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[Fwd: <eyebeam><blast> fire and more fire /Out out Damn Spot!]



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                ******************      
        Death by Fire

        To Carthage then I came

        Burning burning burning burning
        O Lord Thou pluckest me out
        O Lord Thou pluckest 

        burning

        ********************************
        Let petty kings the name of madness know,
        Where I come, I kill both friend and foe.       
        **************************************************

        As an artist and as a man what can one do about a event so far
away and so hopelessly beyond the scope's of one's powers. "Somebody's
house is burning down/down" sang Jimi Hendrix so many years ago.
        ********************************************** ***** ***
        W. H. Auden, who had been an ambulance driver volunteer in the
Spanish Civil War, wrote in in his In Memoriam poem to W. B. Yeats,
        'poetry makes nothing happen.' Note that this man, like Samuel
Beckett, had taken action when his conscience demanded that he
takeaction.         *******************************************

        Jean Genet,the poet, way back in the 1970's was approached by
the Black Panther party for help. HE did not hesitate, he went to
America the next day. He spent the next 18 months wandering around the
USA illegaly. Because of course, Jean Genet was 'illegal' he was a 'bad'
guy. But he did not hesitate to go where the 'Fire' was to do what he
could to put it out. Later he went to the East Bank of the Jordan river
and lived among the feydayeen. He  went he says, for fun, and stayed for
18 months or so.  His last book, Prisoner of Love [translation] a book
of his 'souvenirs' is about these two periods of his life. An artist on
the move, and luckily for him he had the means, and lucky for those he
had identified with  that he did. He added his voice to theirs, became a
witness of their 'fire.'  ********************* ******
*******************
All women and men respond differently to crisis. This winter in Montreal
in the midst of the biggest ice storm in a century, artists ran for
cover like nearly everyone. A city of 2.5 million without powere in
mid-winter leaves  its member with little room for contemplating the
'higher reaches' of expression. Or what ever one cares to call art.
        *******************   **** Fire Fire Fire ****** Call the Police
Department. **************** Call the Fire Women ****

 _____ Michel Foucault faced the French police batons with bravery and
physical courage. Foucault, like Genet was rather well-known for his
physical courage. The great Irish English journalist Robert Fisk
remained in Beirut under the Israeli bombardments of August 1982. As
well he, like Jean Genet was among the first to see the slauughtered
vicitims of Shatila and Sabra.
 Each  artist chooses her flight ________________---------
____________________________________ Or confrontation lines. Some write
words which are never heard till after their death. 
        Tristan Tzara,
the Jewish Romainian Dadaist Surrealist poet fought in the French
Resitance during the years of the Nazi terror. Many of his friends in
the Surrealist movement 'fled' to New York. Antonin Artuad spent the war
years in a mad house.
         Fire fire everywhere, and some stay to fight, some run for
cover. Some run to the fire, some run away. Who is to blame them for
their pity and anger, their cowardice, their heroism? There are many
thousands of thousands more no one has ever heard about. In fires which
burn and strike, mutilate and  fire bombed under ruins and piles of
debris.
FIRE***** From Hell or HEaven ****
        *****   Paul Celan spent some years in
Labour Camps in Russia and***************************
Romainia. Others simply died. What voices??????*****************
speak to us **************************************** from the fires of
Brazil and Venuzuela? Does the ghost of
Vallejos cry out ****** Spain Take This Cup from Me! against the
brutality
South American faces, even
if this time it is disguised as a 'natural' disaster. There is no more
nature, Nature does not exist.  The earth is a big production factory of
machines  and spillage. The web  fibrillates via the works and days of
labouring women and men. Artaud's scream cannot be heard in the net. The
net tears apart the body with out organs of the full body of theEarth
and creates Monstrous Fire. We Witness the death of Nature. The creation
of the Monstrous Apocalypse Machine deterritorializing at light speeds
that even Paul Virilio cannot calculate.** THE Fourth Horsemen of the
Apocalypse Rants and Rages **** A Fire Bomb in London****
 ___________________________________    Some visit
Mexico while peasants are massacred each day only a 
plane ride jet ride away. /// Some take it Easy in a Cheap Holiday in
Other People's Misery //////
_______________________ >   About poverty. Well. I wrote some weeks ago
about that molar aggregate called the 'poor.' Tonight as I walked down
the street, I remembered that Adolf Hitler was poor for a long time
before he came to power. That so many members of his S.A. gangs were
poor 'volk', good little poor people ready to follow their 'fuhrer'
leader redeemer as he planned the extermination of the world. The poor
is such a generality as to make it impossible to discuss. An artist
always is specific, detailed and from there, from the speific, he or she
builds. Long live the monority that does not become the dangerous line
of fascism. 
Too bad  Someone didnt push that little crap head of a poor person in
the sewer one day, and left him there to die with all the other tyrants
of hatred and resentiment.

         A fire was burning in my head,
        The silver apples of the moon,
        The golden apples of the sun.

        Cd. to Carlos .... I hope this fire dies out soon. That the
rains come and wash away the dictators, the bosses, the capitalist pig
dogs, the lackeys, the middle men, the bureaucrats the money makers, the
cartels, the arms dealers the tourist gangster industrialists. And one
can only hope the rain cleanses the filthy earth of cowed humanity and
its names.

        Let the ghost of that great painter Frieda Kalho cry out, and
then
Let the 
Murals of Latin
America and the Murals of South America Scream out their Bitter
Invective Against the Planetary Whore which Destroys All Life.

        'The creative breath "comes from a zone of man where man cannot
descend, even if Virgil were to lead him, for Virgil would not go down
there.
        If We hope to be more than victims signalling to one another
through the flames...
        
        But we concerned with miracles. We must hear the music of the
thos Braque guitars (Lorca). '

        
                                ***************** CD.



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