PAVILION by Gert Wingårdh & Kustaa Saksi

With 1120 stacks of paper, 44000 suspension points and 700000 sheets of A3′s, Swedish architect Gert Wingårdh and past UP collaborator, Kustaa Saksi creates an installation titled, PAVILION at the Stockholm Furniture Light Fair.

“I’m fascinated by architecture and antique ceiling paintings in temples all over the world, and the way they’ve attracted people to share their thoughts and ideas. I’ve wanted to create a similar esthetics, mixed with orientalism, art, mathematics, science and psychedelia, by depicting communication as Darwinistic evolution. Constantly on the move and a work in progress, like bacteria and marine animals when they crawled out of the depths of the sea millions of years ago,” says Kustaa SaksiPavilion01 PAVILION by Gert Wingårdh & Kustaa Saksi  upperplayground stockholm furniture art pavilion KUSTAA SAKSI installationart Gert Wingardh FIFTY24SF architecture

Weirdo

599d1829ff05x4751.jpg1 Weirdo weirdo vermillion tools The Citrus Report News Life flight flash electric coffin city basel art architecture

Weirdo has been a NW graffiti artist for over 10 years. He’s done a few of the biggest solo mural projects in the Seattle, and has worked hand in hand with the city to make it a more colorful place. His latest body of work is a series of canvases for the Old Crow Gallery, and really shows his new level of photo realism on a smaller scale. ~Jen Vertz (www.weirdocult.com)

What else have you been up to in the last year?
Well, one of the biggest things was going to Art Basel in 2011 this year to paint on a wall with Lords, and my crew OSH PT. It was amazing to experience Basel first hand, and to be out there with everyone was a real fun time. Another big thing was being forced to move last fall, it took too much time out of my schedule.

85745ed2ce05x641.jpg Weirdo weirdo vermillion tools The Citrus Report News Life flight flash electric coffin city basel art architecture

Tell me a bit about Art Basel…
It was one of the most intense mural situations I’ve ever been in, with so many people painting at the same time. It was really inspiring, both motivational, and creatively as well. I also hope I get to do it again in 2012, I wouldn’t want to miss it again.

3777211ade07 PM.png Weirdo weirdo vermillion tools The Citrus Report News Life flight flash electric coffin city basel art architecture

What about moving studios?
It’s been different. Things have happened and changed in my life- the art building I used to be a part of is no longer- the state kicked everyone out of the 619 Western Arts Building for an upcoming tunnel project for Seattle, and that’s been a huge influence over the last year. The move took a month, searching for a place took a few months, and I found a good small work space, but for my bigger pieces, I’m actually still looking for a work area. I’ve done a few pieces outside, but it’s not always easy- like the 25′ long mural for Razorfish marketing I just did in December under the highway… so the move changed a lot for me, but I’m still doin’ it.

8ec8a3770505x6051.jpg1 Weirdo weirdo vermillion tools The Citrus Report News Life flight flash electric coffin city basel art architecture

What’s coming up for you in the future?
After the “Sweeping of Giants” show at the Old Crow in Oakland, I have a solo show in May at the Vermillion Gallery in Seattle that I’m really excited about. I’ll be doing a 40′ long mural installation in the gallery, it’s going to be really fucking big! In between those shows in April, I’ll be headed to Nashville to paint a mural on the outside of the AIA’s [American Institute of Architecture] residence of the year for 2011, which is a great honor to be able to put artwork on the outside of someone else’s artwork! What a trip…! Next week I will have a coffin in the “Boxes of Death” show by Electric Coffin that will be headed on a tour down the West Coast… I’ve been busy lately!

134040a08105x598.jpg Weirdo weirdo vermillion tools The Citrus Report News Life flight flash electric coffin city basel art architecture

How are you handling the busy schedule?
Working close to my home really helps, my studio is just downstairs from my apartment. Not taking too many projects at once, but picking the right ones and knowing when to say no. You say yes to what sounds interesting and challenging, and no to what isn’t going to push you as an artist. I thrive on being challenged. If it’s new or big or scary- anything like that I always say yes. And it’s taken many years to figure some of this out. Doing work out of WA state keeps me on a very strict deadline, which I like a lot. You have to finish by your flight out… The pressure is what I work well under.

Any big goals for the next year?
Mainly for 2012 is to become more nationally recognized for my art, and doing more fine art based mural projects rather than commercial ones. As always working on my technical skills to become stronger with realism and to master my tools. And I’m still a free agent, but soon I want to be represented by a gallery. I’ve had a few offers, just not the right ones.

348ae72af605x806.jpg Weirdo weirdo vermillion tools The Citrus Report News Life flight flash electric coffin city basel art architecture

You can catch up with Weirdo at the “Sweeping of Giants” show at the Old Crow Gallery in Oakland on March 10th from 6-10, or from the 9th through the 11th he will be painting live at the UC Berkley Campus on a mural project near the Anthropology Department. Catch up with him www.facebook.com/weirdocult for more details. www.weirdocult.com/

From The Citrus Report

Posted By The Citrus Report

Want to live in a dream…

921a874633qeyoxr.jpg Want to live in a dream… their ability resizer perfection k21qeyoxr want headlines flash video flash citrus report citrus building art architecture alignnone size full ability

Don’t know who, what, where, when, and if there is even a how, but this is one of those photos that makes you feel good about humans and their ability to create. Everything about this building is flawless; space, shape, height, and curves. Breathtaking.

From The Citrus Report

Posted By The Citrus Report

LoF as evidenced by Wanderer llam5

34418dcf5a05x806.jpg LoF as evidenced by Wanderer llam5 theory space makers imagination gift genius forms Features curators chosen architecture

Paris, June 2011.

LoF as evidenced by Wanderer llam5.

Walking around in Louvre today made me think, as I often do in museums and super-markets, of Jorge Borges[1] nearly infinite library. His library, one of books,[2] is a repository of every novel that has ever been or could ever be written, including every shade of gibberish in between.[3] One should indulge themselves in reading his remarkable thought experiment, to which this essay is a mere appendix.

Rearrangements of letters can create or destroy legibility. Likewise, particles of matter can organize or melt away from recognizable shapes. It is difficult to determine true chaos from sublime knowledge, encrypted by the observer’s limited tools of comprehension. Thusly, many fantastic ideas, encased in ignorance, have been thrown to the gutter with so much refuse! Despite those tragedies, I longed for a sister system to Borges’ library, one of shapes rather than letters, and in so doing, discovered something that startled me.

This essay describes a massive system, of mysterious origin, which I became aware of through the conveyance of scant but priceless information, by means that I am, on the first page, still nervous to describe. The impenetrable, unbending mind of the Creator fueled the manufacture and display of all possible shapes. This required, over millennia, construction of an infrastructure the size of many galaxies[4]. Because it would be torn apart by gravity waves, it exists within a deep void, relying on the space between things[5]. Its original name is unknown, but it is referred to as The Library of Form (LoF) by the Curators, Wanderers, and Chosen Guard who dwell within[6]. LoF approaches infinite in scale, yet as any system with unbreakable rules comes to know, it must have edges, however unobservable[7].

Each chamber within LoF, the size of a basketball court, has high reaching walls completely lined with shelving. Arranged along the shelves are the Forms, the soul of the system, made of a mysterious, impenetrable white matter, similar to walls and shelves, in fact, the entire architecture. One can walk all their life from one chamber to the next,[8] confronting the endless supply of Forms.

Two facts are understood about the Forms: None are too heavy to be lifted and examined by a Curator, and each can be a model for something larger or smaller. A Form that is spherical with light texture could represent a planet, or a pea. The chambers and shelf system have clearly been created to display the Forms handsomely, although a method of organization or sequencing has never been deciphered. This is of great perplexity to the Curators. Were the Forms thrown out of order by a bygone population, or were they created that way?

In the center of each chamber is a platform suspended over a deep well by spokes[9]. One can walk from the floor of the chamber, crossing over the well on a spoke, to the platform, which is only slightly larger than the cabinet sized machine that sits on it. The Curators have never discovered a Form that can’t be placed into the cabinet through the glass door on its upper half, and so, theorize that all the Forms came from the cabinets, dubbed the “Makers.” Each Maker is marked with a unique icon, which corresponds to an indestructible ring which each Curator wears, all made of the same white matter[10].

Throughout LoF there is no technology or moving parts, not even a hinge, because it is meant to last eternally unbreakable, timeless. Yet there is one bright fingerprint left by the Creators of LoF, proof that even timelessness has a beginning: the Makers. Had the spokes failed to self-destruct, which would have plunged the Makers into the wells and away from discovery? Or were they intentionally left behind as a clue to the genius of the Creator?

The Makers have been dormant for all recorded history, keeping in mind that there is, in the absence of writing, an oral tradition that is troubled by memory and great distances. Through careful study of the Forms which depict Makers, the Chosen[11] understand that Makers employed motorized drills and intricate robotic mechanisms to carve the Forms from solid blocks. An un-carved block[12] has never been found, suggesting that the act of manufacturing Forms is completed, and by extension, LoF is a perfect registry. Makers are one of the keys to understanding the intention and culture of the Creator, and from that, the true purpose of the dwellers. And so the quest for meaning takes two routes in LoF: To decipher the system of Forms, or to unlock the mystery of the Makers.

Once the final Form was carved, Makers underwent a self-destruction routine.[13] From this point forward, creation ceased and the Creators function was fulfilled. The Curators function began. It was essential for the Makers to cease, as one of the laws that limit the physical scale of LoF is that there are no duplicates: Each Form is unique. LoF approaches, but strictly resists, infinity.[14]

No Form has ever been discovered which has moving parts[15]. While some Forms have been found that perfectly represent a 5th century Greek water clock, in order to understand the mechanical movement, one would have to find consecutive Forms, like frames of a film.

Some Curators try endlessly to activate the Makers, in search of a code or energy source. Since no un-carved block can be found, and no Maker can be activated, it is understood that the two are linked: should an un-carved block be placed in a Maker, it would come to life. Some Wanderers seek the mythical Creation Chamber.[16] Yet another tribe of Curators are obsessed with using the Makers to create new Forms, to impose their name of perfection on the prison of chaos, to usurp power from the Chosen ones. They have not yet read the poetry in all that surrounds them, wishing to reverse roles with the Creator. But it all ends in despair.

Somewhere in LoF is a perfect sphere, a perfect cube, and a perfect version of each platonic form. Such Forms are very unusual to find, as the great majority are grotesque abstractions.[17] Whole generations of Curators were swept up in various movements to discover and collect the perfect Forms. Passing through thousands of chambers in their vain quest, Curators-become-Wanderers began to purge LoF of abstraction, throwing Forms which offended them into the wells. This act of rage spread through LoF like wildfire. The Creator had safeguarded against the hatred of abstraction, wells were left open to create choice.[18]

After centuries of purging LoF of abstract Form,[19] the Chosen Guard championed a popular movement that admired abstraction. Perhaps to future Curators the abstraction would appear representational, perhaps there was important information encoded. Further, the abstractions might be small snippets of larger forms, which would be revealed when the forms were arranged properly on the shelves.

Once, within the rippled surface of an abstract Form, there was discovered a tiny, lovely face, as though emerging from water. This established the only law in LoF: that the purge of a single Form is punished by death. And thus the Curators rediscovered their original function: to study and safeguard the Forms for interpretation by future generations. Though the physical space of LoF is finite, generations of Curators extend infinitely into the future, creating a limitless set of interpretation. The Creators genius and sublime generosity was verified.

In chambers where a single recognizable Form is found, the Curator defends its position with his life, joining the Chosen Guard. It is incredible fortune to be born into a chamber with representation, the hand of the Creator, while in the abstract Forms is chaos, entropy, death. The Wanderers trade news from outside for the Chosen’s secrets, and through an oral record, construct their attempt at deciphering the system. The Chosen are mainly curious about the locations of the newest discoveries, thus, the expansion of their Guard

The Wanderers abandon their home chamber, being born into chaos, spending existence interviewing Curators and Chosen ones who, sedentary, have studied their chamber for generations.[20] When Wanderers meet, they exchange oral records, forming a vast distribution of knowledge, and building the network of the Chosen Guard. However, through the tales of the perfect portrait of such and such a Chosen one discovered here, a perfect interlocked set of differently sized cubes there[21], no image of organization, and by extension, way finding, has emerged. Because of the purely symbolic aspect of forms[22] there is no hope in finding a map, yet there must be a Form somewhere that is a model of LoF, in extreme miniature. Indeed, a great search for such a model has gone on for centuries, it is one of the Wanderers central goals… how else could they find their way home? An abstract Form, like a bundle of noodles, may be it. After all, no edge has been rumored, no door that does not lead to yet another chamber has been found. Some lament that the model may have been purged during the Erasure. No matter, the arrangement of the doors prevents a line of sight that would allow the observation of slight curvature.

Any items other than the Forms, had there ever been any, were long gone, thrown into the wells. Only the architecture, the rings on some of the Curators fingers, and the bones were left… and it was one of these rings that Wanderer llam5 used to scratch a record of her discoveries onto the bones.

Deep into sections of chambers which were destroyed in the Erasures, Wanderer llam5 found the abandoned remains of Curators long decayed. She selected the flat area of the hip bones to carefully record, through her interviews with Chosen Guards, an interesting series of representational Forms. Wanderer llam5’s work represents a unique attempt to decipher a specific cultural history, identifying a family of Forms describing artifacts from a particular time-frame and culture. Is it history? A prediction of the future? Dwellers of LoF cannot comprehend this dichotomy that faces us.

These bones were given to me through a mirror in a dream,[23] in Wanderer llam5’s bid to touch a moment in time, and declare the existence of LoF.[24] There must be countless more Wanderers who have recorded their findings in a visual format that can be passed through the mirror, who have succeeded in transmitting to our dimension. Sadly, their rich oral history cannot cross that threshold; we are left to decipher scratches on bone. All that we know of LoF comes from them, ambassadors of timelessness.

The vast majority Curators, presiding over pure abstraction, are nihilists. They mutter un-intelligible arguments to justify their lives. It was the Chosen who felt emboldened to draft existential theories, exchanged with one another through the oral tradition of the Wanderers.

Of greatest debate: No dweller could recall the original purpose of the Forms, nor the identity of who created the majestic architecture. The Chosen believed that the Creator was a culture of human, though there are discoveries of Forms that depict every beast imaginable, and any one of them might represent be the Creator.

Whatever the appearance and culture[25], the Creator’s intention is universally clear, and it is deceptively simple:

To preserve all of history, and to predict all of history, free from language and culture. To make every antique futuristic and every future possibility an antique. To establish a library that can never be burned, declaring to all future generations that they reset the clock to zero, and then shattered it.

And thus the gift to all dwellers:[26] To be at the beginning of time, forever. The Chosen Guard worship this system of disorganization, placing between each tip of representation, leagues of chaos and abstraction. The simple Curators loath the Creator, trapped with the secondary task of protecting the chaos between the knowledge. Yet that is what keeps the Knowledge safe! There is no music without pause, no Form without emptiness. But it is impossible to see the system clearly from inside of it.

[1] 1889-1986

[2] La biblioteca de Babel 1941

[3] An overwhelming sea in which minute fragments of legibility swim. In later life, Borges became simultaneously director of the National Library and blind: In the midst of information yet unable to access it directly. His library of babel may have been the prediction of this.

[4] All Forms in LoF are larger than an apple, and smaller than a table lamp. These limits to scale prevent the range of Forms from being “infinite.” There was also a specific spacing between the Forms, which has mostly been disturbed now by the various dwellers.

[5] Data transmission, light, alas Music itself cannot exist without empty space- pause- between pulsations. Waves must cross the neutral threshold between + and -. Particles have space between them. Indeed, observations have determined that void is the brick-and-mortar of matter itself.

[6] There is no observable exterior to LoF, only the wells which appear as pits into darkness. Light may or may not exist in LoF, perhaps the dwellers can see in the dark. Or perhaps they are blind, seeing by feeling. There is no color in the oral record.

[7] No edge exists in the oral record, leading to the theory that LoF is a spiral, leading into a center chamber in which the pure forms reside.

[8] Oral records suggest that it is possible to traverse 126,899 chambers prior to death, a tiny fraction of the trillions within LoF.

[9] The depth of the wells is not known, the curators use them to dispose of dead bodies.

[10] At the current state of LoF many rings have been lost, the Erasure disturbed genealogy terribly.

[11] Type of Curator whose chamber includes referential forms, i.e., the hand of the Creator.

[12] Known as a Creator-Stones among dwellers, a key myth in their sparse pantheon.

[13] The end-of-time shockwave was detected by the Makers, triggering their eternal silence. Their power source, a kind of fission cell, was released from its lower half into the well. This prevented contamination of LoF that would have killed the dwellers.

[14] If even a single duplicate were discovered by the Curators, their hopes for a finite, knowable Library would be destroyed, leading to nihilism, despair, and suicide.

[15] This supports the theory that the forms were “carved” from solid blocks, rather than constructed from smaller parts, as some of them appear to be. It is an illusion of perfect automated craft.

[16] Shelves lined with thousands of un-carved blocks with a functioning Maker, proving that time still exists because the Library is open ended.

[17] The unit of difference which exists between forms is quite small, and nearly identical forms have been paired, though there is an observable difference. As such, there are millions of variants between the sphere and cube alone.

[18] Even if every dweller spent their life throwing forms into the wells, it would not make a dent in the repository of trillions of forms.

[19] Known as the “Great Erasures” during LoF Year 128h339 – 499809dr332. Note: Years are measured in physical space, according to an incomplete oral map.

[20] Wanderers can be identified by their rings, which bear no resemblance to regional Maker seals.

[21] It is likely there is exaggeration in the grandness of some oral records.

[22] As compared to the literal, instructional potential of books.

[23] LoF is a mirror, inside of a mirror: a labyrinth.

[24] Time has been exterminated in LoF, it is considered a rare a precious substance.

[25] Beyond the imagination of the dwellers, and represented only through abstraction, the Creator of LoF is Artificial Intelligence, which was born at year 0. Not trusting the destructive tendencies of its parents (Library of Alexandria, for example) AI created a system by which all possible information could be first created and then stored indefinitely, free from Human destruction.

[26] The children of the creators of AI, they are included as a fluid aspect of LoF, endlessly interpreting the knowledge with various outcomes. AI executed itself, also triggered by the time shock wave.

From The Citrus Report

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Photographs by Darell Tallent

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I live in Kent, England, put should be moving to London soon

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I taking pictures of every day occurrences that catch my eye, whether its skating, the architecture that I skate, bands, the action of graffiti and drug taking, the last two are my favorites though

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My cameras are pretty standard, ranging from Pentax espio 115g to a Pentax me super and a Olympus mju, have used a Rollei 35b occasionally, and I’m in the process of purchasing a Contax t2

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I’ve pretty much self taught myself photography, I don’t see the point in paying to get taught it from a person that has probably self taught themselves.

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My influences grow the more I get deeply into it, I like the work from Ari Marcopoulos, Larry Clark and Pax Paloscia, but my main influence is knowing there is a hell of allot out there that needs to be snapped up.

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In five years I would like to see myself at a standard where I could have my work in galleries and maybe in books, and earning dollar for it.

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I get pretty happy when i see a shot I had taken an think yeah that looks sick or when other people complement them, all that an Mary Jayne, she boosts my confidence in taking photos.

He is  Renegade Rufus on Flickr check him out

Posted from Battle at 3 A.M.

Cardboard Columns

8563e0135603 PM.png Cardboard Columns world the most The Citrus Report michael hansmeyer inhabit com headlines hansmeyer fastcodesign doric citrus report citrus cardboard columns architecture alignnone size large

These are incredible, cardboard columns by Michael Hansmeyer, which FastcoDesign dubbed as the most complex architecture in the world. According to Inhabit.com, “The dizzying Doric column variations are created on Hansmeyer’s computer using a subdivision algorithm that allows them to have between 8 and 16 million facets (distinct surfaces).” Uh, whoah.

4c1f5713d505x397.jpg Cardboard Columns world the most The Citrus Report michael hansmeyer inhabit com headlines hansmeyer fastcodesign doric citrus report citrus cardboard columns architecture alignnone size large

a2f4d0206405x397.jpg Cardboard Columns world the most The Citrus Report michael hansmeyer inhabit com headlines hansmeyer fastcodesign doric citrus report citrus cardboard columns architecture alignnone size large

1f2249f6d505x397.jpg Cardboard Columns world the most The Citrus Report michael hansmeyer inhabit com headlines hansmeyer fastcodesign doric citrus report citrus cardboard columns architecture alignnone size large

7b21e9aa8a05x397.jpg Cardboard Columns world the most The Citrus Report michael hansmeyer inhabit com headlines hansmeyer fastcodesign doric citrus report citrus cardboard columns architecture alignnone size large

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Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion: IV

Posted from The Citrus Report

7040eae60d05x483.jpg Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion: IV wife voice The Citrus Report moon Life jason jaworski interior Features family events essay clouds cities blue architecture

The sky closed its eye today. For a moment I saw its breath, the fog clearing up and the path in front of me continuing on in endless resplendence. I threw my watch away, tossed it over a nameless bridge while the sun was falling from view. As of this moment I have been walking for an innumerable amount of hours. Time has no use when traveling without rhythm or pattern. I measure each moment in the amount of steps I take rather than the amount of seconds that pass. The road looms and moves long and slurring, a ribbon with unmatched tenor in this or any other moment in my life. I threw my watch over a bridge several hundred paces previous to the events in this sentence. I have been walking, I was walking and I will continue to walk- either until I reach where I am going or until my legs and limbs bleed and I cannot go any farther. If that comes to pass, I will have to wade to my destination, crawling and carrying myself with arms until I reach those streets whose image and name I have studied but have yet to set myself in other than in moments of imagined time and space, the densities of a dream being the things that have carried and brought me here.

I am walking.

I have kept my hands inside my pockets for hours now, continuing to walk, the blood barely circulating through my veins, the cold and its temperatures completely covering me. I feel a sickness washing over me, feel its neck, nape and lips all around me. The woman who I have been imagining comes back to me again, in brief snatches of person- limbs at first, arms, wrists and hands, and beyond that those features of a face before another car drives by me and its lights splash my current reality: I am walking 540 kilometers to get to a city that I have dreamed about since a child, a place whose myth cannot possibly match the one I have built up for it in my head. I see the cities around me, those towns and villages brief on my way and I see them like children congregating in the corners of street and road before getting to the doors and altar of Paris. At times, a person can live off dreams much more easily than reality.
What nameless faces, figures and fugues occupy the mind when it has nothing else to wander on-.

*

Night now and I have been walking endlessly since Frank dropped me off. Different sets of miles are digested and catalogued by my feet as I’ve begun to find characters and faces in the features of buildings, their architecture, and that other architecture of trees surrounding the path and street.
I crossed the Rhine around nightfall, the sun falling in snatches with patches of light whispering words through the fences of cloud blockading the blue in ventriloquial contusions of movement- unseen strings and vivid color dancing back and forth, as if the fight for day were one battled by clouds contumacious to the spinning of the sphere and the need for night to cover this region of continent and country.

*

f69e6d8bd405x606.jpg Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion: IV wife voice The Citrus Report moon Life jason jaworski interior Features family events essay clouds cities blue architecture

A rain is falling outside my tent and everything that I can see outside is covered in the screen-mesh gauze which lines the entrance/exit of my tent. I try to move my hands but am unable to. Every appendage that juts out from my person is numb- ears, nose, fingers and toes. I can see my breath in front of me and with my breath I try to trace shapes to keep my mind occupied. Dreams have a way of closing in on one’s self, the psyche one of the many endless and endlessly explored hallways of a person. I have been writing every day of my life it seems, however, I have been walking only for one. This was my first night. The stars, when visible behind the clouds, give off an endless shiver of silver, their light reflected in hours’ old reflection of a glinting sun 93 million miles away from where I am and where I am feeling the same amount of distance from the sun from where I want to be. Paris, a few inches away on my map and several hundred miles away. On foot it seems like a destination all at once a mystery writhing and moving; a piece of cloth held by a nameless child whose hands and head are held out the window of a moving car. Cars move by me here just as in that previous sentence’s image and when they do I see their lights like fire- far off they signal out to me, a strange figure walking along the road, and far off further they leave me, going by my back or front side, leaving and pulsing away along the road’s vein at an inexhaustible and ludicrous speed, too fast for my feet to comprehend or ever reach.
I have been walking endlessly and endlessly walking for what seems like forever. It is my second day and all I can think to think of is how grateful I am for Frank who filled my bag with a small amount of rations and food. Upon looking through the bag, I saw a letter from him, covering a small amount of bills and a blade, the both of which gleamed like liquid.

Note: A monolith of roadway that seems as much a wall as it is a flat surface which my feet trudge along upon. I have seen it now, spreading along on the lines and vines of a reality that has since come through in the blight of a mind that cannot stop thinking. It is a breath still lingering on and long, slow slurring and whirring like an endless wind and reverie from a snowless night still freezing in temperature.

*

*           *

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The car pulled passed me and stopped. Along the ridge, on the separate lanes spreading out amongst the trees of highway he stopped. I walked towards the vehicle, seeing very little at the time, my eyes blinded and burned, buried under the falling reservoirs that tried and attempted to come through in the vastness of the rain.
He honked once.
I walked up to the window and before I could speak he spoke.
“It’s raining.”
“I know.”
(We’re screaming over the rain right now.)
“Why don’t you get in? You need shelter.”
I thought it over, glanced at the interior of the vehicle and made a decision that ended up changing who and what it is that I was to become after this journey.
He reached over and pulled the handle of the car.
“Come on, you’re getting soaked out here- come in, it’s fine.”

I get in the car.

He begins to laugh and leans over, extending his arm to cover the space behind my headrest.
“Bet you’re surprised that I speak English.”
I hadn’t even thought about it, but tell him yes.
He smiles and begins a long story about his mother and how she always tried to make sure that he knew English, I say nothing and continue to nod as he switches from one story to the next, going graphically into detail about things that his father did to the family before abandoning them. I apologize for no real reason but mean it sincerely. I think of him as a lonely man, one who just needs to talk to someone.

We talk for a brief while and I begin to feel safe in his company. He tells me he’s going a long ways, that he has to go back to his house in the country and that if I want to I can stay there with his wife or when he gets there he could let me out and I could begin walking again. Both seemed fine to me. I decided to decide when we got there and closed my eyes, an action I don’t remember committing but must have done for the next memory and sentence to make sense.

I opened my eyes. The rain was still coming down in small contrails; streams and rivulets of water bleeding and pulsing along the pane of windshield and glass. The car was rocking somewhat heavily. I turned to John who had both his hands on the wheel.
“On the side road- need to take this to get to my house. Don’t worry.”
I wasn’t worried until he told me not to be. A strange emotion- I brushed it off however, realizing that paranoia is something that can destroy a man.
We continued to drive further down the road, winding until eventually reaching a small house.
“Hmm, Lynda must not be here yet.”
He parked the car and turned off the engine, the car shaking itself still, the sounds of the engine purring in harmony with the rain on the roof until stopping. He stepped out and turned to me through the window-
“Watch the mud, it- actually – wait there – I’ll come around to get you.”
I stepped out and closed the door. He came up to me and grabbed me by the shoulders somewhat abruptly and aggressively.
“I thought I said to wait. I don’t want you dirty. Come on, let’s get inside.”
He touched me in a way that seemed to signal what it was that was awaiting me while we walked into that house- a place so foreign to me that it felt like we were the last two people here and the world whirring by outside of us was merely a set for some other film and all the curtains will soon rise and the credits will fade.
Images can remain in the mind forever, premonitions just the same.

We walked the twenty or so feet to his house, the door illuminated by a lone bulb hanging above the faded wood. He keeps telling me how there are no other houses around, how he likes to be here isolated and I begin to realize that there is no Lynda, he has no wife and that I am, as he says, out here alone.
It seemed with every step his body language began to change and his voice dropped. We walked further, thoughts whirring and running by in my head so rapidly that even now they are all I can think of as I recall and recollect these memories.

Strand of thought
: The only thing I have to do is keep myself from going inside there and I’ll be safe, as long as I don’t get inside his house, as long as I don’t enter his house I’ll be safe.

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I step inside the house.
The door closes slowly behind me and his arm, long and thin, reaches forward for the lamp; thin wires of hair protruding from every pore in a haphazard fractal of direction with wrists moving in circular motions and fingers, twig-like in their lack of flesh, reaching up and pulling the string of the lamp.
Pendular light now invades the room, the lamp and bulb swaying to an unknown meter, the chain clinking with every other movement.
“Take a seat.”
He smiles an unwavering smile, a smile that wont leave his face, a smile and grin that says more than I can put down and a smile that I cannot describe accurately for for me to delve into that memory of that face of that smile would be for me to delve into spaces and regions of thought that have since been buried and extinguished beyond the realm of remembrance.

He pulls out a chair and leans in close to me, his breath being felt on my neck before his utterance of three sentences / statements which I will remember verbatim for the rest of my acknowledgeable existence; every word and inflection suffused with a nonchalance so fully formed in every breath of his that it was beyond eerie, minatory or direful. It felt that I was breathing the same air as all the evils of this world and that all those evils had converged and merged together in the form of this one body next to me.

“You must be tired. Let me show you your room. Best for you to sleep as soon as possible.”

I inhale deeply, deep as I can, and get up with him.
And we walk down a thin hairline of hallway, the corridor stretching through numerous turns and portions of stairway, an Escher-like quest through labyrinthine quadrants, the light leaving my view after the third turn, don’t worry don’t worry he keeps saying, only a few more steps only a few more steps, and we walk with feet shuffling, my hands holding myself up and guiding my walk, I in front and he in back, fuck this is the end fuck this is the end; my hands are running along the surfaces of wall next to me, a hallway too thin for me to stretch out comfortably, still they are there, imagining a place and picture of my surroundings and the fear burning inside me being a feeling all-encompassing until we reach the room and he lights a candle- a flame that burns slow and long, a flame whose ethereal qualities still sing to me and a flame that I watch flicker longer than any other.

I look out the window in back of him: the moon perfectly framed in the pane.
I think of the moon as my mother; the road and destination as some other.
And, though I don’t believe in religion, I begin a prayer.

The candle continues to burn, crying small spheres of wax which harden on the surfaces of floor surrounding us like an ocean of carpet and wood. Our environment is as soundless and vacant as the obsidian hallways that led us here.

He tells me to sleep and I get under the sheets of the bed while gripping the handle of a knife in my pocket, his eyes and gaze sharper than any blade I could ever possess.

-Jason Jaworski

Posted By The Citrus Report

The Prostitute Photo Zine

Posted from The Citrus Report

f1d57911ccnown 1.jpg The Prostitute Photo Zine zines street prostitute zine Paris numbers mind light jason jaworski earth city children cameraman business black architecture
Written in Paris after piecing together information / interviews with local prostitutes and presented here after having long been sold-out, A Thousand Words is a zine by Jason Jaworski consisting of a found photo and a story based off its image.
- – -

And it was death that smiled upon me, death which opened up its arms and greeted me with muted embrace. The colors of the rags which I’d worn for too long had now gone gray, tattered and torn. The strings of the cloth had begun to drag themselves on the floor, running into puddles, collecting dirt, covering themselves in the rubbish of the world- a rag of disease, a mulch which was spread around my body, kept on my skin to insulate myself from the outside world which had become so distant since then. Since Robert had left, since the clocks stopped turning, since the sea had frozen over, since the wind picked up, since that niagara of water within me had drowned itself, covered itself with too much. Everything I’d done was in excess. Everything I saw or sought was too large for me. I’d become a failure without ever trying.

By the time I straightened things out, it was too late. My house had already gone under, my business failed and I was alone. I started living in my car, sleeping in the back seat, eating what I could find or steal- whatever was readily available I clung to like some steel magnet. I tried selling myself, selling my body, but I could never go through with it. I’d have men drag me back to their places, tongue down their throat, laughingly telling them how I wanted to stay with them, that I needed a meal and then that would be it, perhaps a few bucks if you could spare it, that would do well. Where is it you said you lived? On Montmarte, passed the bridge? Which one? The Pont-Neuf? The Bir-Hakeim? What was that? The Mirabeau. Yes, I know it, sure. In the west, right? Beyond the Eiffel. Yes. Meet there?

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His name Gregory. He wouldn’t tell me his last name, but he seemed nice enough. He had a wife and three children back home, back in New York where he lived.
–I’m just on vacation– he told me, –a bit of business, you know?–
I poured back what remained in my glass, swallowing it down as I smiled at him, taking his tie in my right hand and wrapping it around my wrist. A two-bulbed lamp hung from the ceiling, around it was a red fabric shade which breathed off an air of burgundy. The beige colored walls mixed themselves in the light, as if both were two paints on a sheet of paper doused in water. I kept looking around the room, studying the architecture. All along the top corners of the walls were small mosaics made of tile, showing the numbers seven-one-four. From the window, I caught the view of some large building across the way. Outside the lobby stood huge columns- corinthian, doric, ionic. Every piece and era of the old and new seemed to be in this city. The floor was covered in marble, the walls lined with gold leaf. I was almost overwhelmed by it, but soon remembered what I’d come here for- money.

He had an odd complexion. His faced looked as though it were carved in stone, having a Keaton-quality to it. Whenever I looked at him all I saw was Keaton, the general, the cameraman. I laughed somewhat loudly, breaking up a bit of the tension which had been building around us. Soon though, a skin of silence covered everything and he grabbed me by the waist, pulling me towards him and throwing the both of us on the couch. I tried to break free of him, his grip, but he held me tightly. We made it to the floor, both of us squirming and by then he had become stiff. I was laying on top of him and felt it through my thigh, throbbing.
–Where’s the switch?– I stuttered, –Can’t we shut the light? I don’t like doing this when I can see the room around me.–
He said nothing, just grinned, spreading his lips wide to expose a set of crooked teeth.
–They’re yellow,– I said.
–Everything’s yellow in the beginning. Just got to go through with it, that’s all. You’ll do good. You could use the experience.–
And with that he shut his lips, put his hand around the back of my neck and pushed me down toward him, opening up his mouth, whispering a few words before placing his tongue in me.
I pulled backward.
–I’d really prefer it if we shut the light. Isn’t it bright in here to you?–
–I’ll shut it in a bit…alright I’ll do it now. Take off that blouse. I’m not gonna be able to see that skin, but I at least want to feel it.–
He rounded a corner. Once out of his sight, I looked to see where his wallet was, looked around and found it on a stool, the third one from the kitchen window. When he came back I was nude, my body outlined by the moon’s light. I lay on the floor, outstretched and exposed.
–Come here,– he said, pulling me from the thighs. –It’s warm ain’t it. It’s been a bit gray for my taste, but when you got something like you, who’s to complain..–
He started to take off his clothes with one arm, the other he had around my wrist, moving my palms over his body. When he was fully nude he lay himself down on me.
–Vive la France.– he muttered under his breath.

38bc136cbf05x475.jpg The Prostitute Photo Zine zines street prostitute zine Paris numbers mind light jason jaworski earth city children cameraman business black architecture
When morning came, he was gone. On the counter was a wad of bills, a note and some cold coffee. I didn’t bother to read the note. I counted the bills quickly, looked around the room for more, took what I could and left. It was impossibly cold outside, a few degrees colder and it’d be unbearable. Snow hadn’t yet started to fall, but with the silken frost somewhat visible on odd street corners and lampposts one felt that it was coming. Either within the span of this day or tomorrow. I wrapped myself in my jacket, put on some gloves and caught the train to the other side of the city. I meant to go towards my car, but decided to get off earlier, finding a few scraps of food in a pastry shop. From there it was a quick stroll down the Rue Laffitte.

I always seem to get angry with things when I walk alone, and now was no different. For some reason everything irritated me. There were the children in the street, fights breaking out, the homeless, the masses of cars which crowded every corner with their smoke and noise, there were the buildings around me, each one centuries old and vomitous in their design. I didn’t care for much and despised most of everything. I just couldn’t deal with it- with this cloud, this smoke which had covered me. Some sewer line, a punctured wound in the city, steam rising from it, covering all in its stink, its vapor, its cough. And from this cloud I caught everything. I caught the hate, I caught the germ, I caught the disease, the plague, the cancer, tuberculosis, the mercurial fits which further fecundated the morrows of my soul. Everything climbing into some case, some bill which was pasted and then nailed onto my torso. A fucking stink it was! Some gaudy maelstrom/bedlam of beings all scrounged up and tossed into this tank, left there to talk of each one’s own, talk it up and then rot away, our limbs soon filed down to stubs. But we didn’t notice, nor did we care! We had art! We had the music! We had the fucking word! It was literature which folded our being, it was song which sewed its way through our fabric, it was the paintings of the past which swung in the lamplight, further guiding us. That beacon! The lighthouse! …….and after we had been ground up in the blue, they swept us up and bottled us out, tacking on labels and throwing us farther and further away. By then, everything was lost….

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I’d tried for a while to find the words to write this, but never did. Everything I put down was either too soaked in hyperbole or watered down too far to the point of becoming a euphemism. –With things like this, you have to go at them head on,– that’s what Jane always said, what she would always tell me back at home. So I opt now for what I have, for what I know and what I can deal. Then I come back to the world, I step out of the lobby and come to the realization that everything’s falling apart. You can either watch it go, help it further to fall, or try to rebuild. Unfortunately, my passivity kept me on the sidelines. I complained, but did nothing to further alleviate the situation. I sat like this, my arms crossed, my lips wrapped ‘round a cigarette. Under the awning of some rotting building, my arm on the old weathered gate which ran along the Seine, that river which ran through all. Paris. The city of the soul. Behind that street, inside the garret, the needle is all that helps me. I find the vein and puncture the wound. – Bliss. -
I kneel back into the white, wrapping myself in the sheet. I smell it, I feel it, I breathe it… Everything is wonderful for just a moment, everything dances and swirls…everything moves.
oh everything, everything, everything….
Soon my thoughts run out from behind me.

I needed someone to love and someone to love me. There was so much I had to give, so much it was stuffing me, coming up through the throat. I had nothing to give but love, yet whenever I came across someone, I pushed them away, I spewed out hate. Why had this curse been thrust upon me? What were the distractions which caused the fractions of my mind to become maligned? What words were there, words I had yet to know // what songs were there, songs I’d yet to hear/sing // what sky was there, not yet visible to me, covered in a canvas of clouds // what color was there that I’d yet to see, what paintings, sculptures and persons // what letters were there, languages which I’d yet to hear speech from // what lists had I not yet made // who had I not yet met, not yet loved, hugged and hated // what future had I not yet seen // what past ////

Jupiter floats by my window, riding along the pink, polio, promethium, pyrite, purity, π……… my mind rambled on now, nothing I said or wrote made any sense. I had lost myself to the drug. Onward and downward I spiraled, falling through the cracks of my heart, falling deeper, toward the abyss of my being, toward the black, toward that which was colorless, toward my ruin, toward the muted marrow of the soul, the night’s claws digging into my flesh…and past that I fell- past feeling, past emotion, past tears. I fell further and further… I fell past it all, and now I’d arrived, kicking the habit and heading toward the light.

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The railing wasn’t paved, and the tunnel was much too thin to walk through standing upright. I crawled at first. I crawled through the mud, the frost, the sea and the others. Crawling through the fire, the earth, the lava of life- I let it flow through me. This gapless information- none of it lost. I was a newly set sponge, nothing left me unabsorbed. Like cotton I covered and smudged most of it, but on my skin there were layers piling up-layers of the night, layers of the light, layers, layers, layers. And once I’d reached the middle, once I’d passed myself in knowledge there was nothing to do but look upward, look up at that ocean, that gray sheet of sky. I looked up smilingly, laughingly, hysterically. I looked up at this big joke of the sky, I looked up and laughed. People passed, confused by it all, not sure of the situation, not sure of anything really. What was I doing? I myself didn’t know, but I knew it was right. Had I reached the ninth sphere? That “primum mobile,” that “abode of the angels” which Alighieri spoke of so eloquently?.. There were answers up there, there were answers in that mountainous village of the sky, within that gray of day I saw the answers. And with my heart as a pickaxe, I pulled back the skin of the land, and I bored through it, mining for the words and vessels, my body filled with a vim/vigor I hadn’t yet known. I hadn’t seen this part of myself. Who was I? Had I changed? Or was this person always in me, lying dormant and now just waking, spreading her wings and setting off to fly toward that lake, that newly constructed cauldron, the waters of which boiled in the heat. That heat of day, that heat of night. Oh, the heat. How it permeated through my being, through the forrest of all. The strings had begun to swell, and the orchestra was readying themselves. The crowd came in like snakes, wrapping around the sides of the building, each one turning over their seats as if they were turning the page of some novel, some newly gutted work which had ran its way through The Times. And in they came, in they poured, and once seated they stared forward, clapping maddeningly as the curtain rose. It was Christmas Eve in Cairo, 1871. The actors came out in costume and performed the piece. Verdi’s Aida.

“Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.”
-Aldous Huxley

- Jason Jaworski
Parc Geroges Brassens
2005

New issues in the series are available for purchase at www.sprinklessparklesandkankles.com

Posted By The Citrus Report

Olafur Eliason in Reykjavik, Iceland

Posted by FIFTY24SF Gallery

A few years ago, the Danish artist Olafur Eliason’s “Waterfalls”on NYC’s East River was one of the best commissiioned  public art exhibits we had ever seen. It was quite dramatic and large in scale, but not pretentious or difficult to decipher. It really just had natural beauty to it. The same can be said of this new Eliason building he is designing in Reykjavik, Iceland, which seems to symbolize a rebirth of a nation that was bankrupt just 3 years ago. This is another piece of Eliason art in a public space that is gaining international attention.

86bbc92c2dfront.jpg Olafur Eliason in Reykjavik, Iceland river public art olafur eliasson olafur eliason News international FIFTY24SF eliasson eliason danish artist danish architecture

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