Rufino Tamayo

http://www.albrightknox.org/ArtStart/Tamayo.html

Rufino Tamayo

Rufino Tamayo

Rufino Tamayo

http://www.albrightknox.org/ArtStart/Tamayo.html

Rufino Tamayo

http://www.albrightknox.org/ArtStart/Tamayo.html

The Non-secular Unconscious

What is the symptom of the Christian unconscious? The anticlastic of the eucharis whereby neither surface has a midpoint or joining. All surfaces appear to conjoin, yet remain at a distance, a constant tension between the repressed and the imago of sin. Once failure to meet the strictures of Christian doctrine is evened, the sin is the yardstick on which all present, past and future behaviour (ethical, moral and human) is measured. In this manner sin forms the basis for Christian symptomology the (lynchpin) on which it is formulated and enforced. Sin (the imago of sin) shapes the repressive quality (quantity) of the Christian unconscious. The Christian unconscious is the sin, the fear and enforcement of the sin (the sinning) without the sin, there would be no Christian unconscious, no basis (lynchpin) for and of a (non-secular) unconscious.

by James Joyce

http://www.themodernword.com/joyce/

Belizean Cowboy Hat

Weakfish molasses and granddad’s Brigham willowing blue-bluer blue smoke. ‘So little time’ thought the man in the hat, ‘and me with too many hats to choose from’. Fedoras and bowlers, panamas and Stetsons, hats that look like hats but on further inspection are grapefruits cut in half, stinkweed hats and hats that serve no other purpose than to inveigle one into thinking there hats when in fact they’re not hats at all but stand-ins for hats, pseudo hats. Spy’s hats and Belizean cowboy hats, hats made from hemp and spun wool hats that sat like dishrags on scullery maid’s heads. Corsair commander’s hats with gold piping and chevrons, Bishop’s Miters coopered with frankincense and mums, snake-charmer’s hats and hats fashioned from elephant fronds and Moses reeds. With this many hats to choose from the man in the hat chose a simple boater, ecru rattan with a silver thread merge between the brim and hatband.

Story of the Eye, George Bataille

http://supervert.com/elibrary/georges_bataille

Counterpoint to Discharge

Tension excites abreaction, the release of libidinal energy that is nothing more than yet-to-be-energy, the tension that the being-held consigns. The being-held is counterpoint to the discharge, which excites the resolve to remain in tension.

http://www.psywww.com/books/interp/toc.htm

The Veins in My Hand

Cambodian Coffee

I’m getting way too tired of being tired; to put it mildly, I’m very tired. All the tea on China, the coffee in Cambodia, even, couldn’t make me any less tired. I tried sleeping, but that didn’t work; sleeping is a waste of time when you’re all worked up, I mean so awake that you’re wasting time thinking about being asleep, which of course you can’t, sleep, because you’re awake thinking about it. The way I see it, which is pretty much blurry and off-centre most of the time, being tired must have something to do with not being able to sleep, and even if you could, you’d spend more time thinking about it, sleep, then actually doing it, so it’s all pretty much a waste of time, really. I used to sleep curled in a ball upside my granddad’s dog, but on account of the fact he had fleas and bad breath I stopped, with the dog in a ball, curled up and asleep. I tried reading the National Geographic, but that didn’t work, even the ones with naked pictures of tall African woman and antelopes, and some with African dogs and huts and high grass, those kinds of pictures. My dad, before the house burned, had these photograph magazines, some with nude pictures and ads for lipstick, and ads for teeth floss and these x-ray glasses that were really fake, cause all you ever saw was the veins in you’re hand, like they were painted onto the x-ray glasses, that kind of phoney shit. When I was littler I was always being fooled by shit, ads in photograph magazines and our house burning down, that sort of shit.

Desire-less Desire

The desire to be desire-less, to remain once, perhaps twice-removed from that which is desirable yet undesired. In this manner all and everything is desirable, even the desire for the undesired; to desire the undesired, the move towards away from the desire of desire, undesirability. Technology has taught us to be suspect of desire, to keep at arm’s-length the desire to desire what is and is not desirable. In the end, the technological end, desire vanishes into the undesired, the inability to emote and engage in the act of desiring altogether. The technological-machine has taught us how to become machines, desire-less automatons. The fear of intrapersonal assonating far outweighs the desire to engage, and the machine takes over where emotion once reined: to assonate means to become aware of the other, ourselves (self-awareness) and the assonating of the other as ourselves, a supra-empathic being-aware. As in Lacan’s mirroring, the ability of the child to differentiate between the image (imago) and the self, or self as mirrored in the mirror of the self, a mirroring of the self through an imago that is neither real or phantasm but a binary of both, a real-phantasy, or real-phantasy-equivalent. The computer screen has replaced the Lacanian mirror (the real as phantasy); the self-qua-self as imago, neither desirability nor undesirability, but an in between where suspicion and fear replace being-aware and being-desire.

http://www.lacan.com/lacan1.htm

Weakfish and Molasses

Porter blacker than molasses, the evidence is in the pudding. The man in the hat liked Galba panfrys on his toast: oleo el dente avec froid. 27 ½ hours left, and counting, until the trees start sing arias on low. Grandmamma’s mincemeat pies, porkpie hats and granddad’s Brigham billowing smoke bluer than the bluest blue sky. Saint Albert and the Corrupter Sims, 27 ½, her feet splayed sideways; meniscus, wish and Stilton. Thoughts are useless things, thought the man in the hat, ‘so I’ll take a crab cake and a jarful of Paddy’s Bold’. The evidence is in the porkpie, black currant and poppyseed. The proofing is in the mincemeat, red apples and pears au jus. The man in the hat dreamt he was dreaming, his eyes inside out, staring at a blanched spot on the ceiling. Dreams are for the restless; he thought dreaming, abeyance culpa mea veritas. Saint Albert and the Corrupter Sims, two pleas in a scrod, crab cakes and mincemeat and granddad’s Brigham billowing bluer blue. ‘Thinking takes far too much energy’ he thought, ‘and the headaches are merciless indeed’. ‘Give me a strong cup of bitters and a bowlful of scrod, a stout kick to the noggin and one of me grandmamma’s poppyseed cakes’. ‘What about me pigglywiggly legs, have you no mercy for a weakfish waif?’ Dreams are the things that waifs are made of, Stilton, weakfish and molasses.

Shoulder Hobs

A bordello moon sat low in the morning sky, shoulder hobs stretched to overburdened. Some mornings the moon forgot to low, a crouching frog; northernmost star, a bejeweled daystar, the star that summons imps and ghouls, chickens’ feet, corrupted souls and bedbug bugs. Calfskin souls made from morphine and curio-salts, his grandmamma making Doll pastries with extra icing sugar and almonds. The proof is in the pudding, Plumtree’s Potted, like dear old Joyless, before the accident, of course. A titmouse and a churchmouse, the proof is in the plodding: before the next 27 ½ hours another 27 ½, never a moments rest, not a ½, his grandmamma’s feet in bunions, dross and ox-broth, blue Stilton, meniscus, wish and splay-toed; bordello hook-rug made with bedbugs and exacting prophylacticity. These thoughts, these not quite thoughts thought the shamble leg man, thinking he was having true undeniable thoughts when in fact he wasn’t having thoughts at all, not one.

Port and Blue Stilton

The dog was in the middle, of the road lying flat, the dog in the road. The shamble leg man saw many dogs lying flat in the middle of the road; some with caramel fur others with ecru or light brown fur, strays. Oxcarts, some beneath oxcarts, others pressed up into the wheel wells of cars like ham sandwiches. He saw them all, the dogs, strays. Lapdogs and collies, short-haired and dappled, small long dogs, all and every sort and breed of dog. Dogs live outside the world of humans; the dog-world is a world of sniffing and scratching, bones and rawhide toys. The man in the hat had a Florentine recipe for dog-meat: one Spanish onion finely diced, three carrots, two cloves of garlic, pressed, a cube of Oyo and 27 ½ cups of ox-broth. The meat was marinated overnight in the ox-broth and Oyo, then stir-fried at a low simmer for 27 ½ hours; the carrots and Spanish onion were added just before presentation, giving the dish a shimmering, pinkish hue. He served it with wild rice and asparagus, three baguettes and a 27 ½ year-old Port, Portuguese, Camembert, smoked Gouda and Blue Stilton on lightly toasted Melba. He cleaned his teeth with chicken bones, meniscus, wish or splay-toe.

Das Freud's

Cod and Haddock

A crooked blue sky in a crooked blue world; the man in the hat hurrying to catch the tram, feet shuffling; the sky threatening rain. His granddad used to catch the very same tram, seven o’clock sharp, his hat a-flutter on the tiptop of his head. His granddad carried a calculator in a scabbard on his belt that he used to weigh the cost ratio between cod and haddock. Taking into consideration the batter, which weighed less than the fish, he arrived at 27 ½. Sums and tallies, computations and figuring were his avocation, weighing cod and haddock his bread and butter. The man in the hat set foot in the church only once, on the occasion of his niece’s christening, a commodiousness working its way into his small bowel doubling him over in pain. Molasses biscuits, his grandmother made them fresh each morning before his granddad’s seven o’clock tram. She wrapped them in wax-paper, folding the edges into envelopes. In his granddad’s lunchbox, she put them there, with carrot sticks and a cored apple sliced into bitesize bites. Next to them, the carrots and molasses biscuits, she put a bottle of cows’ milk, a Florida juice orange and a linen napkin folded in on itself like a moth’s wings. He, his granddad, ate everything, carrot sticks, cored sliced apples and molasses biscuits in 27 ½’s, wiping the crumbs from the corners of his mouth with the napkin, then folding it in two and placing back into his lunchbox. Most things in his life, his granddad’s life, were carried out in 27 ½‘s, his toilet, reading, tying his shoes or taking a shave.

The River

her eyes
crossed the
river before mine, you must
follow the waves
she said

an eel
swam past
its oily body wrapped
round the skin
of my ankle

the river
is deeper here
she said, follow the current
let the waves
pull back

Christmas Ash

The alms man made his peace with God on a beg-bench in the church across the street from the aqueduct. He pressed the flip of his knees against the beg-wood and made his atonement. The rector’s assistants stood quietly in the shadow of the cross, figuring out ways to steal coppers from the alms-bowl. ‘Alms for the poor’ shouted the beggar-woman, her hair crowed on the top of her head. She made a camp out of Salvation Army blankets and clothes-pins on the steps of the church, placing her beg-bowl on the step closest to the doors. ‘I am a person too’, she hollered, her beg-bowl tippling on the step in front of her. The rector’s assistant folded the priest’s surplice and placed it gingerly on the altar-board. He stole his fingers through the pockets feeling for wafers and loose change, his eyes trained on the crucifix above his head. ‘My feet are numb’ bawled the beggar-woman, her face red as Christmas ash. ‘Will someone, for the love of God, drop a copper in my bowl?’ The alms man, hearing the beggar-woman’s plea, unbowed his knees and trundled out of the church, his alms cap held out in front of him like a ciborium. The rector’s assistant, having found a bit of wafer, bellied his way out the backdoor of the sanctuary, his feet scampering like a church mouse's.