Posted in (auto)biography, epigrams, Uncategorized with tags , , on April 12, 2011 by The Flâneur

I find something terribly inconvenient happend many years ago. Cells came together in my mother’s womb to create my existence. Since then, my heart has the unfortunate habit of continuing to pump blood through my veins, my mind continues to think, and my lungs continue to breathe.

The key, of course, is finding something to counter the inconvenience of one’s own existence.

Kiyoshi Yamashita

Posted in admirations, the cityscape with tags on December 30, 2009 by The Flâneur

One mad flâneur nods to another:


A find

Posted in in the news with tags , , , , , , on December 11, 2009 by The Flâneur

Though it can’t help but dull the edge of gentility, a little democracy, now and again, can’t hurt anything.

I suppose not, anyway.

Living in le monde moderne, one must adapt lest he be left behind. So many from the elegant age have already been trampled and forgotten; I’ll not share their fate. Like a phoenix, I continually renew myself, sans the bird’s grit, of course.

Additional to whatever exquisite consciousnesses it has marginalized, I’ve always felt time has made text one of its great casualties, pushing it aside for the immediacies and luxurious indulgences of visual culture. The world’s web has done wonders to reinvigorate text and make it radiant even. Electronic mail, this journal form, telephone messaging, and now something else. Something slightly different and intriguing:

» in a (paragraph).com

Obviously a vehicle for those evolved persons without an interest in dirty internet “mecahnic’s work” but who wish to express themselves widely, ia(¶) — as the developers refer to it — is also a literary forum that encourages users to work with, rather than against, the prized brevity of the current age.

In just one hundred years, we’ve cut our textual narrative pastimes from James-length novels to single 1,000 character paragraphs, our lyrical indulgences from The Ballad of the White Horse to the same. While part of me mourns, the other understands and offers no resistance.

Here we have a right musical set of utterances, something playful and accessible to most everyone, a cosmopolitan set of voices, and a concision that makes me think I’ve already run too long.

Reluctant conclusion

Posted in epigrams, the cityscape with tags , , , on December 4, 2008 by The Flâneur

CurrencyEconomic concerns clog the aether at present. The very air is thick with the dirty, pecuniary interests of the bourgeois and the men who would be bourgeois.

Market crashes, labor dismissals, trade and currency adjustments — I cough, I choke, I escape, diving wholeheartedly and headlong into bottles of les alcools des jours.

What lesson can be learned from all this? Even the ugliest, most base realities have lessons to teach. (So says my Manchurian friend anyway.) Perhaps nothing more than my pet, perennial suspicion that most human intercourse, brutality, and motivation can be traced to economic affections and income origins.

Cherchez le dollar, as it were.

I find I’m just Marxist enough to recognize this fact and just Romantic enough to have a problem with it.

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Something new

Posted in (auto)biography, appetites, creations, malice & revenge, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on November 14, 2008 by The Flâneur

The so called “weblog” isn’t the only modern literary form worthy of the Flâneur’s attention. Indeed, I’ve been off writing these long months, creating something for the screen. Eponymous, naturally; a portrait of my experiences, as befits those interested in preserving something of themselves; a sideways glance at my motivations, associates, and interests, appropriate for he who wishes to assert himself and yet remain opaque and in the shadows.

Narrative is a passion of mine, and this is the dominant contemporary genre of the discourse. I create in it with no real malice or passion, leaving such preoccupations and value judgments to the small-minded and the academicians. Nevertheless, this must be said:

While I need not justify myself in any way to any man, I admit I adore the novel and other readerly vs. watcherly texts. But I’m obsessed, of late, with the graphic. It preoccupies me in the same way a gelding finds himself thinking of nothing but sport. This exercise indulged an appetite.

C’est tout! Ça suffit! Back to your dusty lairs and clean taxonomies! Leave the artists to their interests!

I am much less settled on one issue, though. After creating this, I’m left wondering: why does violence so seduce the storyteller and the artist? (Here, I’m thinking of Goya and Genet.) Why does its aestheticization cut so cleanly across class lines and interest groups and yet maintain its essential integrity and elevated appeal?

Sweeter than the syrup dripping off romance, it seems, blood renews itself with each kill. Writers and audience voyeurs know this as well as any butcher. Any opinion to the contrary seems delusory and hypocritical.

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The ladies

Posted in appetites, epigrams, hedonism with tags , , , , on May 9, 2008 by The Flâneur

The ladiesI always find ladies to be like aces and eights: best taken in pairs, deadly as a pistol shot.

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Posted in epigrams with tags , , , on May 9, 2008 by The Flâneur

Truth is truth. Economic interests merely cloud our judgment on such matters.

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