11.07.2014

zero theories


“Greenwich Mean Time” rolls off the tongue. It seems natural: of course Greenwich is the center. But the French understood perfectly well, for example, that who controls the zero of longitude, the zero point of time, controls something about the mapping of the world and its symbolic ownership, as well as the practical aspects of using admiralty maps to run the world’s shipping...."

william kentridge with peter galison in conversation w/ m. koerner full interview here



Editor's note: This message marks the end of Architecture and Mortality, as we have reached the 200 track limit on our 2nd Youtube playlist for RADIOS & BOOKS. Our next section will begin after a brief break. Don't Litter. Bon Weekend. 

affirmation (amen)

‘Tonight August 3rd 1973 my only known cousin died in an incredible way’, he wrote. ‘His talk on the phone with his mother was interrupted by “the ceiling’s falling” ... He and his wife were living in the Broadway central that was demolished by an unknown force making it collapse instantly without warning. All around the accident the city assembled its emergency gear. Crowding and hysteria dissolved into a reaffirmation of immediate disintegration.’ 


Excerpt: Gordon Matta Clark's diary. From "Towards Anarchitecture: Gordon Matta Clark and Le Corbusier." By James Attlee. Tate Papers, full text here


Clarence Carter and Calvin Scott - Step by Step

11.05.2014

paradise (2)

-- I was surrounded by three squad cars in Tucson Arizona at 2 A.M. as I was walking pack-on-back for a night's sweet sleep in the red moon desert:

"Where you goin'?"
"Sleep."
"Sleep where?"
"On the sand."
"Why?"
"Got my sleeping bag."
"Why?"
"Studyin' the great outdoors."
"Who are you? Let's see your identification."
"I just spent a summer with the Forest Service."
"Did you get paid?"
"Yeah."
"Then why don't you go to a hotel?"
"I like it better outdoors and it's free."
"Why?"
"Because I'm studying hobo."
"What's so good about that?"
Excerpt: JK, Dharma Bums

11.04.2014

Italian Hall

1913 Massacre, By Woody Guthrie

Lyrics:


1913 Massacre
Words and Music by Woody Guthrie

Take a trip with me in 1913,
To Calumet, Michigan, in the copper country. 
I will take you to a place called Italian Hall,
Where the miners are having their big Christmas ball.

I will take you in a door and up a high stairs, 
Singing and dancing is heard everywhere, 
I will let you shake hands with the people you see,
And watch the kids dance around the big Christmas tree.

You ask about work and you ask about pay,
They'll tell you they make less than a dollar a day, 
Working the copper claims, risking their lives, 
So it's fun to spend Christmas with children and wives.

There's talking and laughing and songs in the air, 
And the spirit of Christmas is there everywhere, 
Before you know it you're friends with us all,
And you're dancing around and around in the hall.

Well a little girl sits down by the Christmas tree lights,
To play the piano so you gotta keep quiet,
To hear all this fun you would not realize,
That the copper boss' thug men are milling outside.

The copper boss' thugs stuck their heads in the door,
One of them yelled and he screamed, "there's a fire," 
A lady she hollered, "there's no such a thing. 
Keep on with your party, there's no such thing."

A few people rushed and it was only a few,
"It's just the thugs and the scabs fooling you," 
A man grabbed his daughter and carried her down,
But the thugs held the door and he could not get out.

And then others followed, a hundred or more,
But most everybody remained on the floor, 
The gun thugs they laughed at their murderous joke, 
While the children were smothered on the stairs by the door.

Such a terrible sight I never did see,
We carried our children back up to their tree,
The scabs outside still laughed at their spree,
And the children that died there were seventy-three.

The piano played a slow funeral tune,
And the town was lit up by a cold Christmas moon, 
The parents they cried and the miners they moaned, 
"See what your greed for money has done."

more information on the Italian hall Disaster here


radios&books: this is an experimental newsletter aimed at sharing words and sounds. if you have ideas about it, please share. tracks are listed onto their own youtube channels (1,2) and ARCHIVE for review. If you'd like to be removed from this list, just ask. if you think someone would dig this, or have something I would dig, write to radiosandbooks@gmail.com.
THE(0)

11.03.2014

edit of an edit

1 wish at the crossfaders (all_hallows_minimix) 11:07 EST

Interviewer: Doesn't it bother you that the author has (you) has such a tentative grip?

Heller: No. It's one of the things that makes it interesting.


Excerpt: Art of Fiction 51: Joseph Heller Interview w/ George Plimpton. From The Paris Review, no. 60 (Winter 1974).




the_loser_3_(paradise_part_1)

"Where did you meet Ray Smith?" they asked him when we walked into The Place, the favorite bar of the hepcats around the Beach. 

"Oh I always meet my Bodhisattvas in the street!" 

Excerpt: JK, The Dharma Bums



I'm Going Home - Bama Stuart (lomax prison song recordings)



play the version and reel it back;





10.29.2014

_yello_butterflies_(the_loser_2)

I’m not sure if the word utopian means the real or the ideal. But I think it’s the real. (Excerpt: Interview with Gabriel Garcia Marquez: The Art of Fiction No. 69, The Paris Review, full text here.)


beck - loser




long_distance


Poor boy a long way from home
Poor boy I'm a long way from home
Poor boy I'm a long way from home
I don't have no happy home to go home to

When I left my home my baby's in my arms
When I left my home my baby's in my arms
When I left my home my baby's in my arms
She wanna know, 'Daddy, when you comin' back home? '

(Guitar)

They got me down here on the farm
Got me down here on old farm
I don't have no one to come and post my bail
Baby, I wanna come back home to you

(Guitar)

Sorry, baby I can't call you over the phone
Sorry, I can't call you over the phone
'Cause they got me down here on this little farm
But I can't call you baby over the phone.

(Guitar to end)

10.24.2014

LANDLORD_V

My dear friend,
[...]
I realize this letter may seem endless, and it might take you time to read through 
it all. Please feel free to stop, whenever you have had enough. We are facing a 
period of extreme instability. We are told that we live in a state of permanent 
crisis, a state of emergency and thus of exception. Since the early 1990s, the 
Internet has widened our access to information and fostered the exchange of 
opinions and the digital elaboration of forms of collective and shared knowledge, 
building interconnected networks and archives, but its bits, blogs and summaries 
have also introduced an experience of knowledge that is increasingly indirect and 
a partial collapse of intellectual endeavor, as well as a crisis in ethics and 
behavior, generosity and integrity. 
[...]
The question today is how not to be contemporary, how not to make a 
festival, how not to communicate, how not to produce any knowledge, 
and yet somehow manage to articulate intelligence and love. For a curator 
today, to do a project means to learn from artists and others how to navigate 
these misunderstandings, how to create an exhibition with them as a decoy
how to open up spaces of revolt with them, how to deny, withdraw or defer, 
while celebrating with them. 


excerpt: Letter to a Friend: 100 Thoughts/ 100 Notes, No. 3, dOCUMENTA(13), 
By Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev. Full text here

play the version and reel it back:







10.23.2014

landlord_4

These workshops of participatory planning became know, in a general sense, as Community Development Centers (CDCs). Operating primarily from storefront locations, they involved the community in the planning process. CDCs began to expand as they got deeper and deeper into community problems. Other professionals and para-professionals became involved; engineers, lawyers, community organizers, sociologists and others began to participate through CDCs. Through hard work, devotion, understanding and trust, these store-front planning centers with their shoe-string budgets became a legitimate component of the community. A service mechanism emerged which spoke with sincerity to its community, a competent cog in the urban machine. 

Excerpt: pg. 9, Design Quarterly 82/83: Advocacy: A Community Planning Voice. Walker Art Center, 1971. If readers are interested I would scan this issue for access: Walker has listed several issues here for download. 


play the version and reel it back:

10.22.2014

landlord_3


Excerpt: 

From Notebook 1261, ca. 1970

Dear Mr*

In regard to the many condemned buildings in the city that are awaiting
demolition, it has seems possible to me to put these buildings to use during this
waiting period. Recently I called Mr. Jones? of the Real Estate Dept. asking if it
were possible to rent a building or some space in a building [...] from the city. He
suggested that I write you stating my needs. 

My interest lie in several areas. As an artist I make sculpture using the natural by-
products of the land and people. I am interested in turning wasted areas such as 
blocks of rubble, empty lots, dumps into beautiful and useful areas. (A) Also, 
under my influences and direction along with the work of Alanna Highstein, there
was a very successful sculpture show under the Brooklyn Bridge which not only
aroused the interest of the artists in learning of the abandoned areas of new York
but was also very beneficial to the neighborhood. The children were fascinated by
the works, by the people, and by the ideas and were making all kinds of 
comments referring to the kinds of works they might like to do. 
Channeling this energy and interest of young people in art is one of the things I
would like to accomplish. By now I have staged several group shows of major
interest to New York artists and feel that much could be achieved by presenting
artists who would be willing to work with an organized group of young people.

For these interests I need one of or both of the following:
(1) A ground floor industrial space, approx. 2400-3500 Ft. with cold water and
the possibility of electrical connections. It needs no heat or windows. Something
like a warehouse: might be ideal. As a matter of fact, there is a warehouse with the
name of LASH IRON WORKS at 72 Pike Street near the Manhattan Bridge which is 
condemned & which would be ideal perfect for my working needs. 
(2) A small building, perhaps 3 or 4 stories business or residential, which I plan to
use entirely for a proposed art project which involves principally cleaning it up &
thereafter perhaps using it as a gallery space for group shows or as community space-
i.e teaching + working with young people.

I live and work in Lower Manhattan. Anything south of Houston Street, east or 
west side would be ideal. I cannot afford to pay very much but would be willing
to rent on a month-to-month basis and comply with any regulations you feel are 
necessary.
It is difficult, in a way, to write this letter but as my work is extremely flexible, I
can adapt myself virtually to whatever you might have available. If you need
further or more specific information please contact me.

Hoping to hear from you at your earliest possible convenience, I am
Sincerely yours, 

*Letter addressed to New York City official Harold Stern


pg. 71 "Gordon Matta Clark, Works and Collected Writings." Gloria Moure.
transcribed \ by radios&books


play the version and reel it back:

"Last Night The Landlord Nearly Killed Me":





10.21.2014

landlord_2

We, meanwhile, were standing out on the balcony. I would address the crowd gathered in the street below: "People, fellow workers. We are the wives of unemployed men and the police are evicting us. Today we are being evicted. Tomorrow it will be you. So stand by and watch. What is happening to us will happen to you. We have no jobs. We can't afford food. Our rents are too high. The marshal has brought the police to carry out our furniture. Are you going to let it happen?" 

2nd excerpt from Rose Chernin, 'Organizing The Unemployed in the Bronx in the 1930s'



Half Pint: Mr. Landlord (submitted track)

10.20.2014

landlord_1

Landlord, landlord, 
My roof has sprung a leak. 
Don’t you ’member I told you about it 
Way last week? 
Landlord, landlord, 
These steps is broken down. 
When you come up yourself 
It’s a wonder you don’t fall down. 
Ten Bucks you say I owe you? 
Ten Bucks you say is due? 
Well, that’s Ten Bucks more’n I’ll pay you 
Till you fix this house up new. 
What? You gonna get eviction orders? 
You gonna cut off my heat? 
You gonna take my furniture and 
Throw it in the street? 
Um-huh! You talking high and mighty. 
Talk on ⎯ till you get through. 
You ain’t gonna be able to say a word 
If I land my fist on you. 

Police! Police! 
Come and get this man! 
He’s trying to ruin the government 
And overturn the land! 
Copper’s whistle! 
Patrol bell! 
Arrest. 
Precinct Station. 
Iron cell. 
Headlines in press:

MAN THREATENS LANDLORD 


TENANT HELD NO BAIL 


JUDGE GIVES NEGRO 90 DAYS 
 IN COUNTY JAIL. 

Langston Hughes, Ballad of The Landlord. 1940






10.17.2014

kinetics_1

One turns the thing over 
in his hand and looks 
at it from the rear: brownedged, 
green and pointed scales 
armor his yellow. 

But turn and turn, 
the crisp petals remain 
brief, translucent, greenfastened, 
barely touching at the edges: 
blades of limpid seashell. 

Excerpt: William Carlos Williams, 'Daisy'







10.15.2014

untitled (combustion_1)

In the deep discovery of the Subterranean world, a shallow part would satisfie some enquirers; who, if two or three yards were open about the surface, would not care to rake the bowels of Potosi, and regions towards the Centre. Nature hath furnished one part of the Earth, and man another. The treasures of time lie high, in Urnes, Coynes, and Monuments, scarce below the roots of some vegetables. Time hath endlesse rarities, and shows of all varieties; which reveals old things in heaven, makes new discoveries in earth, and even earth it self a discovery. That great Antiquity America lay buried for a thousand years; and a large part of the earth is still in the Urne unto us.

excerpt: pg.1, chapter 1. sir thomas browne's hydriotaphia (web version from Univ. of Chicago) source: Sun Ra U.C. Berkeley Syllabus.




10.14.2014

motor (1)

Parliament: Motor Booty Affair: Full Album

When one's body vibrates in tune with Spirit vibration, he is light vibration - the greatest of all vibrations, God the Father of all vibrations.

excerpt: Radix by Bill Looney (source: Sun Ba UC Berkeley syllabus)

Special: Jukebox Sadder Than A Coffin: Bink Figgins Mix. Reciprocal Inspiration = Strong.

10.13.2014

the vestibule


1495: La Isabela

Caonabo

Detached, aloof, the prisoner sits at the entrance of Christopher Columbus's house. He has iron shackles on his ankles, and handcuffs trap his wrists.
Caonabo was the one who burned to ashes the Navidad Fort that the admiral had built when he discovered the island of Haiti. He burned the fort and killed its occupants. And not only them: In these two long years he has castigated with arrows any Spaniard he came across in Cibao, his mountain territory, for their hunting of gold and people.
Alonso de Ojeda, veteran of wars against the Moors, paid him a visit on the pretext of peace. He invited him to mount his horse, and put on him these handcuffs of burnished metal that tie his hands, saying that they were jewels worn by the monarchs of Castile in their balls and festivities.
Now Chief Caonabo spends his days sitting beside the door, his eyes fixed on the tongue of light that invades the earth floor at dawn and slowly retreats in the evening. He doesn't move an eyelash when Columbus comes around. On the other hand, when Ojeda appears, he manages to stand up and bow to the only man who has defeated him. 

excerpt: From Eduardo Galeano's Memory of Fire, 1982. Source: pg. 50. Voices of a People's History, by Howard Zinn and Anthony Arnove (Seven Stories Press, 2004). 



you can't blame the youth>>rastaman chant>>get up stand up: the wailers session at capitol studios, 1973.


play the version:


and reel it back:




10.10.2014

untitled (juke)

...That crazy feeling in America when the sun is hot on the streets and music comes out of the jukebox or from a nearby funeral... and with the agility, mystery, genius, sadness and strange secrecy of a shadow photographed... After seeing these pictures you'd wind up finally not knowing anymore whether a jukebox is sadder than a coffin...










10.07.2014

dog (part_3)

He met a hound that came from Hel. 
That one had blood upon his breast, 
and long did he bark at Baldrs father. 
Onward rode Odin - the earth-way roared - 
till he came to the high hall of Hel. 

Excerpt:
Hellhounds, Werewolfs and the Germanic Underground, Alby Stone.

The Flaming Lips: Superhumans (suggested track)



10.03.2014

untitled (bird_1- egret)


TAKE THIS RIVER:
We move up a spine of earth
That bridges the river and the canal.
And where a dying white log, finger-like,
Floating off the bank, claws at the slope,
We stumble, and we laugh.
We slow beneath the moon's eye;
Near the shine of the river's blood face,
The canal's veil of underbrush sweats frost,
And this ancient watery scar retains
The motionless tears of men with troubled spirits.
For like the whole earth,
This land of mine is soaked....

Shadows together,
We fall on the grass without a word.
We had run this far from the town.
We had taken the bony course, rocky and narrow,
He leading, I following.
Our breath streams into October
As the wind sucks our sweat and a leaf...

"We have come a long long way, mahn."
He points over the river
Where it bends west, then east,
And leaves our sight.

"I guess we have," I pant. "I can hear
My angry muscles talking to my bones."
And we laugh.

The hood of night is coming.
Up the river, down the river
The sky and night kiss between the wind.

"You know," Ben says, "this is where
I brought Evelyn....
Look. We sat on that log
And watched a river egret
Till it flew away with the evening.

"But mahn, she is a funny girl, Aiee!
But she looks like me Jamaica woman....
But she asks me all the questions, mahn.
I'm going to miss her mahn, Aiee!

"But I will . . . Ewie. Ewie I love you,
But I do Ewie . . . Ewie . . . ," he says
And blows a kiss into the wind.
Broken shadows upon the canal
Form and blur, as leaves shudder again...again

"Tell me this, Ben," I say.
"Do you love American girls?
You know, do most Jamaicans
Understand this country?"

We almost laugh. Our sweat is gone.
He whispers "Aiee" on a long low breath

And we turn full circle to the river,
Our backs to the blind canal.

"But I'm not most Jamaicans....
I'm only Ben, and tomorrow I'll be gone,
And ... Ewie, I love you....
Aiee! My woman, how can I love you?"

Blurred images upon the river
Flow together and we are there....

"What did she ask you?" I say.
"Everything and nothing, maybe.
But I couldn't tell her all."
We almost laugh. "'Cause I
Don't know it all, mahn.

"Look, see over there....
We walked down from there
Where the park ends
And the canal begins

Where that red shale rock
Down the slope there . . . see?
Sits itself up like a figure,
We first touch our hands . . .
And up floats this log,
Not in the river
But in the canal there
And it's slimy and old
And I kick it back . . .
And mahn, she does too.
Then she asks me:
'Bennie, if I cry
When you leave would you
Remember me more?'
Aiee! She's a natural goddess!
And she asks me:
'Bennie, when you think of Jamaica
Can you picture me there?'
And while she's saying this,
She's reaching for the river
Current like she's feeling its pulse.
She asks me:
'Bennie, America means something to you?
Maybe our meeting, our love? has
Something to do with America,
Like the river? Do you know Bennie?'
Aiee, Aiee, mahn I tell you
She might make me marry . . .
Aiee! Ewie, Jamaica . . . moon!
And how can I say anything?
I tell her:
'Africa, somewhere is Africa.
Do you understand,' I say to her,
And she look at me with the moon,
And I hear the wind and the leaves
And we do not laugh . . .
We are so close now no wind between us . . .
I say to her:
'Ewie, I do not know America
Except maybe in my tears....
Maybe when I look out from Jamaica
Sometimes, at the ocean water....
Maybe then I know this country....
But I know that we, we Ewie....
I know that this river goes and goes.
She takes me to the ocean,
The mother of water
And then I am home.'
And she tells me she knows
By the silence in her eyes.
I reach our hands again down
And bathe them in the night current
And I say: 'Take this river, Ewie....'
Aiee, wind around us, Aiee my God!
Only the night knows how we kiss."

He stands up.
A raincloud sailing upon a leak, whirs
In the momentary embrace of our memories....
"Let's run," I say, "and warm these bones."
But he trots a bit, then stops,
Looking at his Jamaica sky.
"Let's run the long road west
Down the river road," I say,
"And I'll tell you of my woman....Aiee."
We laugh, but we stop.
And then, up the spiny ridge
We race through the trees
Like spirited fingers of frosty air.
We move toward some blurred
Mechanical light edged like an egret
And swallowed by the night.
Into this land of mine.
And the wind is cold, a prodding
Finger at our backs.
The still earth. Except for us.
And from behind that ebon cloak,
The moon observes....
And we do not laugh
And we do not cry, And where the land slopes,
We take the river....
But we do not stumble,
We do not laugh,
We do not cry,
And we do not stop....

Excerpt:
Online Source: http://www2.mdcc.edu/north/asili/volii_3/nu00031.htm
Copyright © Loretta Dumas and Eugene Redmond, 1989/99