A collection of writings about place space writing and art …
Photo by Martine Franck/Magnum Photos
‘Our society is one not of spectacle, but of surveillance; under the surface of images, one invests bodies in depth; behind the great abstraction of exchange, there continues the meticulous, concrete training of useful forces; the circuits of communication are the supports of an accumulation and a centralization of knowledge; […]
Michel Foucault — microprose
My mysticism is not to try to know. It is to live and not think about it.
— Alberto Caeiro, (Fernando Pessoa), from The Keeper of Sheep, Selected Poems: Fernando Pessoa, trans. Jonathan Griffin (Penguin, 1982)
Fernando Pessoa — The Vale of Soul-Making
There is no genius as Corbusier implied. There is only steady, consistent, applied effort through diligence, insight, application and passion towards the expression of ideas in the most thoughtful and original attempt to capture them.
– Marcus D. Niski, as taken from my writer’s notebook, 4 May 2020, [MN]
Photo by Martine Franck/Magnum Photos ‘Our society is one not of spectacle, but of surveillance; under the surface of images, one invests bodies in depth; behind the great abstraction of exchange, there continues the meticulous, concrete training of useful forces; the circuits of communication are the supports of an accumulation and a centralization of knowledge; […]
Michel Foucault — microprose
It is very hard to live with silence. The real silence is death and this is terrible. To approach this silence, it is necessary to journey to the desert. You do not go to the desert to find identity, but to lose it, to lose your personality, to be anonymous. You make yourself void. You […]
writing has been my fountain of youth my whore, my love, my gamble. The gods have spoiled me.
— Charles Bukowski, from “only one Cervantes,” The Last Night of the Earth Poems. (Ecco May 31, 2002
Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle.
– Jeanette Winterson, Sexing the Cherry
I feel, almost physically, the current of time slowing down in the gravitational field of oblivion. It seems to me then as if all the moments of our life occupy the same space, as if future events already existed and were only waiting for us to find our way to them at last, just as […]
Think of how the desert gets turned into metaphor in postmodern rhetoric where it functions as the place of origins, endings and hard truths: the place at the end of the world where all meanings and values blow away; the place without landmarks that can never be mapped; the place where nothing grows and nobody…
In deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. It is as final as the mountains: a fact. There it is. When you realize it you cannot complain.
― William S. Burroughs, Queer. (Viking Press November 1985)
Naked Cities Journal 
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