It came to me last night that the blog as a social media form is finished, has had its moment and that we now need another form, another way to record transience between ourselves. Streaming a live feed, I thought. The incessant flow, the only slightly punctuated streaming of opinions, cris de coeur, jokes and mostly images, virtual semblances of the ‘real’, pace Baudrillard.
Lorrie Moore, from her latest collection of short stories Bark:
“The yard had already grown muddy with March and the flower beds were greening with the tiniest sprigs of stinkweed and quack grass. By June the chemical weapons of terrorism aimed at the heartland might prove effective in weeding the garden.”
Rains and flooding all across South Africa, prompting ironic quotation from Horace on Twitter: “Plunge it in deep water: it comes up more beautiful.”
No more clues about the Air Malaysia flight that vanished
Ingeborg Bachmann on Thomas Bernhard, translation at flowerville:
The fact that a certain person writes at a distance from contemporary literature and increases this distance through solitude… is already a reason for not knowing how to begin to do him justice. Where does he belong, what does he want, where are his points of reference (to what end?), in which conversation, hence in which non-conversation, does this monologue of his participate, what does he have to say and to whom? And what about his society, his readers, his audience, his frontlines, his demands, his value?
Laying claim to the urban city, to the contradictions. Looking back at the three-year project of Stephen Hobbs on decay as a metaphorical language in urban practice.
Searching for Alephs, 2009, Archival Print, 44 x 35 cm