Every Time A Supposed Communist Decides That Whatever Political Upheaval They're Currently In Is Finally

A Paralytic Child Walking on All Fours, francis bacon, 1961 inspired by Eadweard Muybridge photos of paralytic child.

« We can define rituals as symbolic techniques of making oneself at home in the world. They transform being-in-the-world into a being-at-home. They turn the world into a reliable place. They are to time what a home is to space: they render time habitable. They even make it accessible, like a house. They structure time, furnish it. . .

Ritual practices ensure that we treat not only other people but also things in beautiful ways. . .

[T]oday, many forms of repetition, such as learning by heart, are scorned on account of the supposed stifling of creativity and innovation they involve. The expression ‘to learn something by heart’, like the French apprendre par cœur, tells us that apparently only repetition reaches the heart. In the face of increasing rates of attention deficit disorder, the introduction of ‘ritual studies’ as a school subject has recently been advocated as a means of reviving the exercise of ritual repetition as a cultural technique. Repetition stabilizes and deepens attention. Rituals are characterized by repetition. Repetition differs from routine in its capacity to create intensity. »

— Byung-Chul Han, The Disappearance of Rituals

Takashi Kawashima

Lucy Bull (American, 1990), Weed, 2020. Oil on linen, 84 x 56 in.

(Article is dated for a few years ago, dated by the missionary ending up as a pincushion.)

_The humanistic cinema of Yasujiro Ozu, where frames, sometimes, speak louder than characters. 

The Passions

Narrow paths my passions tread: Laughter rings there, sorrow cries; Sick and sad, with half-shut eyes, Thro' the leaves the woods have shed,         My sins like yellow mongrels slink; Uncouth hyenas, my hates complain, And on the pale and listless plain Couching low, love's lion's blink.

        Maurice Maeterlinck

Edvard Munch, 1885, Asta Nørregaard

Aquarium

“And I know it must die, for its hour is o'er; Folding its impotent hands at last, Hands too weary to pluck any more The flowers of the past!”                         

Maurice Maeterlinck

"When I call you my love, is that I am calling you, yourself, or is it that I am telling my love? And when I tell you my love is it that I am declaring my love to you or indeed that I am telling you, yourself, my love, and that you are my love / I want so much to tell you and you, tell me I love all my appellations for you and then we would have but one lip, one alone to say everything. From the Hebrew he translates “tongue” if you can call it translating, as lip. They wanted to elevate themselves sublimely, in order to impose their lip, the unique lip, on the universe. Babel, the father, giving his name of confusion, multiplied the lips, and this why we are separated and that right now I am dying, dying to kiss you with our lip the only one I want to hear."

Jacques Derrida: The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond

_