pre-release versions of the kat

#10: The Brogrammers /

Eno + Cats

white woman, in Boulder, at Foothills & Baseline Safeway, to a cashier

submitted by katbeta

(via stayoutofmynamastespace)

$$$

what is happening here I don’t like it (at The Archive Dubai)

FRANK O’HARA: A LETTER TO BUNNY 1 Once before I tried to tell you about the incinerator. Last summer while I was living in the hot city. All day long at the theatre would flash in my mind this thing and that thing too, but usually that heavy cave where there were no flames bothered me And I could not tell you, Bunny, then: there was always my spiral staircase and the diamond pattern of the well, the eerie sound of a quiet house, le Boeuf sur le Toit and friends who would fight and would not kill anyone silently. 2 Now, as if this had bothered me ever since, I find the words are at the front of my mind. The incinerator is clearly horrible, soundless, cold. I went there too often with those things dear to us both: the tinsels and the velvets of the stage, the broken sets and used drapes and tattered scrims, and they were not consigned to any glorious or at least bright immolation. Just a clean dump. Do you wonder it’s bothered me? you don’t, we troupers in private know all about carnival gestures. Before, I wrote, “it’s grey and monstrous” which is false, and fumbled after “hints of mysticism” or “death’s shrewdnesses,” all notions, all collections of sentiment that make a poem another burner full of junk. You enable me, by your least remark, to unclutter myself, and my nerves thank you for not always laughing. 3 But I still fear to mention the blue flowers. They scared me most and I prolong other talk. There were fields of them around the place, all blue, all innocent. The artificial is always innocent. They looked hand-made, fast-dyed, paper. They nodded ominously in the sun, right up to the edge of the concrete ramp, a million killing abstractions, a romantic absence of meaning, a distorted prettiness so thorough that my own eyes rolled up in fear for their identity and I involuntarily cried at the thought of tiny mirrors where the object is lost irretrievably in its own repetition. Is this how beauty accompanies fear so it can escape us? Do you think these flowers could be auctioned tintypes or souls outside hell? Is blue what they mean by “shun posterity” and “the price of fame” and “fear of death”? Have I learned it wrong? 4 When anyone reads this but you it begins to be lost. My voice is sucked into a thousand ears and I don’t know whether I’m weakened. Bunny, when I ran to you in the summer night and upset us both it was mostly this, though you thought I was going away. See? I’m away now, but I’m here. And even if the rose has been ruined for all of us by religion we don’t accept these blue flowers. The sun and the rain glue things together that are not at all similar, and we are not taken in by the nearness, the losses, or the cold. Be always my heroine and flower. Love, Frank.

"...we troupers in private know all about carnival gestures..."