Congress, I do hate to pester
But this fuckfest that you've named Sequester
Just the latest dumb tiff
After the Fiscal Cliff
And this time the wound will long fester

Is it really so much to ask
That you stick to the important task
Concentrate on Job One
Get the People's work done
Not just the people in whose money you bask

Can enough of you vote for each judge?
And nominations you can't seem to budge
It's what you demand
When you're in command
But to this President somehow begrudge

For once I say, “Hurray to Rand Paul”
And no, I'm not busting your balls
Be more than lackluster
For your filibuster
Have the guts to stand till you fall

I know you live in fear of your fate
If you vote against the will of your state
But just grow a pair
And do what's right and what's fair
America can no longer wait!

by Jalees Rehman

“For every rational line or forthright statement there are leagues of senseless cacophony, verbal nonsense, and incoherency.”

Jorge Luis Borges, “Library of Babel“

The British-Australian art curator Nick Waterlow was tragically murdered on November 9, 2009 in the Sydney suburb of Randwick. His untimely death shocked the Australian art community, not only because of the gruesome nature of his death – Waterlow was stabbed alongside his daughter by his mentally ill son – but also because his death represented a major blow to the burgeoning Australian art community. He was a highly regarded art curator, who had served as a director of the Sydney Biennale and international art exhibitions and was also an art ambassador who brought together artists and audiences from all over the world.

After his untimely death, his partner Juliet Darling discovered some notes that Waterlow had jotted down shortly before his untimely death to characterize what defines and motivates a good art curator and he gave them the eerily prescient title “A Curator’s Last Will and Testament”:

1. Passion

2. An eye of discernment

3. An empty vessel

4. An ability to be uncertain

5. Belief in the necessity of art and artists

6. A medium— bringing a passionate and informed understanding of works of art to an audience in ways that will stimulate, inspire, question

7. Making possible the altering of perception.

Waterlow’s notes help dismantle the cliché of stuffy old curators walking around in museums who ensure that their collections remain unblemished and instead portray the curator as a passionate person who is motivated by a desire to inspire artists and audiences alike.

The Evolving Roles of Curators

The traditional role of the curator was closely related to the Latin origins of the word, “curare” refers to “to take care of”, “to nurse” or “to look after”. Curators of museums or art collections were primarily in charge of preserving, overseeing, archiving and cataloging the artifacts that were placed under their guardianship. As outlined in “Thinking Contemporary Curating” by Terry Smith, the latter half of 20th century witnessed the emergence of new roles for art curators, both private curators and those formally employed as curators by museum or art collections. Curators not only organized art exhibitions but were given an increasing degree of freedom in terms of choosing the artists and themes of the exhibitions and creating innovative opportunities for artists to interact with their audiences. The art exhibition itself became a form of art, a collage of art assembled by the curators in a unique manner.

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by Maniza Naqvi

I search for you– you’re lost somewhere, somewhere beyond my realm. I listen to the sound of distant thunder—or is it— I wonder fireworks for a celebration? Or an explosion or gunshots targeted for yet another murder? The drum roll for a roll call—the toll to be tallied up by Dawn: Zaidi, Abbas, Raza, Jaferi, Naqvi, Abidi, Mehdi, Kazmi, Haider, Husain, Hasan, Husnain, Sadquain, Saqlain, Kazmain, Rizvi.

In this city torn by violence, where my neck hurts from stiffening in fear and anxiety when a motorbike with two riders comes abreast to my car—at traffic lights—and as I panic about what’s next, I wonder if I’ll see the bullet coming, in a country where so many are killed every day, where those with names like mine are being singled out to be targeted, shot dead.

In this city—I stand in the cool night—with the sea breeze kissing my face– mussing my hair, I look out at the half lit city across the mangroves and I spread my arms out as wide apart as I can and shout out as if to the entire city and to nobody—“I love you!”

In this city why is it that I am a stranger now, that I never see you, in this town where everyone seems to have my name. The city, which captures my imagination, the place which I think I know intricately, where I pine to be—the place where I want to be the better—good and loveable me—is the place I never wanted to stay in when you had wanted me. But was there ever a question of Shi’a and Sunni between us? Never, right? No matter now, a matter of detail, like a miniscule amount of arsenic in water, so many years ago. But in truth there were so many other excuses. Me. And you.

And all this time, I ran away, expecting that you would stay—be the one I returned to. I was the one who was supposed to return and you were the one who was supposed to have stayed for me. I remained faithful—did you stay with me?

In this city, this time as the mangroves trilled with sound in the early mornings I sat and talked about language and tales with Intezar Hussain, Kishwar Naheed, Iftikhar Arif and I.A Rahman. I chattered away. At the edge of the breakwaters of the Arabian Sea, across mangroves and the busy happy sounds of literature’s festivities, at Beach Luxury Hotel— I sat at a lunch table across from Steve Inskeep, sharing his modestly served helping of makai ki roti and a too spicy saag. Here—there, we were Steve Inskeep and me, well I’ll be damned—away from our circle, Logan, away from the early morning “traffic backed up on the inner loop to the beltway”, here we are, discussing Karachi. Back there, we share a zip code and a circle, and a loop and I am used to listening to his voice on the radio telling me of news of places including this one here, my home in that home—while I foam at the mouth with Extreme Clean, toothbrush in hand at seven a.m every weekday. And here, because I’ve written Mass Transit and that book called On Air, of Naz soliciting stories in a late night talk show, here I was the Karachi Literature Festival to talk about a book of short stories, by Karachites—Karachi-walas, here I was in conversation with Steve Inskeep.

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Burning Bush

At twenty I danced the tops of walls
Najinsky of the double top plate

bent in-two like an onion shoot
unbending up through an earthen gate

lifting sticks to be put in place
nailing their tails held against my boot

walking the wires of gravity’s net
as a spider commands the filament web

hung in the crotch of the jamb of a door
between one post and its lintel head

From the crow’s nest of my wall-top perch
poised to get the next piece set

in air as clear as a baby’s thoughts
surveying homes unlived-in yet

fresh-footed, balanced, without a clue
assessing my recent work and worth:

shadows of studs plumb and true
lying like bars across up-turned earth

Sweatskin slickkening in the light
breath as sure as the bellows of god

biceps built by the truth of weight,
muscles doing their natural jobs:

arms of sinew, bone and grit
reaching to haul the next board up

to be lifted and laid wall to ridge
and fixed by hammer blows on steel

fueled by blasts of a burning bush
in the orchard of god that has ever spun

like the fire that made big Moses reel
the burning bush we call the sun

.
by Jim Culleny
2/22/13

By Liam Heneghan

Before Nelson’s pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sanymount Green Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower. Ulysses, James Joyce.

Only thoughts reached by walking have value.Twilight of the Idols, Nietzsche

In 1987 I saw him for the first time. I was crossing Central Park in the back seat of a Hyundai being driven by my wife, V. The traffic stalled a moment and I looked across to the oncoming traffic, also stalled, and saw my doppelgänger in the back seat of the opposite car. Our jaws — both of which had a rufous-coloured carpeting of beard — dropped simultaneously, and simultaneously we were whisked away a few moments later by the renewed flow of traffic to live out our lives in opposite directions. Those paths crossed again yesterday, a quarter century later. I saw him strolling down Rathmines Road Lower in Dublin carrying his bags of shopping. We were both alone, both on foot, both now with long white hair, and both gray bearded. We performed a furtive mutual inspection, then, though it was barely perceptible, shuddered, before taking off once again to complete our lives elsewhere. There are directions beyond sensible reckoning in which a person may fly or drive or walk, so it is unlikely, even if we both were to live another hundred years, that we will encounter each other again.

I set out recently to walk towards Dublin city center with a destination but no especial route in mind. The point of departure was my childhood home in Templeogue Village — until the 1950s fairly discrete from Dublin city — and the destination was the city center where I was to meet some friends at the Market Bar later in the evening. En route I wanted to inspect the “country home” of the Irish naturalist Robert Lloyd Praeger (1865 – 1953) in Rathgar. In fact, I am back in Dublin for a couple of weeks to sift through the Praeger archives at the Royal Irish Academy in Dawson St. In the course of my previous investigations on Praeger — an author of over 800 papers and 20 books on Irish natural history — I had learned that he had maintained a rock garden in his Rathgar home. I wanted to see if this rockery persisted in some form. Three points: Templeogue, Zion Road in Rathgar, and the Market Bar triangulated the route, though the passage was determined by the limits of my endurance (I am, after all, a man of 49 years), and my vague interest in punctuality (though friends in a Dublin pub tend to find things to do whilst waiting on an errant party member). As is the tradition among Irish naturalists, I sustained myself with a bar of chocolate.

An aside and a dedication before we depart: the inspiration of my career as a walker is my maternal grandfather William Nolan (29 Sept 1885 – 16 Dec 1967). Even at 80 he would walk the six or so miles from Xavier Avenue in Dublin’s North Strand, to Templeogue Village to visit his daughter, my mother, and her young family. Perhaps it is merely an extrapolation from a photograph I’ve seen of him striding along O’Connell Street with my mother, but when I think of him, which is still often, he is walking out of the house at 2 Xavier Avenue. Behind him, but looming high above that truncated street, is the train into Connelly Station. In the days when I was brought there (being four or less), passengers would wave to children who played in the streets far below. I don’t know, of course, what his attitude to walking was, but there were certainly easier ways of getting around Dublin in the 1960s if mere commuting was one’s sole priority, than striking out on foot from the city center. I may write some other day of his decline in health but there is a sadness to that tale, that I’d prefer not to have cut into this happier recollection.

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by Quinn O'Neill

I’ve been busy lately, much busier than I’d like to be. A natural night owl, I’ve been forcing myself out of bed before the sun comes up and relying on caffeine to achieve normal levels of functioning. There’s seldom more than a cup of coffee standing between me and an embarrassing display of torpor that would see my glassy eyes staring blankly through my computer screen and drool puddling on the desk in front of me. I’ve mostly been occupied by things that don’t even interest me and it’s been over six months since I’ve read a book for pleasure or personal interest.

It’s seems respectable in Western society to be really busy. People who show up to work early, work long hours, come in on the weekends, and take their work home with them are described in flattering terms; they’re dedicated and hard working. The on-the-go, life-in-the-fast-lane way of living has been glamourized and marketed to us like fast food and squeezable tubes of yogurt. It’s not good for us, not as individuals and especially not as a civilization.

“I wish I hadn’t worked so hard” is a common regret of the dying. Palliative care nurse, Bronnie Ware, says that she heard this from every male patient that she cared for. Women also had this regret, she explains, but were less likely to have been the breadwinners, since her patients were of an older generation. The men regretted missing their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship for life on “the treadmill of a work existence”.

When we devote all of our time to one thing, we necessarily neglect other things and some of them are bound to be important. It may be our health or our family and friends, or we may lose touch with what’s going on in the world around us.

At the risk of looking like a slacker, I recently perused news items on my computer at work. Reading a headline, I announced to a colleague that it been 1000 days that Bradley Manning had been in jail without trial. “Who’s that?” she responded. She hadn’t heard of him or seen the Collateral Murder video. It seems a lot of people haven’t. Manning’s taken a huge risk and already paid a hefty price, because, as he put it, “I want people to see the truth … regardless of who they are … because without information, you cannot make informed decisions as a public.” With a heavily biased media and a well-distracted public, truth is disappointingly impotent.

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by Misha Lepetic

“Look, I am not a philosopher, I am a strategist.”
~Guy Debord

What happens when a vision is so compelling that it becomes a nightmare? Is there ever a way out, let alone on the terms that the nightmare itself has set? These are oftentimes the questions that accompany any lengthier reading of Michel Foucault. But, as the saying goes, could reading his charismatic writing nevertheless be “necessary but not sufficient?” So, in all fairness, let’s begin with an icon.

Foucault’s notion of the Panopticon has attained the cultural status of a meme (heaven knows I fell for it a long time ago), but popular understanding has actually eroded the point of Foucault’s characterization of Bentham’s (in)famous prison design. It’s true that the Panopticon is a devilishly clever surveillance machine, but Foucault uses it as part of a much broader programme, that of re-conceptualizing the very nature of power. But as enticing as it is, let us set aside the Panopticon for the moment; there is another example that gives us equally fascinating insights into how Foucauldian power can be spatially conceptualized.

Early on in Abnormal: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1974-1975, Foucault describes the conventional, reductive view of power: it restricts, penalizes, excludes, or exiles us when we transgress. There is only so much power to go around, and what of it there is, is jealously guarded. But Foucault wants us to think of power in completely the opposite way: as a force, or perhaps even more appropriately, as an interest, that seeks to include, observe, and continuously generate knowledge. This knowledge, in turn, creates more power. It is a generative model of power, and to illustrate it, he draws upon the difference between how society has historically dealt with two kinds of threats to public health, namely lepers and plagues.

In the former case, power was exercised in the conventional sense: lepers were excluded from the rest of society, forced to wear bells around their necks to warn of their approach, and driven into quarantined colonies. In order to emphasize the finality of this act, those about to be cast out were “regularly accompanied by a kind of funeral ceremony during which individuals who had been declared leprous were declared dead [and which they themselves had to attend]” (p43-4, 53). This practice, which saw the leper exiled, dispossessed, and literally declared dead, persisted until the early eighteenth century.

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by Dave Maier

In my recent post on Nietzsche I referred to Platonism as “the ancient enemy,” and criticized certain kinds of naturalism for not overcoming it, or for even, ultimately, amounting to it themselves. In this post I consider the sense in which a robust anti-Platonism is a philosophical imperative for our post-medieval era.

Let me be clear (as our President likes to say): Plato deserves his exalted place in the philosophical pantheon. He's a terrific writer, and Platonism was a brilliant and timely synthesis of Pythagorean, Parmenidean, and Socratic ideas into the very backbone of European philosophical thought for some 2000 years. And I have nothing against the medieval worldview either, except what is entailed by the simple if as yet poorly understood fact that it's not the 13th century anymore.

But we cannot afford complacency. Modernity is stuck, and while Nietzsche's own construal of the problem as that of “nihilism” in the wake of the “death of God” is in many ways unhelpful, he was spot on in his perception of its urgency. What is right in Platonism must be detached from what is no longer useful in it, or we will never understand the ways in which, by now at least, we have torn ourselves apart. What is no longer useful in Platonism is what I call the “ancient enemy”. Our problem is that we can no longer see it for what it is. We see it when it is not there, and look right through it when it is.

Naturally I am taking some interpretive liberties to make my point, which can be made in other ways. In fact one of the difficulties here is that once you get that point, you could perfectly well present it as just as much a victory for Platonism as a defeat. (And that would even be okay, if the point stuck; but for reasons I will try to make clear, that seems most unlikely – so anti-Platonists let us be.) This makes the problem very difficult to state, so please bear with me as I display its difficulty in the most direct way: by struggling.

…

Hardly anybody today admits to being a Platonist. To do so invites the assumption that one subscribes to Plato's most well-known doctrine, the Theory of Forms (or Ideas), which literally no one does anymore. Here's the Philosophy 101 version of that theory. Each particular horse differs in many ways from each other horse; but what they share is that they are all horses. To be a horse is to “participate” (metekhein) in the Form or Idea of Horse, which (here's the weird part) is itself a horse – the perfect Horse, with none of the imperfections of merely physical horses. The Form of Horse is of course identical with itself, which is by definition the closest you can get to Ideal; so it must be a horse too, even more so, if you like, than any of the others.
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by James McGirk

Technology seeps into our imaginations, changes the way we think and the way we write. The novel may seem like a relic, a low-bandwidth version of virtual reality better suited to the 19th and 20th Centuries than today. But beneath its grim monochrome interface (a.k.a. “pages”) it glows like the neon-piped suits in Tron. Contemporary fiction is nearly as much a product of Silicon Valley as the integrated circuit.

Fiction, on a crass, fundamental level, isn’t much more than a container for a story. Most stories have already been told (by William Shakespeare—or at least it feels that way), so the challenge of writing fiction is to find a new way to contain a story. This experimental impulse is tempered by a reader’s ability to decode what is going on. As readers have grown more accustomed to following hyperlinks and leaping about the Internet, their ability to understand information out of sequence has changed too.

Consider three popular, experimental novels and the technology of the era: David Foster Wallace’s (1996) Infinite Jest was written at the dawn of the Internet Age. The Internet was in an ugly growth spurt then. Amateurs created most online content. Big chunks of the Internet blossomed and died seemingly overnight. It was common to see gaping holes where content was no longer compatible. Following hyperlinks from page to page felt jarring (particularly given how slow most connections were). Wallace wanted to compress information in the Infinite Jest but he didn’t want to disrupt his timeline. So he chose endnotes to digress with—a fairly conventional device, although one not often used for fiction. He even said (to The New Yorker): “I pray they are nothing like hypertext.”

Endnotes are hypertext, however. They just happen to predate the Internet and, since they are numbered, romp alongside the text in a linear fashion (and nestle at the end of chapters, where they won’t distract readers). That’s not the case for the digressions in Dave Eggers’ A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius (2000). Eggers digresses like Wallace does, but his digressions actually separate from the text, sometimes even forming self-contained documents.

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3 Small Poems

A Good Poet's Boots

a good poet's subversive
—not to the point of blood in the streets
…………………………. necessarily

but to the point of burrowing beneath
his garden of conceits like an insistent vole
and killing those weeds at their roots

everyone in this way
can walk in a good poet’s boots

~~

Cabin Fever

besides the Bible
there are other books
besides the Koran

It’s not good to be cooped-up in any one book
during the winter of our discontent:

cabin fever

~~

Snow Mountain

The place is cool and distant

The air is clear of error

The vista wide and brimming

Everything is still

Undone

by Jim Culleny

by Leanne Ogasawara

Cities are smells, said the great Mahmoud Darwish:

Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense, and honey….

Each somehow singular, that cities have their own distinct and discrete smells, weather, feeling, music and mood is something immediately discernible to anyone who travels around the cities of India; of Southeast Asia; of Europe where –despite close proximity, the cultures/spirits/aurae/airs/colors– are so incredibly and beautifully different. Smells especially can so vividly evoke–or even “capture”– the spirit of a city; so that, as Darwish goes on to say, A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable.

So what of Indian cities? For me, Srinagar was perfumy: floral from flowers in bloom in gardens scattered around the city. But also it was the smell of sewage coming from the lake. Cardamom and spicy Kashmiri chai too. Delhi back then smelled sweet from the burning dung fires; smelled of exhaust too–even way back then. Shimla was freshly baked bread and heavenly deodar forests.

I still regret not making it to Lahore –for it must have been the most fragrant city of all. “Pearl of the Punjab” and “Paris of the East”–what does a nation do upon losing a city so perfumed in history as that one?

I just read an interesting essay by Vinayak Bharne called, “Anointed Cities.” It's such a great title, and the essay illuminates in just a few short pages something that is in many ways perhaps unique to the sub-continent. Typically, when we look at the history of cities, we find that they come into being for two main reasons: either for commercial reasons as place for trade (this was particularly so of the earliest ancient cities) or for political or even geopolitical reasons, as places for kings to better hold power. This is no different in India, but according to Bharne, India also has a history whereby small, wayside places of worship became the impetues for urbanization.

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