I'm writing this here just because i need to copy some html stuff but it belongs in fact to our wiki.
So never mind.


A poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter…
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
this poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows…

a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world…

and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor’s scrutiny,
the night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.

Idle Post

I am fainting on the keyboard. It's 3.14. Can't take it anymore for today.
I am trying to do as much as I can to make this project BEAUTIFUL. Yes, beautiful, first of all.
Just had a look around and think it is. I edited the layout of all the pages, changed fonts, colours, tabs, contents, wrote new things and edited old ones. It took me a lot.. You don't really realize how time passes when you are in front of a computer! It just flies away.
I love our project, I love our group and I love its members. However, I just noticed something that frustrates me a little: other's frustration, basically. Arisen from lack of communication, as long as I came to understood. I will never ever criticise somebody's else personal feelings. As Voltaire said, "I don't agree with what you say, but I would die for you to say it".
It is just that, before getting frustrated because of lack of communication, (which probably has occured and I am the first one to apologize in case I made any mistake), I would have a quick look at the Wikiproject chronology page. Who did what. Nothing more to say.
I hate myself when I become polemic because there's no need to.
We are a very productive group, prefectly balancing the Apollineum and Dionisiac.
The Clicks will rock this digital media class. :)
Tomorrow I'll manage to finish the writing for the whole project. If somebody dares scoulding me cause I didn't finish it all yet I warn: I'll bite. Just cause I probably would have if each.....
Goodnight! Or goodmorning I should say....:P

Mysteries

Voilà!
My computer gets emotional sometimes. Now he (..yes, I assume the computer is definitely male and the printer definitely female) categorically refuses to upload the Brighton photo and the last sentence I wrote on our ProjectWiki frontpage.

Why? He probably doesn't like them.
They are there (cause when i try to edit they ARE SO THERE), but as soon as I visualize the page back....they disappear. I'll record the whole process and send a videotape to X-files. Together with an other one of me putting carefully two pink socks in the washing machine (one per hand), programming it, waiting for it to finish, and duly pulling out a single pink sock.

The other one? Nowhere. Disappeared. Literally. The washing machine must devour them. They probably just tear the very fabric of space and time and end up in another parallel dimension. Together with my Brighton picture, I guess.

And oh, my low-carb diet intentions.

Anyway. I still don't feel completely Ok. I am a little dizzy, but I guess it's just another Essaystress symptom. It's spreading the world like fire, you know.
I need. To. Focus. On. The project. So this time, I swear, I will procrastinate later.
I want to try to be poetic, but am afraid of forgetting facts and figures. It has always been my Achilles' heel.. I'll to go to Uni, have a tutorial for the music essay with Prof. Adrian..and then come back, try to convince my pc those pics ain't this bad in the end, and write. Write this mess I have in my head down. A sort of Joycean Stream of Consciousness. Or in this particular case Uncosciousness, I'd say.

See you later.
(Oh dear heaven..who am I talking to?!)

The White Rabbit

The flu is not getting any better, but I'll manage to survive.. Afterall I'll live forever.
Or at least I'll die trying.

Tonight I already risk to get an overdose from that funny German medicine my cousin brought from the dark heart of Switzerland with love. I had never heard of it before, but it supposed to be working properly.

I mean, the blue tiny winged pig here next to me just told me it shouldn't have any side effect. So let's wait.

In the meantime I'll work on the pictures a bit, reorganize them, eventually edit them, create a hidden story within them. I will have to think think think..in order to write write write.
The project waits.
I told you I would have made the pink notebook bleed ink.

Errata Corrige folks, it's me the only thing bleeding here, while I write.

Stop looking at the words. Everybody does. Look the blank space between them. Read that silence. I swear it takes your breath away.
But the project waits.

ps..I feel funny. The blue pig flew away and now i just see.. I just hear.. Oh, I'm sorry. I have got to follow the white rabbit.
Join in

Progressing!

Finally I am back.
It's not that we didn't do anything for our project, but I just couldn't find the time to sum it up in a decent way here on the blog. Forgive me.
The Clicks met up yesterday afternoon at my place, and sitting around a table decided everything we are going to do about this project. The overall concept, the ideas, the tasks, the material to be used, the words to be written, the mood to be conveyed. It's all here, in a tiny kitsch pink notebook next to my messy laptop.
We did a good job, still it's not over.
In fact, here it comes the tough part. It's not easy to focus on a project efficiently when you have to prepare 2 other exams on completely different topics at the same time. We will have to work as a team, a real team, even more than what we are doing now, trying not to arise unuseful tensions between us because of the stress, the pressure and the rent payment.
We will manage to do this, and we will manage to do this in the best of the possible ways. Right?
Tomorrow we will carry it on and refine it. Step by step, from today onwards, I'll write here each single progress we'll make. Anna will give me the pictures' cd tomorrow.
Soon, I'll start developing my personal view and subjective approach to the project too. No anticipations yet. The kitsch pink notebook shuts up and smiles, hiding my sketches and thoughts in its Dry Paper Heart.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a permanent work in progress.
I'll make it bleed ink.

The Arteries.

"Those who find any difference between spirit and body have neither.”
O.W.


Psychogeography.

Please, keep it away from the reach of children. Only the name could provoke severe mental traumas.
But when you finally manage to write and pronounce it...it doesn't sound this bad.

Psychogeography is the imperfect science who investigates the relationships between the beings and the places they live in. But this is a cold, emotions-free definition. I don't like it. Psychogeogrtaphy is much more than that. It is the imperfect science (may this oximoron be blessed) which investigates the relations between the body and the space around it, the soul and the landscapes, the eyes and what the eyes see. The relations between the mind, and the places the mind thinks of. In a simple way, the connection between the inside and the outside.

We, as human being, tend to project ourselves everywhere.

Think about it and look around: from a socket to a house façade.. don't they always resemble a human face? With the two windows as eyes and the front door as a mouth..

And think about a city: hasn't it got a heart, a brain, lungs.. arteries untying all around it?

Let me explain. Look at it from above.

It's night, and the entire town has become a sort of mechanical galaxy, a concentration of electric supernovas and skycrapers.

Now, only now, you can see the blood slide and flow in those veins: it's us. Us in our cars, with their red lights on. Arteries, literally. Running everywhere in a calm disorder. Keeping the city alive.

Our heartbeats, together, like a drum chorus, create a weird silent symphony.

It may be the music God dances on when nobody's looking at him.

This is psychogeography.

The rotting beauty

.שלום
The Clicks went to Brighton on thursday.
Weird, weird place. Starting from its name. It sounds like a unkept promise: Brighton.
Bright? Not at all.
I've always felt the same about it. Brighton looks like a sad, beautiful, lonely woman. No longer young, no longer loved, the wrinkles ploughing her face like a curse while she watches the sea silently. But in some way she's still proud, still she keeps her ancient elegance. Can you see it?
There's still a light somewhere in her big eyes. It burns just for a second and disappears, again.
No way. You'll never know what she was thinking about. (..Maybe the Old Times? But which ones, lady? Have you ever been happy?). She'll never say. Just smiles, like one who smiles with his own sadness.

Look at the sky! It rains and the sun shines.
No, you don't really expect a sea-place to be like this. We got used to carribbean-like landscapes, vomiting sunrays and happiness all around.
When one thinks about the sea, doesn't think of Brighton. Of its cold water. Its fury.
This is a real sea though. Roaring, and angry. Immense. Ugly and bitter.
But awfully,
awfully alive.