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FILM by SAMUEL BECKETT\u00a0<\/a> Try the experiment yourself by clicking here. There are many more experiments to try on that page.<\/em><\/p>\n http:\/\/www.michaelbach.de\/ot\/cog-blindSpot\/index.html<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Walter Benjamin,\u00a0Berlin Childhood around 1900<\/em>, Howard Eiland, trans.,\u00a0Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006:<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Otter<\/strong><\/p>\n One forms an image of a person\u2019s nature and character according to his place of residence and the neighborhood he inhabits, and that is exactly what I did with the animals of the Zoological Garden. From the ostriches marshaled before a background of sphinxes and pyramids, to the hippopotamus that dwelt in its pagoda like a tribal sorcerer on the point of merging bodily with the demon he serves, there was hardly an animal whose habitation did not inspire me with love or fear. Rarer were those which, by the location of their housing alone, already had something particular about them: inhabitants of the outskirts, mainly\u2014of those sections where the Zoological Garden borders on coffeehouses or the exhibition hall. Among all the denizens of these regions, however, the most remarkable was the otter.\u00a0 Of the three main entry gates, the one by Lichtenstein Bridge was closest to the otter\u2019s enclosure; it was by far the least used entranceway, and it led into the most neglected part of the garden. At that point, the avenue which welcomed the visitor resembled, with the white globes of its lampposts, an abandoned promenade at Eilsen or Bad Pyrmont; and long before those places lay so desolate as to seem more ancient than the baths of Rome, this corner of the Zoological Garden bore traces of what was to come. It was a prophetic corner. For just as there are plants that are said to confer the power to see into the future, so there are places that possess such a virtue. For the most part, they are deserted places\u2014treetops that lean against walls, blind alleys or front gardens where no one ever stops. In such places, it seems as if all that lies in store for us has become the past. Thus, it was always in this part of the Zoological Garden, when I had lost my way and strayed into it, that I was granted a look over the edge of the pool that welled up here, as in the middle of a spa. This was the cage of the otter. And a cage it was, for strong iron bars rimmed the basin in which the animal lived.\u00a0 A small rock formation, constructed with grottoes, lined the oval of the basin in the background.\u00a0 It had no doubt been conceived as shelter for the animal, but I never once found it there. And so time and again I would remain, endlessly waiting, before those black and impenetrable depths, in order somewhere to catch sight of the otter. If I finally succeeded, it was certainly just for an instant, for in the blink of an eye the glistening inmate of the cistern would disappear once more into the wet night. Of course, the otter was not actually kept in a cistern. Nevertheless, when I gazed into the water, it always seemed as though the rain poured down into all the street drains of the city only to end up in this one basin and nourish its inhabitant. For this was the abode of a pampered animal whose empty, damp grotto was more a temple than a refuge. It was the sacred animal of the rainwater. But whether it was formed in this runoff of the rains, or only fed from arriving streams and rivulets, is something I could not have decided.\u00a0 Always it was occupied to the utmost, as if its presence in the deep were indispensable. But I could easily have passed long, sweet days there, my forehead pressed up against the iron bars of its cage, without ever getting enough of the sight of the creature. And here, too, its dose affinity with the rain is manifest. For, to me, the long, sweet day was never longer, never sweeter, than when a fine- or thick-toothed drizzle slowly combed the animal for hours and minutes. Docile as a young maiden, it bowed its head under this gray comb. And I looked on insatiably then. I waited. Not until it stopped raining, but until it came down in sheets, ever more abundantly.\u00a0 I heard it drumming on the windowpanes, streaming out of gutters, and rushing in a steady gurgle down the drainpipes. In a good rain, I was securely hidden away.\u00a0 And it would whisper to me of my future, as one sings a lullaby beside the cradle. \u00a0How well I understood that it nurtures growth.\u00a0 In such hours passed behind the gray-gloomed window, I was at home with the otter. But actually I wouldn\u2019t become aware of that until the next time I stood before the cage. \u00a0Then, once again, I had a long while to wait before the glistening black body darted up to the surface, only to hurry back almost immediately to urgent affairs below.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n On the Sociological Psychology of the Hole (Kurt Tucholsky 1931) <\/strong><\/p>\n “The most important things are done through tubes. Proof: genitals, pens, and guns.” – Lichtenberg<\/em><\/p>\n The hole is a permanent companion of the non-hole;<\/p>\n I’m sorry, but there is no such thing as a hole by itself.<\/p>\n If there were something everywhere, there would be no holes, but there wouldn’t be any philosophy either, not to mention religion, which is holey in origin.<\/p>\n A mouse couldn’t exist without a hole, nor could man. It is the final salvation for both when they are hard-pressed by matter.<\/p>\n A hole is always a Good Thing.<\/p>\n The strangest thing about a hole is its edge.<\/p>\n It’s still part of the Something, but it constantly overlooks the Nothing\u2014a border guard of matter.<\/p>\n Nothingness has no such guard; while the molecules at the edge of a hole get dizzy because they are staring into a hole, the molecules of the hole get… firmy?<\/p>\n There’s no word for it. For our language was created by the Something people; the Hole people speak a language of their own.<\/p>\n The hole is static.<\/p>\n There are no traveling holes.<\/p>\n Almost not .<\/p>\n Holes that are marrying each other become one of their own.<\/p>\n Separate the partition between two holes, does the right edge then belong to the left hole, or the left to<\/p>\n the right, or everybody to itself, or everybody to everybody ?<\/p>\n I\u2019d like to have my worries.<\/p>\n When a hole is filled up, where does it go ?<\/p>\n Will it push itself to the side, right into the material ?<\/p>\n Or will it run to see another hole and tell him about his misery ?<\/p>\n Where does the filled hole remain ?<\/p>\n Nobody knows.<\/p>\n Here, our knowledge … has one.<\/p>\n Where something is, nothing else can be.<\/p>\n Where one hole is , can there be another one ?<\/p>\n And why aren\u2019t there any half-holes ?<\/p>\n Some things lose value because of a single small hole:<\/p>\n because in a part of them there is a \u201cno-thing\u201d, all the rest isn\u2019t worth anything anymore.<\/p>\n Example: a ticket, a virgin, a balloon.<\/p>\n The thing itself still has to be looked for:<\/p>\n the hole itself already is.<\/p>\n One that would be with one foot in a hole and the other foot with us, this one alone would be truly wise.<\/p>\n But no one has been able to achieve this yet.<\/p>\n Some megalomaniacs pretend that the hole is a negative thing. That is not right!<\/p>\n The human being is a not-hole and the hole is primary.<\/p>\n Do not laughole! The hole is the only premonition of paradise down here. When you’re dead, you’ll first realize what life is about.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Optics, from the concrete meaning \u2014 to the metaphorical and open<\/p>\n Space that has been emptied, deserted<\/p>\n Migrant \u2014 structure of society \u2014 infrastructure<\/p>\n Hunter and hunted<\/p>\n Shadow and light – seen and unseen<\/p>\n Devices and instruments<\/p>\n Representations<\/p>\n Waiting \u2014 orientation \u2014 voyeurism<\/p>\n Waiting \u2014 hunting \u2014 shadow \u2014 monster<\/p>\n Doubt \u2014 acceptance<\/p>\n We live in a bow and arrow season<\/em> era, current order will break down at some point. Roland Barthes –\u00a0Empire of Signs Quadrangular, reticulated cities (Los Angeles, for instance) are said to produce a profound uneasiness: they offend our synesthetic sentiment of the City, which requires … Continue reading “Texts\/Material\/Focus”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":673,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_price":"","_stock":"","_tribe_ticket_header":"","_tribe_default_ticket_provider":"","_tribe_ticket_capacity":"0","_ticket_start_date":"","_ticket_end_date":"","_tribe_ticket_show_description":"","_tribe_ticket_show_not_going":false,"_tribe_ticket_use_global_stock":"","_tribe_ticket_global_stock_level":"","_global_stock_mode":"","_global_stock_cap":"","_tribe_rsvp_for_event":"","_tribe_ticket_going_count":"","_tribe_ticket_not_going_count":"","_tribe_tickets_list":"[]","_tribe_ticket_has_attendee_info_fields":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P8hINQ-2","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/673"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":340,"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2\/revisions\/340"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/blogg.hiof.no\/blindspot\/files\/2018\/06\/nodal-point_Screen-Shot-2014-04-23-at-10.17.51-PM.png\")
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\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\nFoucault, Panopticism<\/a><\/p>\n
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\nBow and arrow season<\/em> as title, direction, pre-apocalyptic, has tension and suspense, is scar<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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