conversational drift, informatic license, exquisite enclaves


notes, quotes, provocations and other fair use


[7 June 2003] the invisible man

To be silent is as close as man gets to being invisible.

jasmin 2003 b/w
6th June Jasmine, 06:51hrs. IMG SRC="../2003imgs/jasmin2003large-bw.jpg" WIDTH="562" HEIGHT="749" BORDER="0" ALT="jasmin 2003 b/w"

[5-6 June 2003] urgency

Thought I'd be writing about that feeling of urgency one can never thank enough, rather I'd present obey a current and emerging urgency: to reach out off-line. In preparation of events to come, later this year (in Vilnius) and next year (in Almere), I set up a NQP dotcompendium address database. I've seen paper and I've seen ink and water stain'd. I've seen iron and and I've seen grease. And the slick machines it runs, ideas it rubs.

The urgency story would have been about the drive to make things up, to balance ideal and everyday realities. About art and life. I'll save that for the August Essay and later high resolution productions.

[4 June 2003] no legit no mo

No no no! Hey hey hey! Gimme that zero causality! Nothing ever legitimizes no nothing else no whatsoever way. No action at no action, no perception at no perception. I am no king with no kings, nope. "I - am - like - a - red - tin - bus... made in Tai -wan, people's faces are painted upon." I am the walrus. I am another, people's faces are painted upon. See how that makes sense? The 'I am' of identity is un-like me. I am the river today. But no men call me that, nomam nomen!

The Beuvron is in the process of being cleaned up, all the way from source to Yonne, including the many little streams that feed her. Today we have the machines and machinists around us. The smell of their wood fires in the warm moist atmosphere bring back strong memories of Indonesia. When they jam a shutter I have to dive in. Otherwise their oversized landscaping equipment is efficient. It downs some pain in the neck trees for me to cut them up for the wood fire some winter come.

blind faith inside cover

R at petit moutot
[29 May-3 June 2003 dates] the way we script classicdeadlanguagespeakoriginal

Phatic, all over again. Check and hide.

In the endless proximity and unlimited interaction of contemporary cultural production and informationalization, why antagonize cultural clichés instead of acknowledge whatever difference. Acknowledging whatever difference seems like the hardest trick. 29-31 May have been haunting, restless days of whatever acknowledgement of difference, plenty difference, plenty opposition.

There is the black and white opposition. There is the Dutch and Flemish opposition. There is the old and new media opposition. There is the old and new opposition. There is the drunk and sober opposition. There is the soul and opportunity opposition. There's the politics and love opposition. There is the love and disinterest opposition. Not to forget the art and life opposition. There's these directional oppositions, directional options, leads and loads. Sort of work and play too, if you likke. Laugh and cry. Only now remembered over Abba. Knowing me, knowing you, there is nothing we can do. Ahaaa... And Blind Faith. Well all right.

Memory mess with me. I drive home with three 90 year olds in the car. Close to 320 wo/man years of life's experience totalling, and counting. G.'s parents and a friend, Hermien Op den Akker. We lodge them for a week, then drive them back home. We walk them up and down the stairs and around the house and garden. We serve them teas and white wines.

'You can't be serious'. Well. Not with me anyway. At home there's weeding and rainbows. Walks up and down the stairs. Decisions to be plain honest spot on. Oppositional decisions, balancing, to mess up or drop out. Fragments to oppose fragments. Tunes to oppose tunes. Merry and moody turns to the music.

9 kms. from the Moulin are Joke and Karin and the Tofu book in the H+R cute fermette. J. will pass by to check email. She asks me how I adapt to the travelling scheme. Drurr. We'll talk about that.

[27 May 2003] quarantaine.html

That's where my spam goes from today. I arrived at getting 400+/24/7, which on a 56k dial-up called for action. just-in-time opened its 'quarantaine' filter.

('Confidential'). If you don't want to end up in that sticky stream of Internet abuse which fills the Quarantaine box awaiting once being glanced over before deletion, don't write me any mails which promise anything 'forever', neither the 'smallest' nor 'big' or 'Big', let alone 'BIG', no, 'biggest', not even the 'career' and certainly not the 'women', err, 'Women', I don't want to 'earn' your 'libido' nor 'ink', take no 'cash' or 'credit' while my 'mortgage' which you sometimes prefer to boast of as 'Mortgage' 'rates' my 'money' at best value already ('best' and 'value' pretty sure to go soon too, into quarantaine.html); my 'cock' meanwhile was 'paid' 'penis' for, even without your 'viagra', 'Viagra' and other 'prescribed' 'Prescription' 'medications' that I don't intend to take, because it won't 'Reduce' any of the 'hard' times that already I suffer. If you think 'Hey' 'Change' can I call you 'mdm2', or 'Steve', you're mistaking my generosity for 'Free' 'SEX' or 'FREE' 'cash' while those are currencies not readily 'Paid' out at flat 'Rates' but are shared in intimate connectivity that you don't have a 'Fucking' clue about. Then again, the 'Truth' is not safe with me anyway, no matter how much you 'Raise' that 'Fist' against me. Thank you for your kind or 'Criminal' attention, 'Love', ('jk', 'Jk' not being allowed due to a minimum of three characters per blocked out word): 'whateverhappens'.

Its the lock maker/lock picker competition revisited: send me mo' 8p@M to test that filter!

chaumont the way we print and screen
[24 May 2003] for contrast

R+r, Ho and Dé and myself drive 180kms East to visit the 14th Chaumont poster and graphic arts festival where Raymond Savignac (1907-2002, at Forum Étapes memorized by his colleagues) is celebrated while Paris' M/M and Zürich's Super ('Welcome to Graphic Wonderland') show off the state of contemporary artier graphic design. From the minuscule to the mega pixel pop colour ditto contrast are celebrated in lots of image and little text, even the text preferred image, hand writing and doodling galore. All design is game oriented for a generation which clearly enjoys to waste ink and paper to its depletion to picture recycling.

One link for graphic wonderland revisited: Tadanori Yokoo at his own dotcom. I cherish his printed tome, with original slipcase in mint condition, Barron's Educational Series, 1977, no links to be found through Google, abebooks, Powells...

snapped branch
[22 May 2003] in the garden

A branch snaps and hits the canvas. We've just got out of the car when we hear the firecracker sound. My first impression is of gun fire (but the hunting season is over?) then immediately after I realize a tree must have come down. Just last night after I mowed the island prairie we have been looking at it and G. suggested to fix a loong swing from that one high horizontal branch, next week. I out loud doubt the health of the branch but re-assure her that it will probably be there for another couple of years. So, yeah, a long swing would be nice. Now today it swung.

Tonight R+r and myself climb and rock it to see if we can down it altogether.

old media in gods own attic
[19 May 2003] in the garden old media

Good vibrations.

Morning. A deep moist green slowly emerges from the night under overcast skies. The glistening foliage envelopes the garden.

Afternoon. I put up a rack to house slide projectors and the archive and a Bell and Howell glass pearl screen, in god's own attic. Opening boxes that remained un-inspected for over 4 years I come across a lot of interesting material from the 1950-1980s. Three generations of close attention to nature connect singular moments from the period in which I grew up. My grandfather, my mother's father, Willem Jouke Jouwersma, my mother and myself I see in several pictures engage in the landscape, camera or sketchbook at hand, taking positions to record the humbling beauty of phenomenons.
      I recognize myself sitting down at some small harbor, probably in Noordholland or Friesland at the age of 10, 11, sketching, drawing. It's nearly 40 years ago but that is me — I'm definitely me, there and then. And how do I know? I read some of my mother's correspondence, including a couple of letters that I sent her, or to my grandparents. I read letters addressed to her by her parents-in-law, and what her brother wrote her in later life. It's not hard to see that's where I come from. Besides, it is exactly where I want to come from. I see the attention connect over several lifetimes — my grandparents', my parents', my own, my children's... When he enters our bedroom early upon waking up, Rolf tells me that we are lucky to have that bird song all the time, since otherwise we would only hear the river water.

Evening. Old selves come to visit, competing for attention. I'm happy that through me they get to know each other.

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