Russell Brand

I'm always tempted to say he's a piece of art, not a piece of work. He's quite clever, and I admire that part about him, the quick wit, the charm that can suffocate you, if you don't watch, and his love for language. You can feel it from his conversations, interviews, or jokes. I mean his stand-up gigs, I think, are ok, in terms of wit and cleverness. I suppose in stand-up he has to somehow bomb the audience with stuff, anything entertaining for his audience that's not necessarily witty or clever. I still think Jim Carrey or Robin Williams, are good and better at stand-up; and it's probably safe to include Amy Sedaris in that line-up. Now what I think Russell is very good at is in individual interactions, whether he's talking to a guest on 1 Leicester Square, or being a guest in the Paul O'Grady show. I give him an A+ on those one-on-one episodes. Jim Carrey and Robin Williams, when invited as guests, tend to dominate one-on-one interactions, as if their interviewer or host doesn't exist. The process of interaction is quite energizing for Russell's style of comedy. I do hope to read his autobiography My Booky Wook, which has gotten some fantastic reviews on the other side of the Atlantic.

Silence of Evidence

A hand moves a page of a book, from right to left. The fingers feel the paper, skin of words. There is pressure to get in the skin, to puncture thin. Bottom of fingers glide over text, before finger-prints collapse on print, ideas. Outside, the lake remains calm, unable to move waves. Something liquid-red drops on one of the pages, followed by more red.

Riptide

Ocean of networks. Depth is in your fingers, on their tips. But there is no bottom, nor surface. There's that school of fish called advertisements. Eat some, most are poison. Sometimes you need some poison. But fear of death may just be simulacra of something. The big bang perhaps? Coming of messiahs? Bermuda Triangle? There's a wind along the shore. The sands are calm, refusing to feel air, its movements, but rather the notes from the ocean, the murmur of sirens, shadows without premonitions.