On that night the sky laid bare its internal construction in many sections which, like anatomical exhibits, showed the spirals and whorls of light, the pale-green solids of darkness, the plasma of space, the tissue of dreams… — BRUNO SCHULZ, The Street of Crocodiles.
Egungun secret society, Bénin.
Hé, compaignons, Guillaume Du Fay.
Nico in La Cicatrice Intérieure, Philippe Garrel, 1972.
We are increasingly fluent in images with no handhold, images freighted with all the orphanhood in the world, fragments, fragments. — ROBERTO BOLAÑO, 2666.
still from He Stands in a Desert Counting the Seconds of his Life, Jonas Mekas, 1969/1985.
My body of living flesh which murmurs and turns gently, liquors which turn to cream, the flesh which turns, turns, the sweet sugary water of my flesh, the blood on my hand. I suffer in my wounded flesh which turns, walks, I walk, I flee, I am a criminal with bleeding flesh, bleeding with existence to these walls. I am cold, I take a step, I am cold, a step, I turn left, he turns left, he thinks he turns left, mad, am I mad? He says he is afraid of going mad, existence, do you see into existence, he stops, the body stops, he thinks he stops, where does he come from? What is he doing? He starts off, he is afraid, terribly afraid, the criminal, desire like a fog, desire, disgust, he says he is disgusted with existence, is he disgusted, weary of being disgusted with existence? He runs. — JEAN-PAUL SARTRE, Nausea.
Morvi Palace, Gujarat, India.
As color-depleted and harsh as these postindustrial cities in England and Ohio were, it was possible—perhaps essential—to aestheticize their panoramas of decay. Hence the attraction and resonance of J.G. Ballard’s writing for bands from Manchester and Sheffield. In his classic seventies trilogy of Crash, Concrete Island and High-Rise, the traumatized urban landscape serves not only as the backdrop, but also, in a sense, the main character of the novels. Similarly, Ballard’s earlier short stories and cataclysm novels obsessively conjure an eerie, inhuman beauty from abandoned airfields, drained reservoirs, and deserted cities. … Ballard waxed lyrical in interviews about ”magic and poetry one feels when looking at a junkyard filled with old washing machines, or wrecked cars, or old ships rotting in some disused harbour”. — SIMON LEVENE, Rip It Up and Start Again (Post Punk 1978 - 1984).
there are omens in the thought-spaces. a journey unchosen, a destination concealed. wondering if this really is ‘the epoch of spaces’, and if so, how to become a living emblem of the zeitgeist. i scarcely remember what her voice sounds like (except in faint echoes of laughter). a woman with freckles and long fingers and opals on her neck. chance meetings and serendipity currently the only reasons to continue. spaces that are haunting me: a copse of ancient trees, a dark sea-where-things-are-obliterated-from-memory, a smokers’ lounge twenty stories high (a crooner with sad painted eyes). a forgotten knowledge, rediscovered only through riddles, omissions, cached in the lashes of a sphinx with a weakness. the pleasure of namelessness but still the yearning for the genesis of new names, the ecstasy of naming. i need Hong Kong. erasure and ritual fire. the waiter is coming. tomorrow will sting.
Alien landscape at home #1: Kilauea eruption with molten lava and papaya trees near Kapoho, Hawaii, unknown photographer, 1960.
Brothels and colonies are two extreme types of heterotopia, and if we think, after all, that the boat is a floating piece of space, a place without a place, that exists by itself, that is closed in on itself and at the same time is given over to the infinity of the sea and that, from port to port, from tack to tack, from brothel to brothel, it goes as far as the colonies in search of the most precious treasures they conceal in their gardens, you will understand why the boat has not only been for our civilization, from the sixteenth century until the present, the great instrument of economic development (I have not been speaking of that today), but has been simultaneously the greatest reserve of the imagination. The ship is the heterotopia par excellence. In civilizations without boats, dreams dry up, espionage takes the place of adventure, and the police take the place of pirates. — MICHEL FOUCAULT, Of Other Spaces.