Trusted Lives

The Yes No Party | Absinesthesia | The Eternal Heart X Exotic Pacific Beats | Fiasco Banquet

Feb 12, 2025

Shut your eyes and see.

James Joyce

Première Partie | Recommence

And yes we’re dragon Im to the dream den, unworded stuff, weirded stuff yeah or and do Le Magnifique Habituel, meaning —

Set Is noggin gently on the floor

Size Im oop, check for bruises, cuts, usual suspect body embarrassments, nose hair

Sit up frisk mirror to steam breath living laugh heartily taste tongue in ear fix hat dent remove specs clean specs restore specs dirty jokes at Is expense

Admire. Optional but we always do. Sunny Jim. The Great Exile who drinks words, drowns ears and corpse-flirts with the cream of, well, this and every Death Dream Modern to —

jJ. Curled Lip of Zurich. Irish canapé drifting in and out of the most lavish sewers and parties in Paris. Out-idling everyone. And this is Montparnasse!

We rifle through Is pockets for Is brand of Les Anis de Flavigny, of which we ‘ave yet to determine Is source, Is sweets, Is sweets dealer. Rumour has it EE pays overlyhandsomely for Les Calissons d’Aix on the Egyptian Black Market and we don’t, for one second, doubt Is Anis and Fruit Confit have Arabic origins. We ransack Is coat jacket vest and trouser pockets. We peer into Is vaginal hat. Giggling. Figgling. The Figgle King with Is Giggling Court The Figgle King zip’t up in Is one sky blue suit. Crumpled. Cloudy. Defrocked of handfuls of Gaz, Lokum and Sohan. We gaze at the empty wrappers and try not to moon off from cocaine and sugarcaine reverie of ParisianBasquePersianUSAmerican word flan monoprint’d by sturdy bone fingers blaze’d dry in the deserts of our minds. Our Mutant Martian Xubist jingo and the Xubist collages we could Xub’crank out of ‘em. Les yeux s'attardent et flottent vers le sol ~ fa lala lala. The candy labels are ornate forgeries. Some in gold and silver leaf. Such High Colourful Style!

Why else would EE be here?

We’re wild about Im. Yellow safron handprints all over Is eye blue suit.

EEz our loverly Irish sunrise.

EE’ll snore us ALL into Fame.

Oh put on the CD agin {fake southern drawl affected. American} Marilyn Monroe ruling the roost now. Halfcocked and wanting to be cock’d.

This is her first time here. And she’s charting. Parisians adore American cigarettes and The New Music. Eveything else is trash’d. Those here jilt Paris too. Jauntily. Hautily. But le check out le BIG Check list ~

Pablo Picasso • James Joyce • William Carlos Williams • Johanna Beyer • Igor Stravinsky and The House of David from America

Nancy Cunard {adooted and tooted Host. tonight}

We lay jJ in the middle of the room

Odd course there are jokes about the mice. And rumours is if Is is jJ. approved, ignored or miss’d by Im Imself. We’ve yet to see Im. Not Wet

Then EEscummings well. EEs {jJ Im Is} as yet to bee seen accompany’d scandaliz’d robbed fobb’d knobb’d and screwingly Pareeeejunly, um, entertain’d {EE mostly parteez. ssways to the right and back. simtimes in Is Own lap. PpARTy pOOp✓ rr Provacantant. jJ. all tomoriiws paarties. enjoyed soooth’dlee. on Is back.I see Pabl

sneers n tut tuts from the fan gentleman and women. House of David barely can give toot

Deuxième Partie | Le Parti du Oui

Dissonance / {if you are interested} / leads to discovery.

A new music is a new mind.

William Carlos Williams

[ Jetable palliatiF ] :: :: :: (€π∆]√£ fm avec votre hôte Nœud coulant de fleurs La nuit des temps diffusée sweet Dawn of Time diffusé sur Snow Moon 12 ne choisissez pas avec indifférence, pas avec déférence mais avec défi chantez en chœur Cylinder OK the Moon, AM Rising Scents, Juveniles of Balloons, brokenballoons, Lucille Tunes, Bon Voyage Enterprises, Real Dark Light, Candles Deux Sakamoto, Leo In Saturn, The Infernal Net, Lizzy-Thank You Disclose, Next Chandelier, Peggy Ghoul Gets Jumping

Synthés ascendants Arômes nouveau-né Nous secouerons la feuille des arbres avec ce son avec ces cœurs d'une manière décontractée Respirer quelque chose appelé Électrique Naviguer librement dans ce vent Le temps est le passeport destin destinations maintenant poussière et sentir Le sens dans les corps qui s'élèvent hors de la scène en s'élançant comme une étoile dans un ciel compliqué Sens aucun sens juste voler avec vos sens aucune identité pleine étreinte Nous arrivons

EEs been recorded, Perplexe, Interdit, painted, sketched, Sauté and infiniment apprécié. When asleep. Of which we do count on. Just keep writing. Somewhere. Infinitely. Pour nous, les artistes.

Tu es notre poison.

Voila!

Really just a crush of Martinis, Jack Rabbits, Ritual Taboo Snooters, Maison Pernod Fils Green as they come. Minotaurrr stress faux Texaarrs accent. we all have, out of fun at first, but really serious competition here and now. And Minotaurrr is not one to be jJ is Monotaur. One word always Zzzzzzzz . .

Minao Shibata enters the room.

This Wacky Shindig

[ Jetable palliatiF ] :: :: :: Vaporadio de forme libre soufflant des brises raides obscure indie bravo, bricolage éloquent, postpunk cha cha et blend wave, jazz à voix haute, exotiqua, low swedish mountain thump, avant hair progress, minimal electro cone, musique concrète, round sounds, expérimental et please no more

tordu, je pensais que j'allais livrer quelque chose d'intime, mais voilà, tu l'as alors touche le cadran, Grimaces tout autour, notes qui passent, mais bon, les corps commencent à voler avec des jeans noirs non lavés qui volent au-dessus de nos têtes, oui, généralement attachés à un corps ou des corps, ou on l'espère ou du moins parfois

Rio I l'ai fait toucher le pied sur le sol au sable à l'intérieur des limites stables d'autres sables

Larguez les amarres, c'est un magazine, non, ce n'est pas encore un canyon, ce radar frit et nous, je suis assez choqué

Slurp huile cavier réglisse bien que volée dans la poche et une sorte de cristal non coupé des rumeurs magiques d'automates du monde de l'art américain si je pouvais seulement le trouver mais vraiment voler dans les airs des pamphlets aérés jet des poches des autres thum musique monter hmmm un nouveau portail BANANANANSKY ouvrant ??? quelque part ??? ce soir !! finalement, l'Eventualisme suçant l'œuf, l'élite stellaire glissant dans l'air, comme du verre, Paris Air, plutôt changeant pour profiter de tous les corps volants, tonite Canard !!

Part •|•|3✓ | Fiasco Banquet par Phocas

From Suzanne Phocas

etc

Scene: A smokey, dimly lit underground art party in Paris, 3 a.m. Brancusi’s new radical sculpture—a featureless, glowing orb levitating inside a cage of jagged iron—casts eerie shadows. Scattered among mismatched chairs and makeshift tables are luminaries of the art world, sipping absinthe and arguing with chaotic fervor. Eric Satie plays faintly dissonant chords on a piano in the corner, muttering cryptic remarks.

Entendu

Nancy Cunard: {raises her glass} Modern art, my darlings, has meditated itself into oblivion. Like a Buddha that forgot the path, it’s fallen into madness.

Maruja Mallo: {sardonic} Madness? No, Nancy. Modern Art saw itself in the mirror, realized it had nothing left to say, and called it “contemporary.” A neat trick.

Pablo Picasso: {laughing} Art doesn’t die. It devours. Look at my work! African masks consumed and reborn as Cubism. Today’s art? It's a vampire dining on nostalgia.

Salvador Dalí: {lounging dramatically} Nostalgia is merely the soft belly of Time. But Surrealism—ah, that is the dagger! It pierces the present to create dreams of a better past.

Lili Boulanger: {clasping a score in her hands} The better past? Everyone here seems drunk on traditions they never lived. Pre-Columbian chants, Mapuche cosmology—why not revive Atlantis while you’re at it?

Minao Shibata: {nodding} Or ancient Japanese court music. But why revive at all? Art should build new worlds, not stitch together ghosts.

Félix Nadar: {adjusting his camera} Ghosts are marketable. Always have been. A Polaroid nude here, a dash of Adonis there—it’s not about the Aaart. It’s about the glamour.

George Grosz: {gruffly} Glamour is the opiate of the bourgeoisie. The ruling class used to want grand portraits; now they want figurative self-portraits that scream, “Look at my identity!”

Suzanne Duchamp: {lighting a cigarette} Identity is the new L'esprit de l'epoque. We used to paint the spirit of life; now we paint ourselves painting. It’s delightful and empty.

Edwin Dickinson: {pensively} The emptiness is deliberate. Art no longer moves forward—it circles. A hungry maw, swallowing the past, consuming itself. {painting something on his palm with plum jam with no thinking}

Johanna Beyer: {to herself quietly} And yet, it thrives. The grand narrative is over, but the stories continue. Small, fragmented, like motes of dust in a sunbeam.

Federico García Lorca: {wistfully} Dust or stars, Johanna? I see poetry in this—figures chasing lost cultures, trying to conjure meaning from chaos. It is absurd, yes, but beautiful.

Eric Satie: {from the piano, without turning} Beauty is an egg cracked under the weight of a gilded fork. Scrambled nostalgia. Bon appétit.

Nancy Cunard: {ignoring him} Everyone here longs for a different past. It’s charming in a way. But how long until we all drown in this sea of borrowed traditions?

Salvador Dalí: {smirking} A sea of traditions? Perhaps we should frame it. Call it "Infinite Regression of Escapes." I’ll paint it tomorrow.

Brancusi: {appearing suddenly} Enough chatter. The future isn’t a return to the past. It’s this. {He gestures to his sculpture, the glowing orb} Art without history. Art without self.

Pablo Picasso: {grinning} Art without self? Impossible. Even this . . thing reflects you, Brancusi. It’s your madness.

Eric Satie: {playing a triumphant chord} And madness is the only tradition worth preserving.

The room erupts in laughter, applause, and half-serious arguments. Brancusi smiles faintly and raises his glass. The piano music crescendos into silence.

[ Jetable palliatiF ] :: :: :: Quelque chose de vivant, quelque chose de vivant, de vivant dans ma Liberty, quelque chose de vivant dans ma limousine

Le plus grand mensonge est une liste complète

et puisque nous vous sommes au milieu de cela, nous appelons cela l'Amour

et nous, moi, autant le dis-le avec tout ton corps : Là où il y a de l'Amour, il y a de l'Art, et là où il y a de l'Art, il y a de l'Amour

et nous, moi, autant le dis-le avec tout ton corps : Là où il y a de l'Amour il y a de l'Anarchie, et là où il y a de l'Anarchie il y a de l'Amour

l’Amourartanarchie

Habillez-vous quelque chose comme Denis Lavant interprète un extrait de Cap au pire de Samuel Beckett

Mais bon, c'est votre affaire

Quatrième Partie | Absinesthesia

Cut into quarters ~

or maybe a half?

Table sawed in half, then taken to

Guests: Pernos Ricard, Choctaw Leader & Lawyer William Carlos Williams, Norman Alfred William Lindsay and Igor Stravinsky, Charlie Chaplin, Ruth Crawford Seager

The Ghosts, Spirits or wig’d Doppelgangers of: George Washington Harkins, William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody, P.T. Barnum AND

Party Crashers both spirited and alive or alive yet spirited

Igo Stravinsky, Georges Antheil, Alma Mahler, Alexander Scriabin, Natalia Goncharova, Charlie Chaplin, Gaby Montbreuse, Ivan Wyschnegradsky, Charles Ives, Taro Okamoto, Gabriel D’Annunzio, René Cravel, Baya Mahieddine, Arthur Cravan {again. somehow}, Isamu Noguchi, Marsden Hartley, Josephine Baker {again. Cravan’s Guest — or the other way around}

Marchesa Luisa Casati leading the seance along with a shockhead’d bespectacl’d experimental New Model Automaton by Pernod responding Wäärhaol™ whose ethereal voice and fine woodwürk’d visage & silver filigree spoke to an Unborn Future

Marchesa Luisa Casati ectoplasm erupts.

jJ laid out.

El Minotaur is nowhere to be found.

Scene: A dimly lit tunnel deep in the Paris sewers. The group trudges through the muck, guided by flickering lanterns and the occasional glow of fireflies. James Joyce, draped over the shoulder of Samuel Beckett, mumbles incoherently. The others trail behind, carrying props, instruments, odd baseball bats. A faint echo of Brancusi’s distant party haunts the space like a dream they can’t reach. Finally, the group halts. They’ve given up. It’s time for something else.

Entendu

Samuel Beckett: {staring at a dripping pipe} We are lost. But perhaps… this is the place.

James Joyce: {slurring} Not lost, Sammy, just misplaced. Like a good sentence at the end of a bad paragraph.

William Carlos Williams: {pulling a red wheelbarrow from nowhere} This muck, this filth—it glistens. Depend upon it!

Natalia Goncharova: {throwing her arms up} Enough! Let’s turn this sewer into a cathedral of madness. Paint the walls with shadows and scream the unsayable!

Remedios Varo: {producing a mysterious clock} Time folds here. It’s perfect. I’ll summon the spiders of infinity.

Alice Rahon: {gleeful} And I’ll dance with them!

Josephine Baker: {shimmying. aleeady} No one dances alone tonight. Rhythm thrives even in a sewer. Especially in a sewer.

Xul Solar: {holding up glyph-covered cards} I’ll divine our futures! Not a hint: They all end in chaos and laughter.

Oswaldo Guayasamín: {tracing faces in the grime} This filth is more honest than the galleries above.

Hugo Ball: {bursting into glossolalia} Zang! Tumb! Flop! Art’s true language—meaningless, absurd, Infinite!

Concha Méndez: {unfurling a scroll} I’ll write poems that no one can read, even me! Let them dissolve into the water.

Arthur Cravan: {swigging a hip flask} Let’s name this sewer “The Museum of the Unfinished.” Here, everything is already art because nothing can ever be complete!

The House of David Baseball Team: {sung in harmonic unison, barbershop supergroup brandishing bats} We’ll play a game where no one wins!

Josephine Baker: {mocking} Like life?

Beckett: {nodding} Exactly. Like life.

The performance begins. Josephine B. and Alice Rahon bop to primitive beats and blood rhythms, their shadows pounding the walls. Xul Solar draws elegant constellations in sewage. Hugo Ball screeches nonsense like an oracle of filth. Natalia Goncharova and Oswaldo Guayasamín paint grotesque murals in the grime. James Joyce, semi-conscious, is laid on a makeshift stage—a plank balanced on barrels. The others gather around, chanting disjointed lines of poetry and absurdities. Joyce stirs.

Entendu

James Joyce: {murmuring} All this. For what? Art in a sewer?

Beckett: {kneeling beside him} For the only truth left: We’re all pretending.

Joyce: {smirking} Pretending to what?

Beckett: {gesturing to the chaos} To know anything. To be real. To make sense of this mess.

Joyce: {chuckling} A sewer’s a fine place for that. Real enough for rats, unreal enough for us.

Beckett: {smiling faintly} And cosmic enough for the multiverse of delusions.

Joyce: {reaching for a glass of absinthe someone inexplicably hands him} To delusions, then. May they never end.

Beckett: {raising an imaginary glass} To delusions. And to art that tears open the world, even if it only reveals the rats.

The group erupts in laughter, their voices echoing into the endless tunnels. The performance fades into absurd improvisation, as the Paris sewer becomes, for one night, the heart of the art world.

https://m.soundcloud.com/bylirigot/different-feeling

Looking up

Oh yes she’s well trimmed down there

That’s what I’ll call her

A Rip Roaring Account of a Pussy

Hiromi Tsuchido and Richard Avedon. George Hoyningen Huene and Alan Aldridge. Penelope Tree and Shomei Tomatsu. Alice Neel and Wally Wood. Man Ray and Chris Burden. Florence Henri and groupie band The GTO’s. Kathleen Hannah and Paul Nouge. Helen Levitt and Jean-luc Godard. Sister Mary Corita Kent and Maria Germinova. Grace Slick and artist Hossam Atef. Yves KleinnielK sevY

eventualism

sreyalP ehT

The Players

introduces

pierrotwiggy

60s Twiggy Pierrot polaroid mosh pit club scene

La Fête du Oui Non | Parallax

?on iuoui?

ParallaxallaraP

HerereH

WasaW

PierrotorreiP

yo mama wuz here

pijin inlglijj

piggin eenflish

unem le

lair si Avignon

laer si gnihtoN

laer era sreyalP ehT

ytraP oN seY ehT^

The Yes No Party | Mojj Pijj Stijl

Life by Black JaZz toons but to more JaZz for High JaZz Society

but we

eat

eat the rich

floo zee

thrill the rich

you’ ll see

nouveux riche

These are amazing quarters. And there’s coins laying and falling on the ground. My friend’s head is on the ground. And I pretend not to see it. I’m too pressed to stomp on heads krmmpt cCAW ge elbowd ii thee eye

HHEEEAVENNASZZZ !!!

a fAkn roOOOAARREE !!!!

throom is smeart paint all artists here most known most unknown finest cotton in Paris awl sweatd dowun xumt up dickt up vajez uncultlng uncurtng licktup fuckt up repaintt with soap frm the head off lather iff pink

we dunt care

Minotaur release party with nothing but punks in this castle this is a wide bowling rink. and glass is everywhere. I see blood I see glass I step on glass glass gets undrfoot cotton fibers the finest shoes ckcRReeNK hochorRell eye puke but champaigne glSs greets me uh my arm uh someone leefs my arm greets hand with xhamlaigne flath ouuw ca barely lifth ith to my wrrikeen eyetooth floatin IN Tha Glaauth yeah

punk romantic closeup polaroid mosh pit slam dance

Auumnbleensshing in tlchoo playshesh at leesshht AW akschually carreeee eeeng sh WWwwoockch leg and kneexh to th shhrtmrrkb

showww shuckssh bu Ow luv itktxh

ouwl uff our aassheshzz ar geeung kicksht weer kickshknkn all uff owrnch own asshezz runtingrounch in skskchcaksirrrccchkellz bleedbloos uh bleetin blood outch ourtch noshezz feeln great unk feellnk free

fuck the rich fuck the rich fuck the rixh fuckthe rich fouck the rich fuck the rich fuck the rickh fick the rich fuck the rich fuck the rich fuck the rich fuck the rich fucht e dorich rick the fich fuck the rich fuck the f fuck the rich fuck the rich fuck the rich fuck the rich thefu ck the ficj fucke the rucn fickt rhd ficu fuck the rich fuckt eheich ficub fuck thee fick fuck the rich fucke th rich

my faish getshch shhlapt amon maow backsh an ah sfrink ow broke a ripf or tu one eye can shee blood kneesh legglch bkurs of fguirzh armshg handshg fshfkn gorgeeuus titsgsh azzsh lipsgsh smudgy liposght beauty marks teerth — wen nutt broken gaaerr

wen nutt brokench laik maeen

mosh shirkle alrund me i schee a blur

the worl runni roundme

bluujirrrr