Bugün Konuşanlar

kasım ortasında sakızlı dondurma istedi canım. sisin renginden midir acaba? ayvalıkta olmak vardı şimdi. ondandır heralde. sakızlı dondurma, ayvalık; ayvalık, huzur.

o zaman huzur şeklinde sakızlı dondurma istiyorum.
kar yağsa da bari modaya bi' kaçamak yapıp külahta dondurma yesek bu kış.

http://konusanlar.tumblr.com/
http://twitter.com/konusanlar

Bunlar bizim mi? Değilse bize şirk koşan kim haaaağfıız?

mandalina : XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
ankarayı saran is kokusu: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
jay jay johanson/alone again : XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
burum burum burulurken aklıma geliyorsun b.konuşanlar :XXXXXXXXXXX
atina'ya bayrak dikmen lazım evladım senin ne bu fetret: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.XXXXXXXXXXXX
melih gökçek : X

Önce toprak kazılır, kaldırımlar geçit vermez; sonra duraksarız kapısının önünde, ayağımızı eşiğe koyar, çantamızdan bir şeyler çıkarırız örneğin, ve böylece bizim olur mimarlık, hiçbir Gaugen’in olamayacağı kadar.

demiş Walter Benjamin.
ben de görüp arttırmak istiyorum;

Önce sokakta yürümeye başlarsın hatta yürümezsin koşarsın,acelen vardır,mevcut durumun mevcudiyetini koruman lazımdır, ayağını belediyenin yeni ''döşeyemediği'' bir kaldırım taşına çarparsın ve asla döşenmesi gerektiği şekilde döşenemeyecek olanın yerinde olan çamur önce ayakkabını sonra bünyeni sahiplenir.
Bir ülkenin medeniyet(sizlik)i kaldırımlarından belli olur derler ya bir dönüş yaparsak tam da bu noktada senin sahibin olur mimarlık. Hem de hiç bir anıtsal ve cazibe merkezi olmak adına göktaşı heybetiyle(!) temas ettiğin caddeye bencilce yerleşen alışveriş merkezinin olamayacağı kadar. Sahip olman gerekenlerin varlığını bilirken sahip olmak isteyemeyeceğinin yanıbaşında olduğunu anladığındır kötü mimarlık ve sana sahip olmuş olandır.

Geçen gece üç kişi (ben, brandon ve Radnor) Snatch'i izlerken iki ayrı rolün aynı kişi tarafından oynanıp oynanmadığı konusunda kıllandık. 70 milyonun aklındaki soruyu burada dillendirmekten kıvanç duyarım; Bired Pit ile Benişyo del Toro aynı kişi mi? Da das das dadas.

Ve evet, peyint ile birleştirdim, var mı?

Skhizein from Josef K. on Vimeo.

dün gece izlediğim kadarıyla yanlış hatırlamıyorsam yaşamsal pozisyonu tarihin akışından 91 cm. sağa ve gittikçe aşağı(?)ya kayan adamın öyküsü bu da. sizlerle beraber tekrar izliyorum.

sevgiler.

yirmi dört saat yetmiyore senfonik kakafonilerinden bir demet XXXXXXXXXXXXXx
algı yitimine sığlık müessessinin dahiliyesi babında cümle kurma handikaplarıXXXXXXXXXXX
uzun süren temizlik işlemleriXXXXXXXXXXX
hissiyatı kaybetmemek adına pötürlek gözlere şifa niyetine boating for beginnersXXXXXXXx
ve aleykiselam.

elehtirik alazlayamadım

October 2, 2009

To whom it may concern,

I am an art critic, internationally recognized by invitations to speak across the world, notably at venues such as the Van Abbemuseum in Eindhoven, the Netherlands, on the occasion of the major survey exhibition “Forms of Resistance” in 2007, or at the 11th Istanbul Biennial in 2009, entitled “What Keeps Mankind Alive?” I have published essays in the catalogues of both these events, as in numerous others; and the Van Abbemuseum in collaboration with the WHW curatorial group is now releasing my latest book entitled Escape the Overcode: Activist Art in the Control Society. I state the above to establish my credentials as an expert in the domain of socially engaged art, which is of increasing import to public museums and universities through the world.

Because of this interest in socially responsive forms of art, I was curious to see in the British newspapers on April 1, 2009, what I immediately considered to be one of the most striking, innovative and successful pieces of public performance art to be realized anywhere in the world this year, namely the performance of the “Space Hijackers” group in their obviously fake and deliberately satirical armored vehicle during the G20 summit in London. By offering distorted and, it must be said, hilariously comical imitations of real institutional practices, groups such as the Space Hijackers carry out the vital democratic function of holding up a mirror to society and asking everyone to judge as to the beauty and desirability of our collective reflection. Indeed, this is an instance of what sociologists such as Ulrich Beck or Anthony Giddens call “social reflexivity,” whereby the members of a society represent the state of its institutions, stimulate debate on those institutions among their fellow men and women, and attempt in this way to increase awareness of current developments, in order to fortify the sense of responsibility to the present which defines citizenship in a democracy.

It must be understood by all those concerned that this is art. It will be exhibited in museums, analyzed by critics such as myself, enjoyed and appreciated by visitors and recorded in the annals of art history. However, for all of this to occur the artistic gesture must first be realized outside the museum, in public space, on significant occasions such as the meeting of the G20. Only in this way can its meaning be forged in the hearts and minds of the public, creating the raw material of immediate social relations which, through photographic recording and audiovisual testimony, will later be offered to more sustained debate, and indeed, to the memory of society, through the multifarious operations of the art institutions (museums, journals, magazines, websites, universities, etc). The most important transformation of art since the 1960s has been the introduction of this new category of performance art, which is created flush with social reality before becoming a formalized aesthetic artifact for presentation at diverse locations in space and time.

For at least half a millennium, since the Renaissance, art has been one of the vital focus-points of social reflexivity in the Western societies, extending the necessary debates that sustain democracy from the purely intellectual plane into the fully human dimension of sensuous experience. In this case, the death of an innocent bystander after an unprovoked beating during the G20 summit clearly underscores the importance of the debate on excessive police power raised by the performance of the Space Hijackers. To prosecute artists for fulfilling their professional and ethical obligation to a free society would be to turn democracy on its head, depriving citizens of one of their most vital resources in their ongoing attempt to govern themselves. Please do not make the mistake of attempting to interdict such practices. History has consistently shown this to be impossible.

Thank you for your consideration of these arguments. I remain disposed to offer any further clarifications.

Brian Holmes

http://brianholmes.wordpress.com/2009/10/05/open-letter-in-support-of-the-space-hijackers/#more-1303

..bugün yaşatılanlardan sonra kapak oldu şahsıma en azından bu mektup. daha çok kapağa ihtiyacımız var Brian abey.

kemerburgaz ünterground XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX/
punched thrice a night XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
the existanz of mecal in the beginning of everything XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
the existanz of gönk in the city, the existanz of kuru in the city, the existanz of memet in the city: everything's right, everything's right, everything's right. so familiar and overwhelmingly warm, even. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
(rachid ouramdane in town, BTW!!!) (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)

the question is how i can sustain this emekli feeling within me, inside of me. öyle öyle, öyledir.

http://www.examiner.com/x-21133-Portland-Literature-Examiner~y2009m9d19-Ten-top-video-moments-featuring-Slavoj-Zizek

işbu bağlantı ailemizin feylesofu Žižek'in 'beni bu cansız hayâlimden' hatırlayın hatıratından bir demettir. Brandon'un yaptığı şikemperver kurabiyeler ve harbi demli çay eşliğinde yararlanıla. sevgiler.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDp7pkEcJVQ&feature=related

Bu videoyu 10 yakın arkadaşınıza yollamazsanız hafta sonuna kadar Hank sizi bulur ve eşşek sudan gelinceye kadar döver. Denedim, gerçek.

sonbahar geldi.
geldi de bize mi geldi?
zira hasta oldum.

bugün konuşalım mı?

güzel günler bizi bekler (mi?)


öperim

"...The downpour rushed on. In the thick of it, great guns seemed to boom.
Huge noises as of the tearing and rending of oak trees could be heard.
There were also wild cries and terrible inhuman groanings. But Orlando
stood there immovable till Paul's clock struck two, and then, crying
aloud with an awful irony, and all his teeth showing, 'Jour de ma vie!'
he dashed the lantern to the ground, mounted his horse and galloped he
knew not where.

Some blind instinct, for he was past reasoning, must have driven him to
take the river bank in the direction of the sea. For when the dawn broke,
which it did with unusual suddenness, the sky turning a pale yellow and
the rain almost ceasing, he found himself on the banks of the Thames off
Wapping. Now a sight of the most extraordinary nature met his eyes.
Where, for three months and more, there had been solid ice of such
thickness that it seemed permanent as stone, and a whole gay city had
been stood on its pavement, was now a race of turbulent yellow waters.
The river had gained its freedom in the night. It was as if a sulphur
spring (to which view many philosophers inclined) had risen from the
volcanic regions beneath and burst the ice asunder with such vehemence
that it swept the huge and massy fragments furiously apart. The mere look
of the water was enough to turn one giddy. All was riot and confusion.
The river was strewn with icebergs. Some of these were as broad as a
bowling green and as high as a house; others no bigger than a man's hat,
but most fantastically twisted. Now would come down a whole convoy of ice
blocks sinking everything that stood in their way. Now, eddying and
swirling like a tortured serpent, the river would seem to be hurtling
itself between the fragments and tossing them from bank to bank, so that
they could be heard smashing against the piers and pillars. But what was
the most awful and inspiring of terror was the sight of the human
creatures who had been trapped in the night and now paced their twisting
and precarious islands in the utmost agony of spirit. Whether they jumped
into the flood or stayed on the ice their doom was certain. Sometimes
quite a cluster of these poor creatures would come down together, some on
their knees, others suckling their babies. One old man seemed to be
reading aloud from a holy book. At other times, and his fate perhaps was
the most dreadful, a solitary wretch would stride his narrow tenement
alone. As they swept out to sea, some could be heard crying vainly for
help, making wild promises to amend their ways, confessing their sins and
vowing altars and wealth if God would hear their prayers. Others were so
dazed with terror that they sat immovable and silent looking steadfastly
before them. One crew of young watermen or post-boys, to judge by their
liveries, roared and shouted the lewdest tavern songs, as if in bravado,
and were dashed against a tree and sunk with blasphemies on their lips.
An old nobleman--for such his furred gown and golden chain proclaimed
him--went down not far from where Orlando stood, calling vengeance upon
the Irish rebels, who, he cried with his last breath, had plotted this
devilry. Many perished clasping some silver pot or other treasure to
their breasts; and at least a score of poor wretches were drowned by
their own cupidity, hurling themselves from the bank into the flood
rather than let a gold goblet escape them, or see before their eyes the
disappearance of some furred gown. For furniture, valuables, possessions
of all sorts were carried away on the icebergs. Among other strange
sights was to be seen a cat suckling its young; a table laid sumptuously
for a supper of twenty; a couple in bed; together with an extraordinary
number of cooking utensils.

Dazed and astounded, Orlando could do nothing for some time but watch the
appalling race of waters as it hurled itself past him. At last, seeming
to recollect himself, he clapped spurs to his horse and galloped hard
along the river bank in the direction of the sea. Rounding a bend of the
river, he came opposite that reach where, not two days ago, the ships of
the Ambassadors had seemed immovably frozen. Hastily, he made count of
them all; the French; the Spanish; the Austrian; the Turk. All still
floated, though the French had broken loose from her moorings, and the
Turkish vessel had taken a great rent in her side and was fast filling
with water. But the Russian ship was nowhere to be seen. For one moment
Orlando thought it must have foundered; but, raising himself in his
stirrups and shading his eyes, which had the sight of a hawk's, he could
just make out the shape of a ship on the horizon. The black eagles were
flying from the mast head. The ship of the Muscovite Embassy was standing
out to sea.

Flinging himself from his horse, he made, in his rage, as if he would
breast the flood. Standing knee-deep in water he hurled at the faithless
woman all the insults that have ever been the lot of her sex. Faithless,
mutable, fickle, he called her; devil, adulteress, deceiver; and the
swirling waters took his words, and tossed at his feet a broken pot and a
little straw..."

Woolf, Orlando, 1. Bölüm'den