linkhut is a project that aims to revive the bookmarking flow of early Delicious.
“They describe the soul’s encounter with something hard—a thought, an event, a feeling, a pleasure or an undiluted pain—and that process of description is slow, difficult, erratic.” (AN)
My flowers are reflected In your mind As you are reflected in your glass. When you look at them, There is nothing in your mind Except the reflections Of my flowers. But when I look at them I see only the reflections In your mind, And not my flowers. It is my desire To bring roses, And place them before you In a white dish.
Heart free, hand free, Blue above, brown under, All the world to me Is a place of wonder. Sun shine, moon shine, Stars, and winds a-blowing. All into this heart of mine Flowing, flowing, flowing!
Mind free, step free, Days to follow after, Joys of life sold to me For the price of laughter. Girl’s love, man’s love, Love of work and duty, Just a will of God’s to prove Beauty, beauty, beauty!
his poetry wants so much to belong to us—to those who know intimately why a relentless self-exposure to the world has to be made, somehow, into a virtue because otherwise it is just abuse. (AN)
Leave the womb Leave the fear Leave the nest
Hit the road Hightail it Head the hell out
Live hidden Without a sound
Not seen Nor heard
Be not From this earth But from nothing.
Ex Nothing (Ex Nada), Cecilia Vicuña, translated from the Spanish by Rosa Alcalá
it is obstinate in its commitment to loving without shame or reservation.
he remained on the hunt for nooks where impassioned and prolonged feelings of all kinds could linger and intensify, private worlds that are not really private and whose borders bleed out.
communism is (“the land belongs to no one” and “the fruits belong to all”—Sylvain Maréchal, 1796).
Keats’s Odes: A Lover’s Discourse, Anahid Nersessian
Information delayed. Information withheld. Saturation with info, useless and helpful blended. Plot not “completed.” Size and significance of events unemphatic: far too much attention paid to tiny subjects. Option on funny noises. Order of info homogeneous. Litotes, a Greek god, Litotes of Lacedaemonia. Why isn’t this boring? Do I need this info? It changes all the time, doesn’t repeat itself, it only almost does. What is a “conditional honorific”? Randomness and inductive method, both at once. “So what?” is a valuable question to ask. Frame story, like Taming of the Shrew, but W.S. didn’t finish the frame! A is really a pretext for B. B is what counts.
El día de mi suerte – Héctor Lavoe, Orquesta de Willie Colón
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.
Rilke : “Death is our friend precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love” via Popova.
Ben Eastham on Reba Maybury and Lucy McKenzie’s Pervert or Detective?, edited by Fredi Fischli and Niels Olsen with an afterword by Susan Finlay, was published by no place press in 2025. It accompanied an exhibition on view at Ca’Buccari, Venice. (e-flux)
When used to camouflage a deeper conservatism, which is so often the function of cliché, the phrasing reassures readers that their engagement with the work of art in question affirms their opposition to the injustice they might recently have observed in the world, might even be feeling guilty about. Aesthetic experience is reconciled with ethical principle, pleasure equated with virtue, the beautiful made consistent with the good.
In the conversation at the heart of this book, [the] artists … dismantle this comforting delusion.
That “perversion” … carries the implication of a desire that cannot be subordinated to any ethical framework.
Art might in turn alert us to the “violence in which we live,” as McKenzie puts it, and lead us to establish creative spaces—subcultures—outside of those strictures.
By decoupling art from received morality, they reclaim it as an arena in which hierarchies and social norms can be brought into question without repercussion.
Only by expressing our unconscious desires and then measuring them against abstract ideals of the good can we approach self-knowledge and establish a workable politics.
The right to make my dreams come true, I ask, nay, I demand of life, Nor shall fate’s deadly contraband Impede my steps, nor countermand; Too long my heart against the ground Has beat the dusty years around, And now at length I rise! I wake! And stride into the morning break!
