poems at Nth Position

Online poetry, politics, and art digest, Nth Position, have published two poems of mine this month. The poems are from 2009 and both written on the Atlantic coast.

Click HERE to go thru….

And also watch THIS on your TV and turn your lights off and then throw your TV out of the front door, its useless and you don’t need it anymore, start running fast or faster.

shoreline

A few poems published in an issue of the delinquent last year. part of a bigger narrative/image/video installation im still figuring out. i thought i’d stick them up here for time being.

#2.

1. I look into a room and the room is empty, and the room is gone. 2. I would take the room as my own; the room belongs to emptiness – it has long suffered. 3. The emptiness speaks as an enjoiner, forbidding any mercy toward actuality or any element, tool or word with sharp grace. 4. So I take the room and I fill it with lank and gangle structures and I fill it with anatomies of future jungles; sequences of life objects: pelican lamps, bicycles, peregrine trees, wood carvings of giraffes and borzoi wolves, gharials on pedestals, thousands of sun dials, rakes, oscilloscopes, water turbines, rusting hulls, nail claws, swans and bones. 5. I charm them into exclamations, into flurries of wild currency. 6. I say ‘freeze! hold that there’. The objects are my subjects. 7. I spend hours and hours positioning par cans and flares to illuminate the room from the ground. 8. I get it right. 9. I paint the shadows that the subjects created – every detail, driven onto the walls. 10. I remove the subjects so that the room is empty. Is the room empty now? I remove the room back to its emptiness.

#15

Thorns
menace
a river path.

Teen devils
murk
a river town.

I notice
as time passes
an orchid swelling
on the jaw
of the current.

I notice
vim and sparkle
stray from the eye.

Only shapes
eclipsed
by towers of
contorted angelica.

Hidden.

And up:
Cerulean is black.

And along:
malachite is gone.

Driven out.

All that remain
are those in the shadows.

#37

Often, in noises, smells and colours, I recognise from memory
or a connection to childhood that reminds me at a bus stop,
or the curve of a motorway valley, or an abandoned cafe in
Bexhill or Athens or Berlin, like a lady that i have never met,
who stands in the shadows, or in a cage.

Like a body behind the sun, trapped. Where it must be only
black and completely black. There is no need for faith when
the end is there from the very beginning.

Episode 2

In Episode 2 we meet Rabbaney, a fashion designer and a muslim. And Radford, a musician/composer and a buddhist. Recorded in Cafe Heimito in Vienna next door to a Cathedral, the two men talk about life, death, vocation and the whimsy of love.

11:11

Photos copyright Naddy Sane

Secret Weather Vol 6 – w/ guest Palmistry

Download at: http://www.zshare.net/download/831022622e47438b/

Flyer for Stereo Art communion

Performance of ‘Requiem For The 20th Century’

My Shetlandic/Japanese friends Stereo Art are curating a show tomorrow night (Thurs, 11/11) at Shoreditch Church. Featuring various live electronic music performances, dance, a performance of Arvo Pärt’s ‘Spiegel im Spiegel’, poetry and visuals. I am presenting Jonas Mekas’ ‘Requiem for the xxth C’ with a live soundtrack and a reading from Jonas’ diaries. 

The event will be great and you will buy your tickets from here

Serpentine Autumn exhibition guide bedroom wall dreamy smash hits pullout

Iz it u??

I

 What is it in these mutant shallows that prickles

and throbs?    In the swelling moss of air, the 

soil morning,  smoking  itself  outwards, peated?

What is it in this stew, this union of sweet rot

and loneliness that is itching out a fine rhythm

of chaff and burn? 

I hear crying in the dog heap. Now angels 

reside in the summer dustbins.

What is that?  —-                         

II

What are these atmospheres of church coat?

I feel the end of the lane trickling away from

the house, waves of incense leaving the cliff

edge.

I am not in control of the departed.

What is it spreading out on the lawn, reaching

from the smoldering brush?   The  pounding

heat, shade of brick, loaf of shale and calcite.

I am losing my — out here, I —

What is it?

III

Oil of the eye, dark curdling, sections of sky seem to

bleed down, irrigating the dust, birthing clusters

of finger grit that will remain for days:  Little histories.

I am on the floor I realise.

By the water, white fish rap and writhe on ink 

rock; the sound snaps in the night and finds me 

at hyper-speed,  eyes: sheer and ghastly.

IV

In the morning I walk along lanes that buzz and 

sway. Wind, flora —  colluding and computing vague

murmurs on the cusp of the earth.      Bully.

Suffocate lacuna — dried spittle and discharge.

Stuck in womb, blood is brown.

Snakeroot, bugwort, rattle weed.

V

Why is that when I read the tide times I feel as

if something other is being transmitted?

As if my circumstance is being mapped out for

me, out in the Atlantic weather.

SECRET WEATHER vol. 5

 

Listen:

How to Dress Well – Ready For the World
Dory Previn – The Lady With The Braid
Associates – Boys Keep Swinging
John Parish& PJ Harvey – 16,15,14
Toro y Moi – Blessa
Floating Points – Shangrilla
Portishead – The Rip
Moondog – A duet

Download Here

Watch:

White Material by Clare Denis

and
Vernon,FL. by Errol Morris

Look at:
The Work of Belgian born artist Francis Alys

Episode 1

All The Right Noises is a series of interviews I have conducted with members of the public in bars, friends in their flats and (in a later episode) shamed politicians in fetish shops.

Here in episode 1 we meet Aaron. He is a gardener and wants to see the northern lights.

– Only in chaos are we conceivable –

Roberto Bolano died today 7 years ago.

“The secret story is the one we’ll never know, although we’re living it from day to day, thinking we’re alive, thinking we’ve got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn’t matter.”

The Delinquent

The Delinquent have kindly published three of my poems in the latest issue. All three are part of my diary/poem cycle Shoreline:50 fragments at the end of a decade which is part of an exhibition to be staged later in the year. More news on that as it comes in….

You can buy the magazine HERE

SECRET WEATHER vol 4

LISTENE:

1.Ellie Mao – The Sweeping Wind
2.Broken Social Scene – KC Accidental
3.Beach Boys – Dont worry baby
4.Canned Heat – Going up the country
5.Erik Satie – Lent
6.Ryuichi Sakamoto – Bibo no Aozora
7.Swans – I am the sun

DOWNLOAD HERE

WACHH:

BAD LIEUTENANT

and

IN THE MIRRIR OF MAYA DEREN

READi:

To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl

n.b – s.w vol 4 photo at top features me holding martin’s original jean cocteau line drawing he bought recently. mins later he spilt curry,red wine and bleach on it before freaking out and erasing the signature with a rubber to prove his anger.

born on 13th April – s.beckett

Go where never before
No sooner there than there always
No matter where never before
No sooner there than there always
– 1988

So things may change
No answer
End
No answer
I may choke
No answer
Sink
No answer
Sully the mud no more
No answer
The dark
No answer
Trouble the peace no more
No answer
The silence
No answer
Die
No answer
DIE screams I MAY DIE screams I SHALL DIE screams
Good

– How it is, 1964

born on 9th March – s.barber

” Dear Mother: I have written to tell you my worrying secret. Now don’t cry when you read it because it is neither yours nor my fault. I suppose I will have to tell it now, without any nonsense. To begin with I was not meant to be an athlete. I was meant to be a composer, and will be I’m sure. I’ll ask you one more thing .—Don’t ask me to try to forget this unpleasant thing and go play football.—Please—Sometimes I’ve been worrying about this so much that it makes me mad (not very). ” Aged 9.

Long live the new flesh

On my way back from Germany i sat on the train with a bottle of cava, a large pretzel and a quarter bottle of cheap vodka that i had bought at a U-bahn stop the night before. I began to write about my trip, pages of the stuff, feverishly, driving pen and oiled pretzel salt into the page, dribbling cocktail with a smile and letting my head deafen and wool itself as the train flashed in and out of tunnels. I made a solid document of my travels from berlin, down into bavaria and ending by the lakes. It was written on the last pages of a notebook, the last blank pages of a book on witchcraft, and on the tissue paper that the wine had been wrapped in.

Somewhere between Kings Cross and my bed the pages were lost. Of course these mislaid pages were mesmerising, vital nuggets of wild, transcendent literature completely reinventing all written matter and changing the course of the universe for good BUT they are lost, gone forever. So instead, i am going to be brief.

And say this:

Of all the films that i saw at the Berlin Film Festival, the one that i enjoyed the most (and that the cineastes hated) was ‘Long Live the New Flesh’ by Nicolas Provost. Try and seek it out. It will, how do you say, fuck you up.

Also, try and track down ‘Geliebt’ by Jan Soldat – a documentary love story…between man and dog. its pretty colourful.

I will be back here shortly.

Packing to SECRET WEATHER vol.3

I woke early this morning. I raised the blinds and turned on the radio. I considered going for a run. The street below was quiet and in the process of dawn; slow and stuck in its daily routine. I stood at the window letting the radiator burn at my legs. A lady on her way somewhere looked up as a first hint of snow began to fall. Dvorak’s ‘Song to the Moon’ started up in the room. From the opposite direction a lone runner was en route to cross paths with the lady, who had now stopped and held out her hand to feel the drifting flakes. The runner crossed the road under my window. Lycra – rubber – shine hood – velcro leg – sweat relief 2050xk; he had splashed out. “I’m not that kind of runner”, i said aloud.

Instead i sat in my kitchen and listened for the kettle to boil on the hob. When it boils the steam blows through a small whistle shaped as a bird. It takes about 5 minutes and i make myself a strong black Kenyan coffee – taylors of harrogate, cheap and good. I turned on the radio in the kitchen and listened to a man complain about the possibility of possibly running out of road grit, possibly. I yawned and switched it off and decided i should pack for my trip to Berlin – i am leaving at 5 tomorrow morning.I relish the thought of being away, if only for a couple of weeks.

I wanted to pack light so i slumped on the bed and eye up various clothes laying about. Some boots, 2 pairs of trousers, shirts, jackets. Into my rucksack i threw a camera, notepad, a discman and a packet of mini cuban cigars that i found on my table (left by my friend charlie – he wanted to talk ‘oil’ after a documentary he had seen, i guess he thought cigars were appropriate) they could work as a gift or ice breaker, i thought. I put in a small pile of books i planned on taking with me: Seamus Heany’s ’66-87 Poems’; ‘The selected letters of Rimbaud’; Arthur Miller’s ‘Tropic of cancer’; and a biography on Brecht, who is buried in Berlin. On the side, on top of the jiffy bag he had sent it in, i saw my friend Tom Chivers’ new collection ‘ How to build a city’ – i threw that in the bag and strung it up.

I took a walk – the street was busier now and schoolchild shaped balls of woolen tottered with satchels and folders along the street towards the local primary. I skirt the pond to avoid any screeching and walk the back alleys in silence. I think about my 9 hour train journey via paris. I think about the route out of Paris, past Reims, through the Ardennes and up towards north east germany. I think about murnau’s films and about walking to other countries on foot. Breaking the silence i find myself diving into a shop to avoid a guy who thinks that i owe him money – i don’t owe him money but he is unable to shake off the belief that i owe him at least something. I carry on in silence, walking in the light settle of snow and relish the thought of being away – if only for a couple of weeks.

SECRET WEATHER no.3 (Berlin film festival edition)

Listen:

1.Bobby Vee – Tears on my pillow
2.Gingirikani marimba band – Malaika
3.Neubauten – Ich Hatte Ein Wort
4.Syd Barrett – Love you
5.A place to bury strangers – I know il see you
6.B.J.M – Going to hell
7.Keb Mo – Im so lonesome
8.Tom Waits – Im still here
9.Lonyo – Summer of Love
DOWNLOAD HERE

Watch:

UZAK by Nuri Bilge Ceylan – HERE

and

Dog Tooth by Yorgos Lanthimos – HERE

Read:

Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux

and

How to Build a City by Tom Chivers

BUY IT HERE

Born on 16th January – Susan Sontag (jan10)

Born today in 1933. Susan Sontag: great writer, essayist, theorist, activist.
She died in 2004.
Three great moments:
1.She wrote at length on photography and the image, about how the camera has affected the human race and our moral codes, in ‘On Photograpghy’. BUY IT HERE

2.She directed ‘Waiting for Godot’ in Sarajevo during the Bosnian war.

3.She wrote brilliantly about the work of Antonin Artaud. BUY IT HERE

Great essay on 100 years of cinema – written in 1995.
A Century of Cinema

“To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt. ”

“The only interesting answers are those that destroy the questions. ”

“Existence is no more than the precarious attainment of relevance in an intensely mobile flux of past, present, and future. ”

“I envy paranoids; they actually feel people are paying attention to them.”

SECRET WEATHER vol.2

Ears:

1. Caruso – Addio Dolce Svegliare, La Boheme
2. E.S.G – UFO
3. Matmos – The Banjo’s Categorical Gut
4. Pavement – Stereo
5. Haunted Graffiti – Every Night i Die at Miyagis
6. Fever Ray/Fuck Buttons – If i Had a Heart
7. Johnny Otis – Poison Ivy
8. Faust – The Sad Skinhead
9. Can – Mushroom
10. Atlas Sound – River Card
11. John Cale – Heartbreak Hotel
12. Bullion – Young Heartache
13. Arthur Russell – Let’s go swimming

Download HERE

Eyes&Ears:

Les Blank – Burden of Dreams HERE

Clare Denis – Beau Travail HERE

Aki Kaurismaki – Ariel HERE

Eyes/mind:

Henry Miller – The Time of The Assassins HERE ( life changer alert!!!!)

Roberto Bolano – Godzilla in Mexico
Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You’d just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn’t tell you we were on death’s program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn’t be afraid.
When it left, death didn’t even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We’re human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.

Serpentine Gallery poetry marathon (dec09)

Here is a small doc about the poetry marathon i performed at in October that Serpentine have just put up on their website HERE

Look out for yours truly doing my very best to string a coherent sentence together. It was a great event and i think they are putting a book together documenting the event. Il post something on here if i hear about it.

SECRET WEATHER VOL 1

(here is a new monthly mix of music to cry or get high to, some books/essays/ poems to woo potential lovers with, and some films/interviews to dive into..its a guide for lazy people or its just a few of my favourite things)

For the EARS:

1.CARL ORFF – GASSENHAUER
2.BROADCAST – TENDER BUTTONS
3.ROCKIN RAMRODS – BRIGHT LIT BLUE SKIES
4.ARTO/NETO – PINI,PINI
5.PSYCHIC TV – THE ORCHIDS
6.ARTHUR RUSSELL – THATS US/WILD COMBINATION
7.PERE UBU – WASTED

For the EYES:

Georg Trakl – Eastern Front (page 24) HERE

For the EARS and the EYES:

Nam June Paik HERE

Harry Smith talking in NY HERE

Querelle by Fassbinder HERE

hybrid nightmare (dec09)

Only fair:

Dear Cineworld Head Office,

Yesterday evening I, and two companions, paid for three tickets for the 21.20 showing of Jane Campion’s new film ‘Bright Star’ at Cineworld Hammersmith. If I am honest, when I first read about the film I was not immediately impelled to go, however, after a few good write ups, the tickets were purchased and there we were.

‘Bright Star’ – a film set in the early 19th Century. A subtle and quiet film, with a soft and peaceful rhythm set in a bucolic Hampstead Heath around 1820. ‘Bright Star’ – a film documenting the brief yet powerful love affair of a poet (John Keats) and a student of high fashion (Fanny Brawne) that commenced nearly 200 years ago. ‘Bright Star’ – a period piece that slowly unfolds a graceful and delicate narrative of, what is on the whole, quite a sweet and gentle English love affair. So you can imagine my amazement when, during leading actress Abbie Cornish’s first important monologue, where she reads a letter from Mr. Keats ( Ben Whishaw), she is accompanied by the bass line of the late King of Pop Michael Jackson’s ‘Billie Jean’. Interesting, I thought.

Moments later, as Keats’ brother dies a painful death after suffering badly at the hands of Tuberculosis, an extreme bout of cheering and whooping and “Go Michael, Go Michael” ing permeated the room. Strange, I thought.
As Keats’ own health began to deteriorate and he and Fanny realised that their love affair was coming to a heartbreaking end, an end that spelt out the poet’s early death and the start of his love’s agonising bereavement, a pivotal climax in the film, a moment where the two hold each other close and whisper odes of love, the slow and creeping intro of Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ rises and as Whishaw moves his mouth it seems as if he is grunting and shrieking and hollering and hooting and then there is the preposterous moment when Whishaw moves his lips to say his final goodbye and says:

‘Cause this is thriller, thriller night
There ain’t no second chance against the thing with forty
eyes, Girl!’

What is Campion up to? I think. This can’t be right.

As I walk out of the cinema I notice the sign on the next screen along:
‘Michael Jackson; This is it! ‘

Last night was like watching two different universes collide and the result was messy. I dont feel like I actually watched ‘Bright Star’ and if I ever attempted to again the absence of The King of Pop’s cameo appearances would probably now leave a gaping hole.

So, Cineworld, this brings me round to the point of my letter. I think that it is only fair that
we are compensated with three free tickets to a film of our choice. We would like to see Michael Haneke’s ‘The White Ribbon’ but I am not sure that film would be shown at a Cineworld (would it?). So perhaps, just an open ticket would suffice.

Please do reply to this letter as issues like these most definitely need to be addressed.

Yours,

Edward Eke.

I now have 4 tickets to cineworld. If only they had an interested programmer…

more news from the banx of the thames (oct09)

Away above a harborful

of caulkless houses

among the charley noble chimneypots

of a rooftop rigged with clotheslines

a woman pastes up sails

upon the wind

hanging out her morning sheets

with wooden pins

– L Ferlinghetti, ‘Pictures of the gone world

I am moved in to a new flat, 2 mins from the last, still moments from the river, w/ high ceilings and red carpets and walls made from some kind of crumbling biscuit..which has made hanging pictures a sport, but i am happy and have a desk that looks across to a church and a (now sadly closed down) legendary recording studio. the main room, we have turned into a workshop/studio with 3 long desks on trestles placed along three of the walls,its cold as we have no hot water or heating yet but i like sitting indoors wearing outdoor clothes and have a constant flow of hot drinks coming my way. there is a pet shop, book shop, film shop, betting shop, cafe and off license below so that is good.

I have been writing many new songs, i will be making recordings soon and in time will let you know my new plans.
Ages ago i wrote a piece for an anthology called Punk Fiction which was released thru portico ( im sure you can get it from their site) – like a fool i didn’t read the edits made after the proof read and there were some changes made so in time i will post the correct piece here. do buy the book though,it had a deal where the money went to a cancer charity.

I have also just written for a Berlin based journal. info here taken from Declan Rooney’s website:
‘Oh, Don’t Get Carried Away’

KP Poetry Journal Volume 1

September 2009

(A zine I am publishing with new commissioned work by Are Blytt, Stefano Calligaro, Hsiao Chen, Sujey Colon, Drawing Guts, Edward Eke, Edvine Larssen, Thurston Moore, Donata Rigg, Ama Saru, Antonio Serna and Susanne Winterling)

http://www.kunstprojects.com
Declan is a great artist who works in many different mediums. Look at his website:www.declanrooney.com

( connected side note: i have just found that my new neighbour downstairs is a one D.Rooney )

Some more news for you:

Next week i am doing a performance at the Serpentine Gallery. http://www.serpentinegallery.org

It is part of the Serpentine Marathon series ( so far they have done ‘Interview marathon’ ‘ Experiment marathon’ and ‘manifesto marathon’) .
This year is the poetry marathon and i am collaborating w/ the great Jonas Mekas and Benn Northover.

Jonas

Benn

We are doing a performance of Jonas’ work ‘Requiem for the 20th Century’. We are in the process of working out how to present it, will update shortly.

Also, for those of you in New York Citie
http://poetryproject.org/project-blog/jim-carroll-memorial-reading.html

signing out singing,
ee

J.C 1.8.1949 – 11.9.09 (sep09)

Jim Carroll died on Friday at his desk at his place in Manhattan. He had a heart attack. Its very sad – there was word that he had finally finished the novel he had been working on for so long ‘The Petting Zoo’. i hope that that is the case and it is published posthumously. i loved Jim carroll’s poems and diaries – it wasnt exactly an originality that made him special – they called him the american rimbaud and he worshipped Frank o’hara – but it was the ferocious hard work that he put into his writing and his street-rat poetic that he sharpened and defined from an early age. his teen story is the great american coming of age story. well thats what i think.

read: ‘living at the movies’ or ‘forced entries’ or his most popular diary ‘the basketball diaries’
listen: ‘people who died’, ‘i want the angel’, ‘day&night’

There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body, its soft skin
–Jim Carroll, “Poem”
from Void of Course (1998)

w/ sarah at the job centre (june09)

 aaron mckay, pirate, poet, polysexual and soon to be married  married 05/05/10

JSA

I counted the hours that i had had the pleasure of sitting in the council’s plastic chairs. We were certainly up in the teens by now. i stared out the window and a great muted ashen slab of borough wall stared back in.

My officer, Sarah, was a channel 4 documentary’s wet dream – the archetypal single mother that bourgeois TV film producers salivate over monthly – all 6 stone, glassy half shut eyes, itching jaw bone and the odour of a primary schools changing room. she smelt as if she had wet herself and as she stared around my midrift and nodded off i wondered what i was doing there.

‘ Have you found any work then?’

Her voice was like a rusty machine gun spurting sporadic nasal whines – her words chugged along in one tone, her voice was an amplified wasp on downers.

‘No’ i replied

‘Have you been looking?’

‘Very much so’

‘Well, what jobs did you log in on your declaration sheet? were they broad keywords?’

She paused and took a few minutes to blink…..

‘Completely’ i finally answered when she had re-focused

‘What were they?’ she croaked

‘well, let me see…they were, Stuntman, Firearms officers’ assistant and Killer.’

‘Killer!?’ she looked at me as if i was her ex-husband.

‘Yes, pest control and all that evil…its not really my thing but i figure i can break them apart from the inside etc..’

She winced. ‘Oh’

A long pause.

‘How would feel about a stockroom at heathrow airport?’

I stared at Sarah. i stared at her long and hard and took a deep breath in from my gut – held it – and slowly let it out. i could smell her all about me – i thought about taking her out of there and plonking her in the local swimming baths but i knew she would turn the water purple so i stood and walked to the door. I turned and watched her head drop and decided i was better off hungry.

ARCHIVES/old w’blog

I have moved to wordpress and so I will treat old blog edwardeke.blogspot.com as an archive for the future curious. Il move a few posts  over here to get started.
me 1- 0 internet

archive since 2008 = http://www.edwardeke.blogspot.com

0.2 coming