Saturday, February 9, 2019

We have a heart for you to forget.

for Mia, February 7, 2019

    The mind makes its daily pilgrimage
    Through riff-raff moments. Then,
    Back into the caprice case to dream
    In a circle, a pony goes round.
    The circle's association: There's a center
    To almost everything but never
    Any certainty. Nothing is
    More malleable than a moment. We were
    Only yesterday breathing in a sea.
    Some summer sun
    Asked us over and over we went. The sand was hot.
    We were only yesterday tender hearted
    Waiting. To be something.
    A spring. And then someone says, Sit down,
    We have a heart for you to forget.
A mind to suffer
    With. So, experience. So, the circus tent.

from: February Elegy, Mary Jo Bang
image:Leonhard Kätzel, Journal of Nobody

Saturday, January 5, 2019

just like that

What if we accept these points of light, their translucence, their brightness; what if we let ourselves enjoy this, stop fearing it, get used to it; what if we come to believe in it, to expect it, to be impressed upon by it; what if we take hope and forgo our ancient heritage and instead, and infused, begin to entrain with it, with ourselves then to radiate it; what if we do that, get educated up to that, and then, just like that, the light goes off or is snatched away?” 

Monday, November 12, 2018


The ongoing crisis of democracy has two markers: The erasure of memory and the politics of disposability.

In the age of Donald Trump, history neither informs the present nor haunts it with repressed memories of the past. It simply disappears.*

Subversion, for Camnizter, then meant “to create a perceptual distance from the status quo, one that prompts reevaluation and elicits to make changes.” Conceptual art allowed for a form of temporal emancipation.*

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Monday, November 5, 2018


Christian Boltanski (France 1944) -"Migrantes" in Museo Hotel de Inmigrantes in Buenos Aires

The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the ‘state of emergency’ in which we live is not the exception but the rule.

image: Christian Boltanski (France 1944) -"Migrantes" in Museo Hotel de Inmigrantes in Buenos Aires, photo Ingrid Roddick, 2012
text: Walter Benjamin
Theses on the Philosophy of History
 Illuminations: Essays and Reflections

Friday, November 2, 2018

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

how “community” is visualized and to what end

"Something about collective horror and responsibility in the face of it, one imagines, that we all still need help discovering."

László Lakner’s Collected Documents, 1960-1974


creating a space


"Making drawings about the border region feels dangerously naive and pointless, except that it creates a space for critique and creativity that can become part of the ongoing resistance effort."

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Elegy and history are cousins

Elegy and history are cousins, she explains, because they’re both forms of autopsy.


Anne Carson, NOX

 I began a letter, as if to a dead friend, or perhaps the preliminary notes for a novel.

He will have out his notebook; under D, he will enter “Phrases to be used on the deaths of friends.”

I do not so much write a book as sit up with it, as with a dying friend.

Actual Thrills
Valeria Luiselli, Faces in the Crowd | Virginia Woolf, The Waves | Annie Dillard, The Writing Life


“Marie Howe, “The Gate” in What the Living Do
Marie Howe, “The Gate” in What the Living Do

shape dissent from light

“ Testament of Youth (2014)


The wind then, through seams of bluestem,
or switchgrass swayed by a coyote’s passing.

Where the fabric gapes, Barthes said,
lies the sensual. A prairie cut

by winding seeps, or winds or shearing wings.
Mare’s tails, mackerels, cirrus,

distance dispersed as light. Under a buzzard’s bank
and spiral the prairie folds and unfolds.

Here between the stands of bluestem, I am interruption.
I rake my fingers over culms and panicles.

Here seeds burr into my sleeves, spur each hem.
In a prairie, I am chance. I am rupture. The wind—

thief, ruffian, quick-fingered sky, snatches a kink
of my hair. The broken nap falls, wound round

like a prairie snake, a coil of barbed wire, a snare
for the unwary. In the fall, volunteer naturalists

will wrench invading roots and scour grassy densities
with fire. Wick, knot, gnarl, my kindled hair

will flare, burn, soften into ash, ash that will settle,
sieve through soil, compost for roots to suck

and worms to cast out, out into the loess that raises
redtop, turkeyfoot, sideoats grama,

and all the darkened progenies of grass
that reach and strive and shape dissent from light.

Janice N. Harrington


Testament of Youth (2014)


Friday, June 8, 2018


         After Years

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

how to measure

from: And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos. by John Berger.

Monday, June 4, 2018


     “You were unsure which pain is worse — the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will.”

 Everything Beautiful Began After by Simon Van Booy”

for Brian: November 6, 2017

"...because we are also what we have lost."  

November 6, 2017

- Amores Perros, Lucha de Gigantes

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Anselm Kiefer: Remembering the Future

“My fear,” Anselm Kiefer once wrote, “is that the beauty art produces will dissolve into ashes when it is brought to the level of speech.” 

Public Art Fund Talks @ The New School: Anselm Kiefer

Friday, January 26, 2018

a border of stories we already know by heart

A sketch from JM Design Studio's proposal in Phase One, depicting a strand of trees connected by hammocks running along the border

The Wall

by Anita Endrezze (Yaqui)

Build a wall of saguaros,
butterflies, and bones
of those who perished
in the desert. A wall of worn shoes,
dry water bottles, poinsettias.
Construct it of gilded or crazy house
mirrors so some can see their true faces.
Build a wall of revolving doors
or revolutionary abuelas.
Make it as high as the sun, strong as tequila.
Boulders of sugar skulls. Adobe or ghosts.
A Lego wall or bubble wrap. A wall of hands
holding hands, hair braided from one woman
to another, one country to another.
A wall made of Berlin. A wall made for tunneling.
A beautiful wall of taco trucks.
A wall of silent stars and migratory songs.
This wall of solar panels and holy light,
panels of compressed cheetos,
topped not by barbed wire but sprouting
avocado seeds, those Aztec testicles.
A wall to keep Us in and Them out.
It will have faces and heartbeats.
Dreams will be terrorists. The Wall will divide
towns, homes, mountains,
the sky that airplanes fly through
with their potential illegals.
Our wallets will be on life support
to pay for it. Let it be built
of guacamole so we can have a bigly block party.
Mortar it with xocoatl, chocolate. Build it from coyote howls
and wild horses drumming across the plains of Texas,
from the memories
of hummingbird warriors and healers.
Stack it thick as blood, which has mingled
for centuries, la vida. Dig the foundation deep.
Create a 2,000 mile altar, lit with votive candles
for those who have crossed over
defending freedom under spangled stars
and drape it with rebozos,
and sweet grass.
Make it from two way windows:
the wind will interrogate us,
the rivers will judge us, for they know how to separate
and divide to become whole.
Pink Floyd will inaugurate it.
Ex-Presidente Fox will give it the middle finger salute.
Wiley Coyote will run headlong into it,
and survive long after history forgets us.
Bees will find sand-scoured holes and fill it
with honey. Heroin will cover it in blood.
But it will be a beautiful wall. A huge wall.
Remember to put a rose-strewn doorway in Nogales
where my grandmother crossed over,
pistols on her hips. Make it a gallery of graffiti art,
a refuge for tumbleweeds,
a border of stories we already know by heart.  

from: Ursula K. Le Guin’s Blog

Copyright © 2017 by Anita Endrezze

see also: otherborderwall