A FInal Note

And so, no comment to any of the 45 posts and images.
There is a curious peacefulness in knowing that in the middle of all the babble and babel, I could say what I wanted and move on.
So I'll do just that and bid all, or none, of you SILENCE.
P

In memory of Rabid Amin

On 19.11.06 Rabid Amin, known as Rakkah, was murdered in Bolton in the UK. He was stabbed 12 times by a 19 year old man who was caught a couple of days later.
Rakkah's family are torn to shreds, his father is nearly 80 is the strongest. He told me 'God can't do anything bad for me'. He had chosen the site of his grave in a village in the mountains of Pakistan. Now it will be Rakkah's grave.
I had known him since he was a little kid and I'll remember him as a smiling handsome young man. He had a wife but sadly no children. I went to pay my respects but left before the prayers.
I stopped on the long way home and saw a brief chalk line of vapor trail. Something that Rakkah will never see again and which describes all our lives - brief almost accidental event of stunning beauty fading out.
Rest in peace
P

Yet another day

Winter is hard, the light falls and the mood crashlands. This year seems a little worse than last - time, wear and tear, fewer illusions?.
But then some cracks appear - a viel of mist from an airconditioning plant caught in sunlight. 40lb bag of weeds dropped at the tip, blackbirds in the holly tree against absurdly red berries.
P
22.11.06

another different shit day

another different shit day?
After weeks I'm back doing this which I stopped for no good reason. And now an image to mark the passing of another night into another month and the Feast of All Saints, the visits to graves. Sixteen years ago my friend Helen killed herself.
She passed away.
P

History : the return

Zizek again. That 9/11 was the return of history after the Fukayama interlude - the end of history. The return of historical process instead of the group cuddle around the radiant pile of shared values and neatly ironed balance sheets. Process not procedure.
P.

A long silence

As far as I know this is unread. And yet I continue to write on it, to it. In the company of many thousands of invisible and possible non existent people - happy christian housewives, soppy girls from Malaysia, deranged death metal bass players in Finland.
I realised that I have been silent to myself since the "end of hostilities" in Lebanon. For reasons I can guess at.
The impetus to write was seeing Slavoj Zizek talking about film. I won't precis his ideas, read the books. But there was something beyond what he said. The enormity of cinema images in physical scale and psychological significance has a broader social importance - the collective use of skill and technique to create something the size of a house and the weight of a feather. But the ending of that capacity for collectivity and its atomisation into individual cells of producer/consumers
movies with an audience of one or less. Like Easter Island. The capacity to make collectively and share a culture.
Beware corporate entities offering 'community' : they mean 'check out'.
P.

zero point zero zero

zero point zero zero
zero point zero zerozero point zero zerozero point zero zerozero point zero zero zero point zero zero zero point zero zero zero point zero zero zero point zero zero zero point zero zero

the clock screwed up. all night it flashed the same message : start / finish start / finish start / finish start / finish start / finish start / finish start / finish