Marjan Farsad is an Iranian artist, musician and animator.
Marjan Farsad is an Iranian artist, musician and animator.
One thing I don’t need
is any more apologies
I got sorry greetin me at my front door
you can keep yours.
I don’t know what to do wit em
they don’t open doors
or bring the sun back.
They dont make me happy
or get a mornin paper
didn’t nobody stop usin my tears to wash cars.
Cuz a sorry
I am simply tired
I didn’t know
I was so important to you
I’m gonna haveta throw some away
I can’t get to the clothes in my closet
for alla the sorries.
I’m gonna tack a sign to my door
leave a message by the phone
‘if you called
to say your sorry
I don’t use em anymore’
I let sorry/ didn’t meanta/ & how could I know about that?
Take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn!
I’m gonna do exactly what I want to
& I won’t be sorry for none of it!
Letta sorry soothe your soul/ I’m gonna soothe mine!
You were always inconsistent
doin somethin & then bein sorry
beatin my heart to death!
Talkin bout you sorry well,
I will not call,
I’m not goin to be nice,
I will raise my voice,
& scream & holler
& break things & race the engine
& tell all your secrets bout yourself to your face
& I will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers
& their ways I will play oliver lake loud!
& I wont be sorry for none of it
I LOVED YOU ON PURPOSE, I WAS OPEN ON PURPOSE!
I still crave vulnerability & close talk
& I’m not even sorry bout you bein sorry!
you can carry all the guilt & grime ya wanna
just dont give it to me!
I cant use another sorry
you should admit
you’re mean/ low-down/ triflin/ & no count straight out
steada bein sorry alla the time
enjoy bein YOURSELF
Love her look. Cool old lady
The British data firm described as “pivotal” in Donald Trump’s presidential victory was behind a ‘data grab’ of more than 50 million Facebook profiles, a whistleblower has revealed.
In part one of Channel 4 News’ ‘Data, Democracy and Dirty Tricks’ investigation, in an exclusive television interview, Chris Wylie, former Research Director at Cambridge Analytica tells all.
Orthodox priest Father Seraphim and his choir (the young girl singing is Keti Iliaeva) on 30 September 2016 during Pope Francis’s visit to Georgia.
From her new album, Music for People in Trouble (Bella Union, 8 September 2017).
Everyone should read Siya Khumalo.
The politically correct answer to Steve Sidley’s question is, Of Course You Are, Silly! More tea and jam with those croissants?
But politically correct answers are like placebos for Ebola patients, plasters for gunshot wounds, or, to cite a more scandalous comparison, like 1994 rainbowism for apartheid’s aftermath.
While I liked Sidley’s article, I would have preferred one titled This Is What I, As A White Person, Am Prepared to Do About Structural Racism and Inequality. Or Why Aren’t More White Businessmen Concerned About Structural Racism and Inequality? Sidley has probably addressed these topics, but what surprises me how much traction this piece got.
But of course. The question conveniently implies we (black people) have the power to decide white people’s fate and were always ready to use it violently. It conveniently underplays how much economic power white people hold. So this is not about accountability; it’s about victimhood. I submit this is why its resonated.
It is glorified abdication of social…
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Outside the Orbit: clearing the shattered glass
The Orbit had its front window smashed on Friday night. Whether by protestors with a defined purpose (though it’s hard to fathom what), opportunistic demagogues and provocateurs, or a bunch of drunken thugs joining what they perceived to be the “fun”, it’s hard to know. All the vandalism has achieved is to rob musicians and service workers of a few days’ decent gigging, and a struggling club of resources.
During the mayhem, the Orbit still willingly sheltered students injured by or terrified of police weapons; it cares about its community. The attack has silenced for a while one of Joburg’s “small pockets of cool” (the phrase is tenorist Shabaka Hutchings’) – a place where the cultural discourse regularly runs counter to the prevailing smug complacency and abdication of responsibility.
The view from inside the Orbit as an SABC van burns outside
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Thanks to the flaneurs, the bricoleurs, the lovers of this little edifice. First post was HERE.
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
(Thanks Debbie for this.)
From Aimless Love, Penguin Random House, 2014.
If you’re wondering why Fleurmach has been a bit quiet lately, it’s because I’m in Sweden and trying to write my dissertation.
I’m still posting plenty of links etc. on the Fleurmach Facebook page, so you might like to keep in touch there, too.
A sweetly told story of a Jo’burg boy falling in love with the night and music… Check out the mixtapes!
Heaven was a nightclub from the mid-1980s in Johannesburg at 165 Marshall Street. Many will know this address as being that of the original Doors nightclub that opened in 1990 and operated there for many years before moving to Edenvale. Between Heaven and The Doors two other short-lived clubs called BLUES and BANGS operated on the premises.
For me, Heaven was my first proper nightclub experience. I somehow managed to get in on old years eve in 1986 (thanks to a friends brother who worked at the bar who passed me off as his little brother plus I was pretty tall for my age). I spent the night upstairs next to the DJ box absorbing the music, watching the people and more importantly – watching the DJ.
The music was a mixture of high energy, eurobeat and…
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can’t find part 2 where she starts raging about coke (which is so true and funny)..but then again i’m also lazy as fuck (will search now! err… soon)
“Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”
— Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
Picking up stompies…
“He’s most comfortable when he’s uncomfortable.”
“He was kind enough to punish me.”
“You’ve got an iPhone? I wouldn’t trust you with an Alcatel.”
“Uh, sorry, did a bun monster just shit on your head?”
“Is it exhausting to be that cool?”
“It’s really hard to find pictures of happy black people these days.”
in this world
i don’t belong to anywhere or anyone
and i should stop looking for anywhere or anyone
or getting hopeful when someone tells me they understand me
that they feel the same as me
when i feel like we “see” or “hear” each other
like no one else does
those are precisely the situations most dangerous to me
because we don’t belong,
and it will always tear me
by Maggie Lochtenberg/
For the full Tale of the Tyre Boy: http://life-writ-large.posterous.com/tale-of-the-tyre-boy-an-urban-fairy-tale
© Germaine de Larch Images. First published on www.life-writ-large.posterous.com