Carl Jung Videos

http://vook.tumblr.com The boys of Cinematheque, all have AIDS. They tumble downstairs bleary-eyed. The espresso machine has grown hot. Some are dressed. Some in underpants; one is in pajamas. This is the Sustiva group. Everyone here takes a nighttime cocktail that includes an antiviral drug call Sustiva. Sustiva is a very, very powerful drug. It is one of the fre capable of suppressing HIV within the brain. It's a horse-sized pill. Orangish-brown, spotted yellow, like a desert lizard. It give us extraordinary dreams. Dreams whose only analogy is to LSD. It's not unlike taking LSD before you go to bed every night and you wonder if the trip is going to be a gentle one or one more like a wild ride on a Harley-Davidson with no brakes. My own take on Sustiva is that it's one scary trip through hell. It is a trip down a river of things you know, things you do not know, and things you do not want to know; and all of it illuminated hot as an electrical snap with a whip that is cutting deep and deeper into your brain. I know this: it help to talk about it with people who are going through the same wild ride you are. Most people could not even begin to imagine what it's like to drop a potent form of acid every night for ten years. Not everyone with AIDS is on Sustiva. The rest of the house is noisy and they sort of roll their eyes and walk around us. Last night I dreamed I was with Anna Mae Aquash when she was shot in the head and pushed into a ditch at the side of a road to die. We go around the group. People turn into animals. Birds. Or they walk among dead relative, dead lovers, or death itself which seems to take many forms. We dream of internment camps. It help to not watch too much television or movies. Books can be as bad. The scientific literature refers to some intense dreaming. It seems to de-emphasize the experience. Some people become acclimated to the drug and claim they no longer dream at all. It's rare that any of them -- being adolescent boys, whores, thieves, junkies, literary frauds, artists, nude models, skateboard heretics, S/M playwrights, dancers, photographers, poets, cultural castaways -- would bring anything to read to the group. But when they do it tends to be Genet or Coleridge. We talk about dreams and seas and mysteries and mariners who have been dead since the fall of Rome so what matters any of it. We have reached the point now where we rarely leave either the studio or the house. Most have paired off into relationships. I have slowly eased out of the role of leader. I am not the captain of this ship. No one could even try. This ship has set its own course, through it's own turbulent seas, and whatever destination it might have, it does not tell us any of its secrets. From the Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

http://vook.tumblr.com Tim Barrus: Carl Jung Slept Here cut that meat off that baby's cock/ cock with a rock chipped sharp as quartz will chip/ pain is largely an illusion/ run mad like ravens/ wound's habitation/ barbed/ prevents genital warts in boys age nine/ angularity/ serrated edges/ my edges/ your edges/ razor's edges/ misshapen edges/ your misshapen/ my misshapen/ malformed/ gnarled/ loophole/ orifice/ hole/ cut/ grave closes over/ vitality/ soundless coffin/ gratuitous/ we are all gratuitous/ followers of cerberus/ gardasil vaccination/ yes but your sons might/ someday/ get anal warts/ you little whore patronizing/ oblivious/ no capacity to decide for themselves/ temple of the saducee/ mindless/ salvation/ hang their god at the gallows/ the people are mindless/ fraudulent/ conventional/ choice/ black mass/ cancer/ impromptu/ adopt/ spurt/ wrathful cum/ ejaculation/ magniloquent/ reanimate your hypnosis/ rejuvenated/ divinity presupposes the word made flesh/ so you fuck her in the ass/ post-marketing surveillance/ an aversion to authority/ fever/ headache/ pathology/ snatched/ from the jaws of death/ recoil/ provoke/ the gods/ of paradise/ join the army mister slave/ stick it down your compliant throat/ who do you think/ they hatch/ as soldier's sheep/ the rich/ or/ rabid parasites/ seeking employment/ omnivorous/ why/ do you think/ there are no/ jobs

http://le-too.tumblr.comGus Van Sant, I feel it's important to just do it. Even if it's not slick, not practiced, and has no preconceived agenda. Not to just explain. But to be. There is a difference. Art is the last wilderness. Where you might walk into the thing and become righteously, joyously lost. -- Tim Barrus Someone must have been telling lies about you. You were shocked to wake up one morning to discover you had been banished from the culture you had always been a part of. Now, when you wake up all the rooms are unfamiliar and it takes you a few minutes of thinking it through to remember where you are. This time. What city. What country. What culture. What bed. Your dreams are about moving through the fog. On your left is an endless hallway of mirrors and women and lips and breasts. On the right is an endless trail of naked, broken men, and a few boys who would become those men in time. What is time. One of the boys takes you by the hand and explains that the castle isn't far away. So they have kicked you out again and again and again and again for the crime of being someone else from somewhere else. It doesn't matter who. You wrote him. You created him. You gave him life. You can kill him, too. Only you can do it. All they can do is banish you to exile. It doesn't matter if the stories you write about happened to you or to them or to no one or to everyone. It doesn't matter if you lived a lie -- what lies does any culture live by in the right and the wrong and the moral telling of the story -- or if you lived at all. The fog is still the fog and to get inside the castle of the self, you will need a key. For you, writing has always been that key. Even when you are not writing, you are writing in your head. It does not matter if the chosen ones, the human beings you choose to write about today, are real or shadows flickering like burnt film goes through the projector putting melted images of the night upon the screen you are watching in the theatre of the soul. It does not matter which one of your second selves you are writing for today. What matters is that you are writing about different voices, villages, countries, cultures, dreams -- the ones the reader thinks he knows. Different exiles. Different skies. Different music. Different boys with different futures. Different men with different women with different pasts

http://le-too.tumblr.com Tim Barrus: The Blue Book is the Book of Dreams.