...Red Cross Month. I had just had an amazing day walking through Philadelphia to The Book Trader with my good friend Frank Sherlock. It was beautiful to recharge in the sunlight and run into old friends, people, trees, buildings.
After Frank went home I walked over to the library where I found a table proclaiming that March is American Red Cross Month. Brochures of how GOOD we are, what GOOD people we are helping THE WORLD. I walked up to the table and said to the young man, "MARCH IS AMERICAN INVASION OF IRAQ MONTH!"
We had a debate, a heated back and forth, and a librarian asked him if he was okay. IS HE OKAY? There's something incredibly SINISTER about this country, how we can invade and occupy countries, be responsible for OVER A MILLION people losing their lives, and MILLIONS more suffering the consequences of our greed, yet we manage to make ourselves look like GOOD people who are HERE TO RESUCE THE WORLD.
HOW DARE WE! It is times LIKE THIS where I understand TRULY UNDERSTAND the MANY American Iraq War Vets who come home after their tour of duty in Iraq, LOSE THEIR FUCKING MINDS at shopping malls and movie theaters and restaurants because NO ONE is allowing the truth about who we are and what it is we're doing AND THEN THEY GO to Germany where their base was located, marry German women, and denounce their US citizenship. I understand it COMPLETELY that kind of anger!
AND THEN OF COURSE THERE ARE THE STUPID GAY PEOPLE who want to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell so that our military can be a nice cozy PC world of tenderness with machine guns at the ready! My petition, in case you haven't yet seen it, it is here! THE WORST THING THOUGH was walking home after the library, and I look up at the massive digital screen on the PECO building many stories above the city and it reads (I'm NOT KIDDING!) MARCH IS AMERICAN RED CROSS MONTH! OH MY GOD, I couldn't believe it!
# posted by a Philly Sound Poet PhillySound : 11:49 PM
Yet Botero, by tackling this imagery in a focused and extended series, has demonstrated not only that such things can be represented in art but also that a figurative, cartoonish idiom may be the most powerful means of representing modern atrocity. It's no coincidence that one of the most profound and affecting works of Holocaust literature—Spiegelman'sMaus—is a comic book. To some viewers, the chubby figures in Botero's paintings may appear ridiculous, grotesque—but so were the monstrous abuses of power to which they testify.
The 12th International Architecture Exhibition, directed by Kazuyo Sejima and titledPeople meet in architecture, will run in Venice 29th August to 21st November 2010(preview on 26th, 27th and 28th August).
Two major projects will be developed for the 12th Exhibition: the Architecture Saturdays (a series of conversations, performances and weekly discussions with architects and critics) and the greater involvement of the Universities (educational opportunities for students of Architecture, Engineering, Design, etc.).
I do not believe my eyes, I want to see beyond a distant landscape spoil all the influences you do not think right you tell me what you think you are, let's look at the sky and tell me immaturity, I will suffer and I do not pray and not I pray, the new language limits the double-think, the dictionary because fool me wearing this shirt, this outfit is not what I am, I am beyond any part of your clothing slim. And flying with the subtlety of the Red Sea. People rebel bright look the dark and I clearly show that certain points are divisive and not tell your donations on the screen of something evil things someone pitched temper by telling me random parts.
of 20 poems with Broccoli,
dedicated to Carlinhos:
"I will crush your brain.'ll shred your beardless & white thighs. will squander the wealth of your adolescence. I will burn your eyes with a hot iron. will incinerate your heart of flesh & of your ashes will be manufactured substance of crazedl
Song's greatest project was the 40-foot-tall Su Song's water-powered astronomical clocktower constructed in Kaifeng, the wooden pilot model completed in 1088, the bronze components cast by 1090, while the wholly finished work was completed by 1094 during the reign of Emperor Zhezong of Song. The emperor had previously commissioned Han Gonglian, Acting Secretary of the Ministry of Personnel, to head the project, but the leadership position was instead handed down to Su Song. The emperor ordered in 1086 for Su to reconstruct the hun yi, or "armillary clock", for a new clock-tower in the capital city. Su worked with the aid of Han Gong-lian, who applied his extensive knowledge of mathematics to the construction of the clock-tower. A small-scale wooden model was first crafted by Su Song, testing its intricate parts before applying it to an actual full-scale clock tower. In the end, the clock-tower had many impressive features, such as the water-powered, rotating armillary sphere crowning the top-level and weighing some 10 to 20 tons, a bronze celestial globe located in the middle that was 4.5 feet in diameter, mechanically-timed and rotating manikins dressed in miniature Chinese clothes that would exit miniature opening doors to announce the time of day by presenting designated reading plaques, ringing bells and gongs, or beating drums, a sophisticated use of oblique gears and an escapement mechanism, as well as an exterior facade of a fanciful Chinese pagoda. Upon its completion, the tower was called the Shui Yun Yi Xiang Tai, or "Tower for the Water-Powered Sphere and Globe".
We believe that good storytelling strengthens social movements, so every year we want to select stories from Resist to turn into films. During 2008 we asked people to upload their stories of resistance and spoke with many writers and political thinkers. Using what we've learnt, we've chosen to make our first film with the actor Gael Garcia Bernal about the wall that is being built between Mexico and America.The Wall that is being built along the entire USA border with Mexico. It is one of the greatest symbols of the divisions between rich and poor, and inspires a major investigation into the systemic causes of poverty and migration
It was an adventure much could be made of: a walk On the shores of the darkest known river,
Among the hooded, shoving crowds, by steaming rocks
And rows of ruined huts half buried in the muck;
Then to the great court with its marble yard
Whose emptiness gave him the creeps, and to sit there
In the sunken silence of the place and speak
Of what he had lost, what he still possessed of his loss,
And, then, pulling out all the stops, describing her eyes,
Her forehead where the golden light of evening spread,
The curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, everything
Down to her thighs and calves, letting the words come,
As if lifted from sleep, to drift upstream,
Against the water's will, where all the condemned
And pointless labor, stunned by his voice's cadence,
Would come to a halt, and even the crazed, disheveled
Furies, for the first time, would weep, and the soot-filled Air would clear just enough for her, the lost bride, To step through the image of herself and be seen in the light. As everyone knows, this was the first great poem, Which was followed by days of sitting around In the houses of friends, with his head back, his eyes Closed, trying to will her return, but finding Only himself, again and again, trapped In the chill of his loss, and, finally, Without a word, taking off to wander the hills Outside of town, where he stayed until he had shaken The image of love and put in its place the world As he wished it would be, urging its shape and measure Into speech of such newness that the world was swayed, And trees suddenly appeared in the bare place Where he spoke and lifted their limbs and swept The tender grass with the gowns of their shade, And stones, weightless for once, came and set themselves there, And small animals lay in the miraculous fields of grain And aisles of corn, and slept. The voice of light Had come forth from the body of fire, and each thing Rose from its depths and shone as it never had. And that was the second great poem, Which no one recalls anymore. The third and greatest Came into the world as the world, out of the unsayable, Invisible source of all longing to be; it came As things come that will perish, to be seen or heard Awhile, like the coating of frost or the movement Of wind, and then no more; it came in the middle of sleep Like a door to the infinite, and, circled by flame, Came again at the moment of waking, and, sometimes, Remote and small, it came as a vision with trees By a weaving stream, brushing the bank With their violet shade, with somebody’s limbs Scattered among the matted, mildewed leaves nearby, With his severed head rolling under the waves, Breaking the shifting columns of light into a swirl Of slivers and flecks; it came in a language Untouched by pity, in lines, lavish and dark, Where death is reborn and sent into the world as a gift, So the future, with no voice of its own, nor hope Of ever becoming more than it will be, might mourn.