Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Oh, my love is like a red, red onion: it's purple, not red. My love is like a red, red dog without a collar, sniffing its way down an alley, smelling for some leavings, lifting a leg to mark what's verticle. My love is like a red, red car--rusted out, sitting on flat tires in blond weeds and armored thistles. My love is like a red, red stone in a load of blue river-rock: out of place. My love is like a red, red scar worn by Robert Burns on a night of drinking: likely to get left behind.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
The woman with the red handbag said to her friend, "I like the mist. I love the mist. Except when it--. I have mixed emotions about the mist." In there in the mist, emotions mix. Which ones? Fear, nostalgia, depression, desire, elation, maybe even infatuation? Infatuation, yes. For out of the mist might walk a face, a body, pinning the woman's desire to an image, one person's unwitting self-advertisement. Mist is water. Add emotions. Stir. Then: what? hans ostrom 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
Reclusive genius Annie Gerkinmew agreed to a rare interview. She spoke to worshiper and journalist Erich Nodmore at her reclusive-genius apartment in the Soho District at the center of the universe. The apartment foregrounds tones of rust and cinnamon, as well as contours of ineffable brilliance. Ol' Annie allowed as how she was indeed a genius, reclusive, special, diffident, ineffable, rare, and open to have her photo taken--by a highly paid pro, black-and-white, lighting to be directed by her. Annie spoke at some length about the burdens of genius and the rigors of being represented by the most powerful literary agents, managers, and lawyers. She alluded to the fact that no one has seen the trouble she has seen. She is considering crossing Jordan River. She identifies with Black people. The interview provides a fascinating glimpse into the manufacture and maintenance of literary celebrity, which is not so different as plastic cups or car-bumpers. One urges one to read the interview. Listen to me: Annie Gerkinmew is an important writer. She has won prizes. Her back-cover blurbs are written by angels and sub-contracted to cherubs. Annie Gerkinmew is an essential voice in our world. Therefore, shut up! Be respectful! She is remote and talented. She is a rare genius, and she went out of her fucking way to grant an interview. Okay?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
The happeningness of reality never pauses. No wonder wonder tires us. And no surprise we like our invented constants: coffee or tea; known routes; the expected deployment of red in certain aspects of couture and home-decoration; music imprinted on us early; and now visits to the same illusory places on something we happen to call the Web. The happeningness of the Web mimics that of parental reality. Electrons constantly lay new eggs, which constantly hatch. What is or seems to be (now there's no difference) quickly joins a rank and a prioritized state of being, a stasis with a status; or not. One and Zero, baby, and infinite combinations thereof. It was and is a shotgun-wedding of the simplest and the most complex, and the offspring are the feudal overlords of us all. hans ostrom 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
You touch the moon on water, a century collapses into a train & the engine's light shines on tracks, which ladder up from night into a blue dawn buttered. And now unfixed factories march across a plain to kidnap fugitive workers. You're at red rim-rock's edge, watching all of this--you, the emperor of images, brewer of creosote beer, melter of topaz, escaped sheriff. hans ostrom 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
Investment Masters continue to control the scroll of insidious influence. Let's shake on it. The Stalk Market rallied today on news of better-than-expected burnings reports. If you're trying to make sense of it all, you're a sucker. If you're not trying to make sense out of it all, you're a sucker. Trying to alter the course of institutions is like dancing with an avalanche. On this day then I take my red-bandana-handkerchief out of my bluejeans pocket, and I wipe the perspiration from my brow. On this day then such a gesture seems like a signal of faith. Not far off, on grass, one crow attacks another but not seriously enough to injure. The attacker walks off. The attacked continue to recline and grooms himself. I laugh. I have to.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
In that city, small shops formed hives of work and talk and tradition. Birds whirled, wheeled in flight, dove above dusty trees at dusk. Voices called, young and old. There was the voice of the boy in the alley calling for his friend, "Ahhhhh-maaaad!" There were the voices of the calls to prayer. That city was a place of tough vitality. Ferocity and beauty shone in dark eyes. Oh, yes, we recalled that James Baldwin loved it here. There was a seduction of breezes after the sun went down. In that city, acres of red-tiled roof-tops accepted light and heat, and people there accepted their lives, their condition-- for the time being. Hans Ostrom 2013