Tag Archives: godard

French rhyme: QUESTION REMAINS

Question remains
Stringed guitars,
Soaked-up bars,
Gyros on the tar –
We’re far from getting anywhere.
Fortunately, the Seine is right there.
Sun shining on the Dame’s bricks,
Clochards selling paintings.
Guards letting tourists do their
Iconoclastic thing;
Mêmes les concièrges

Where is all of this going?

Seemingly, the ketchup faced,
Happy hour cocktail drinking drunkards
Care about the beauty that surrounds them;
Invested thirty-two Euros in order to
Whore around from the Louvre to the Pompidou
And back backwards. Again.
But really, how far will they get
With all that grease and alcohol in their heads?

Strung out guitars,
Re-opening bars,
Faces on the tar.
I’ve lost my museum pass –
Do you know where it is?
Do you know where we are?
All I know is I’m falling in
The footsteps of Belmondo,
Godard, and Seberg;
Mêmes les concièrges.


Moment of sanity, Part I: The Genius

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the genius. The genius. The genius in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Please let’s make one thing clear: I am not a genius. I am not the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of infatuation, of being thrown back by the force of the genius so hard that he is pulled onto the horse it is riding for a moment or two.

It is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe. It is Hemingway, Godard, Gaudí, Picasso and Dalí that I see. And it is them that I first visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. Paris is in my way, and Montpellier, Barcelona, Figueres, Marseille, Rome, Athens, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Berlin and finally Essen – and they are also helping me – as I reach for the genius. The unforgiveable, (un)wealthy, unhealthy, blasphemous, sexist, insane and infamous genius.

Those unattainable little fuckers that never seem to think about good and bad – at least, not the way you and I do. That would never give a journalist a straight answer, unless he was upside down. That would never give the crowd what it wanted, but autistically sought to make it want just what they created. And we would finally cave…Yeah, art is not so much about good and bad, healthy and unhealthy; not in the brain either.

Given the idea, then, that art is not essentially about good or bad (health), what good would it do a pioneer to the quest for true emotion, a seeker of the unknown known to walk the path that hath been trampled on before? We are all trying to be good, trying to be healthy. What is a genius’ business sniffing around the bushes of the all-too familiar sane world? Maybe for some bread at times, a place to stay. But really, the genius creator, the artists we all love and hate (oh, we are so good) will carry madness in the mind. Bad hair. Bad teeth falling out…And he loves the way his tongue fills the holes in his mouth, that he curses.

My humble little behind out to find its kindred souls…


%d bloggers like this: