søndag 20. november 2011

Vollmond (Full Moon) by Pina Bausch



..i wait i wait i wait i wait and then i cry and cry and cry and cry and then i wait
http://www.hello.dj/various-artists/vollmond-music-from-the-dance-theatre-of-pina-bausch

lørdag 19. november 2011

mandag 14. november 2011

torsdag 10. november 2011

MIERLE UKELES: Manifesto for Maintenance Art 1969



















http://www.moca.org/wack/?p=301

HAPPY WIFE = HAPPY LIFE

lørdag 5. november 2011

fredag 4. november 2011

Dale Disco by 120 Days

tirsdag 25. oktober 2011

mandag 24. oktober 2011

søndag 23. oktober 2011

La mamma morta

THE SOUL SISTERS Wreck a buddy

Jefferson Airplane - Today

Lil Kim***Put it in my mouth



My baby left me
Left me sad and blue
I didn't know what to do
Without my baby, baby, baby,
And then I met his best friend
... And then he took me to his house
And I said...I said...I said...
(What you said baby)
Let me tell you what I said
Put it in my mouth

torsdag 20. oktober 2011

lørdag 15. oktober 2011

torsdag 29. september 2011

tirsdag 13. september 2011

REISE

og så skal vi hit: ARMENIA
og hit: PALESTINA
jeg gleder meg enormt!

LOCATION

Ser ganske nitrist akkurat ut nå (tirsdag 13. september 2011 12:30:00,
men det er herfra vi skal filme. (bildet oppdateres).

mandag 12. september 2011

lørdag 10. september 2011

torsdag 25. august 2011



første gang jeg har fått noe ut av kommentarene under en dagbladet artikkel:


fredag 19. august 2011

torsdag 18. august 2011

fredag 5. august 2011

I can’t believe it’s not bread-brød

8 egg
1 boks kesam
2 ss bakepulver
8 ss linfrø
170 gram kruskakli
100 gram sesamfrø
90 gram solsikkefrø
100 gram pistasjnøtter
100 gram valnøtter
6 ss rapsolje
1 liten klype maldonsalt

Pisk eggene lett og bland i kesam og olje. Grovhakk nøttene og bland de tørre ingrediensene. Tilsett det tørre og bland sammen til deigen har en litt “kladdete” konsistens. Ha bakepapir i brødformene og stek på 180 grader i 55 minutter.

georgia o'keeffe

John Jacob Niles - Go 'Way From My Window (audio only)

John Jacob Niles | Little Black Star

William Hunter: Anatomia uteri

el greco woman with the flower in her hair

http://www.fubiz.net/2011/08/05/barbie-in-real-life/

morsomt



tirsdag 26. juli 2011

Fleetwood Mac - Oh Well ( Album Version )

Bun Bo (Grilled Lemongrass Beef Noodle Salad)

About This Recipe

"From a Vietnamese recipe website, this is delicious, very healthy and perfect for those warm summer days.

Ingredients
o 225 g rice vermicelli
o 450 g beef, flank steaks or round beef, cut into strips
o 1 onions, peeled and finely chopped
o 3 garlic cloves, peeled
o 2 stalks lemongrass, finely chopped
o 1 teaspoon salt
o 1/2 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper
o 1/2 teaspoon curry powder (optional)
o 1 tablespoon fish sauce
o 200 g lettuce, shredded
o 1 cucumbers, peeled and shredded
o 225 g bean sprouts
o 40 g fresh mint leaves
o 40 g coriander, coarsely chopped ( cilantro)
o 150 g carrots, shredded
o 100 g crushed roasted peanuts

Directions

1. To make the marinade paste, pound the onion, garlic and lemongrass with a mortar and pestle or with a food processor until coarse. Add in the salt, black pepper, curry powder if desired, and fish sauce. Stir mixture over the beef and marinate for 1 hour or overnight if possible.
2. Bring a saucepan of water to the boil, add the vermicelli noodles and cook for 3-5 minutes or until tender. Drain, refresh under cold water, drain again and set aside.
3. Thread the meat strips onto the bamboo skewers. Grill till done to taste.
4. To serve, place a portion of noodles in a large soup bowl. Then place the beef, lettuce, cucumber, bean sprouts, mint leaves, fresh coriander, carrot and 1 teaspoon crushed peanuts on top of the noodles. Dress the ingredients with 2 tablespoons nuoc cham, or more to taste - I use around 4 tablespoons for each serving. Toss the ingredients together and serve. Repeat the process for each serving.

torsdag 21. juli 2011

lørdag 2. juli 2011

fredag 1. juli 2011

tirsdag 14. juni 2011

Here and Now

by Stephen Dunn
for Barbara


There are words
I've had to save myself from,
like My Lord and Blessed Mother,
words I said and never meant,
though I admit a part of me misses
the ornamental stateliness
of High Mass, that smell

of incense. Heaven did exist,
I discovered, but was reciprocal
and momentary, like lust
felt at exactly the same time—
two mortals, say, on a resilient bed,
making a small case for themselves.

You and I became the words
I'd say before I'd lay me down to sleep,
and again when I'd wake—wishful
words, no belief in them yet.
It seemed you'd been put on earth
to distract me
from what was doctrinal and dry.
Electricity may start things,
but if they're to last
I've come to understand
a steady, low-voltage hum

of affection
must be arrived at. How else to offset
the occasional slide
into neglect and ill temper?
I learned, in time, to let heaven
go its mythy way, to never again

be a supplicant
of any single idea. For you and me
it's here and now from here on in.
Nothing can save us, nor do we wish
to be saved.

Let night come
with its austere grandeur,
ancient superstitions and fears.
It can do us no harm.
We'll put some music on,
open the curtains, let things darken
as they will.

mandag 13. juni 2011

søndag 12. juni 2011

Miracles
by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

tirsdag 7. juni 2011

mandag 16. mai 2011

I don't want to use my name!

(...)
Woman in front of a poster of herself.
You still don't have a face.

She may kill me,
it depends on whether she's hungry.

Inside these images
there's nothing but a pumping
bloodsoaked...

Clearly, everything I said
and did,
was a long shot.

We didn't hear a word.
What have you ever heard.

FELT - Dirty Girl

onsdag 11. mai 2011

mandag 9. mai 2011

mexico 2009

 - etnologisk








lørdag 7. mai 2011

torsdag 5. mai 2011

Should a woman who can carry one brick in her wheelbarrow be paid the same as a man who can carry two?
Jenny Wilson – Like A Fading Rainbow

tirsdag 3. mai 2011

When I was in the brig
Every single woman there
Was in that brig because of a man

Different reasons, yes
But it was because of a man

And when you join the military
No matter what anybody says

It’s a mans world

You’ve got to either equal men or
Be controlled by men

If you want to be their equal
You’ve got to be strong

Their gonna try to control you
You need to just step up and tell them
You know; show them
Who’s the boss

I’m not gonna take that
I’m not gonna let you power me
You know, control me

Because I’m a woman and you’re a man
It’s not gonna happen

Even though it’s the military, I mean hell

If you’re in the military; you’ve got a gun
Use it

If I would have thought about that back then, by God I would have

But, I was blinded by being in love, with a man

The Doors - The Crystal Ship (Music Video - 1967) [HQ]

mandag 2. mai 2011

søndag 1. mai 2011

fredag 29. april 2011

onsdag 27. april 2011

mandag 25. april 2011

Anne Sexton at home - 1 (VOSE)

I am tired of being brave

Anne Sexton at home - 2 (VOSE)

Anne Sexton - A Curse Against Elegies

Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.

Everyone was always to blame:
the last empty fifth of booze,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.

I refuse to remember the dead.
And the dead are bored with the whole thing.
But you -- you go ahead,
go on, go on back down
into the graveyard,
lie down where you think their faces are;
talk back to your old bad dreams.


------
I measure every Grief I meet

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes --
I wonder if It weighs like Mine --
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long --
Or did it just begin --
I could not tell the Date of Mine --
It feels so old a pain --

I wonder if it hurts to live --
And if They have to try --
And whether -- could They choose between --
It would not be -- to die --

I note that Some -- gone patient long --
At length, renew their smile --
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil --

I wonder if when Years have piled --
Some Thousands -- on the Harm --
That hurt them early -- such a lapse
Could give them any Balm --

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve --
Enlightened to a larger Pain -
In Contrast with the Love --

The Grieved -- are many -- I am told --
There is the various Cause --
Death -- is but one -- and comes but once --
And only nails the eyes --

There's Grief of Want -- and Grief of Cold --
A sort they call "Despair" --
There's Banishment from native Eyes --
In sight of Native Air --

And though I may not guess the kind --
Correctly -- yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary --

To note the fashions -- of the Cross --
And how they're mostly worn --
Still fascinated to presume
That Some -- are like My Own --


---------

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

-----------

Heart! We will forget him!

You and I -- tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave --
I will forget the light!

When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you're lagging
I remember him!

Sara Teasdale

After Love 
 There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.

søndag 24. april 2011

fredag 22. april 2011

Sometimes in the shower
Sometimes in the closet
Often in the kitchen

Anyhow or anywhere
The sweetest taste
Of melancholy and self-pity

Drunk tired
Retarded youth
Slowly aging

Waiting for the evening to pass

Take that last sip
And gaze into the bottle
Your reflection fades into a well-known soap opera

Anything can happen
From now and minutes ahead

Whilst the night welds round me
And sleep swabs every taste of romance out of it

----

PAIN (KILLER)

Nagging echoes
Of yesterday's poison
Slams my guts
To pieces

EXE raske utdrag

EXHAUSTION
& EXUBERANCE
Ways to Defy the Pressure to Perform
by Jan Verwoert

(...)

an existential exuberance, i.e., a way to perform without any mandate or legitimation, in response to the desires and dreams of other people, but without the aim or pretense of merely fulfilling an existing demand. It is a way of always giving too much of what is not presently requested. It is a way of giving what you do not have to others who may not want it. It is a way of transcending your capacities by embracing your incapacities and therefore a way to interrupt the brute assertiveness of the I Can through the performance of an I Can’t performed in the key of the I Can. It is a way of insisting that, even if we can’t get it now,we can get it, in some other way at some other point in time.

(...)

One way to acknowledge the debt is to pay tribute to those who have enabled you to practice what you do by inspiring you. With regard to inspiration, the I Can is realised in a very particular way because another person’s thoughts, works or conversation make you experience the liberating sensation of potentiality that, yes, you can also think, feel, speak and act this way. To feel inspired essentially means to realise I Can because You Do. Any form of work that unfolds through addressing the work of others (including this essay) thrives on this sensation. To put the moment of inspiration into practice and act upon the implications of the realisation that I Can because You Do involves transforming the debt to the other into a pro-active gesture of dedicating one’s practice to this other. Overcoming the fear of influence, we could then move towards a politics of dedication.

The work of Frances Stark thrives on such a politics of dedication. In both her visual and written work she continuously borrows and quotes and transforms what she borrows and quotes. Yet, the gesture of appropriation in her work, as much as it always echoes an act of stealing, first of all communicates a sense of appreciation that precisely reflects the conversion of a debt into a dedication. The space her
work opens up is an open continuum in which other voices resonate through her voice, but where her voice remains very distinctively hers.

(...)

So the question is rather how performing the I Can’t could effectively interrupt the self-contained economic cycle of supply and demand and truly break the spell of the pressure to produce for the sake of production. Punk was exactly about this: the unwillingness to submit to industry standards of what music can or can’t be and how professional musicians should deal with what they can or can’t do. This resulted in the transgression of personal capacities by rigorously embracing personal incapacities, rising above demand by frustrating all expectations. In this respect, Stuart Bailey pointed out the iconic status that the closing moment of the Sex Pistols’ final performance: In the video recording of the show, the band are visibly drained of energy as their last song “No Fun” drags on into an endless coda, and their wild posturing routine terminally exhausts itself. As the performance disintegrates completely and ends, singer Johnny Rotten, visibly alienated by both the band and the whole situation, sneers at the audience: “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?”. At the point of exhaustion, the performance of the I Can’t interrupts the economy of expectations and throws its workings into relief, producing an empty moment of full awareness.

(...)

Bizarrely then, the heartfelt belief that “it’s better to burn out than to fade away” that used to set the rebellious devotees of countercultural creativity apart from obedient employees, now seems to have become the first commandment of the high performance culture endorsed by advanced captitalism.

(...)

What would it mean to escape this vicious cycle and break the spell of the death drive towards exhaustion?




torsdag 21. april 2011

inflasjon i destruksjon: litt lei nå

French artist Orlan: 'Narcissism is important'

Lady Gaga - Gagavision no. 43

..."The creative process is like 15 minutes of vomiting. It all happens in approximately 15 minutes. Then I spend days, weeks, months, years fine-tuning. But the idea is that you have to honour your vomit. You have to honour those fifteen minutes of thoughts and feelings..."

tirsdag 19. april 2011

Standard Operating Procedure Pt 1


Very disturbing

Driving Fail

yes! 1-2-3-4-5 jeg skal ta lappen i sommer!