"Julian Damanas lives in Georgia. She is a fugitive from Academia where she studied attentional mechanisms and their correlational links to human intelligence under the rubric of the visual phenomenon known as Inattentional Blindness "
Female
99 years old
ATLANTA, Georgia
United States
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Julian Damanas's Interests
General
Arts & Letters/Phil./Psy./Cog. Psy./Logic/Discourse/Debate/
Music
To much to list, but if it's classical,opera,heavy, sonorous,ecstatic....YES!
Orfeo ed Euridice (Gluck)/Don Giovanni (Mozart)/Der Vampyr (Heinrich Marschner)/Lucrezia Borgia (Donizetti)/Lohengrin (Richard Wagner)/ La traviata(Verdi)/Faust(Gounod)/Carmen (Georges Bizet)
All Beethoven/All Wagner/This Mortal Coil/The Orb/Asian ecstatic/ Madama Butterfly(Puccini)/Danse Macabre by French composer Camille Saint-Saëns and absolutely anything else except heavy metal...but even there...if drunk enough....
Movies
Lord of The Rings
Television
If it's gory/inane/cheaply scandalous/lurid/historic/based on the classix....yup!
love brit humor. hate talk shows.
Books
Too many to list.....
All classics/all trash/all philosophers/all rabid mystics/all religious texts/sci-fi/fantasy/anything very, very thick/any saga/anything ecstatic/
i'm too voracious a reader to ever be able to make a comprehensive list...one caveat....i DETEST most *faux* writers, y'know, the one's who call themselves neo-anything or post-anything....but never have anything to show for it....no wait...make that two caveats....i ALSO DETEST all modern PRETENTIOUS writers....hey wait...is there a DIFFERENCE???
Heroes
Batman
Ode to Batman
in dark beloved
you hunt like paper
drawn with woe
blown across the threshold of pain
the dust and sweat
the flying lantern
the reverent crow
what effort or recompense
what august flame of elegance
will you attempt
in flagrant
lucid
twice-time
human show?
what in your deep deep slutty tomb
the wild orgasm of the senses
dark dark yes and dreaming
great bird
flee the dawn?
there are no tuppences of virtue
no shells of toadstools
burned bread
red flesh
red red red night
winged dread
so high and yet so low
wrapt shards in this awful delivery
cloak and mask and black night robe
swoop swirl
beloved
die like the tiger
and the differing values of the evening sky
i will go
twice thrice
like wrapped thread
skeins of desire
opened lusting
yawning like need brought deep
desperation wreathed
so stormy
flat
never knowing what
or where beloved
but yet i follow
so they will sing
the ancient hymn
of churls
and swine
of rubies
yes and amethyst
glowing in the night
maudlin rows of
strung pearls
unstrung harpshchords
those red red red roses
all thorn and aching reaching stem
i know
my grand great opera of doom is here
and all this mortal paint will fade
and show the under-picture
wherein i am made
unmade
unchained
enchanted
two forests burning in the heart
two roses burning in the eyes
two lips caressing inner thighs
who flies
like crimson rivers
drunken madness
wreaking flood-plains taut with those victories
silent blunt unseeing
histories?
my love my love
dark dark dark
speak to me of lust and dread
tell me the lyre
the flute
the even-song of your repeating
inner hell
beloved
tell me the sands will never run like domed pillars
down the barren mouth of time
now tell me of
the yearning
dark dark dark
fire
flame and blood
burning
burning burning
immortal eye
(the sky has floated too many of my dreams
i chased them
small rainbows in chance's cup …
…i fled spectrums
wild drums
caged angels
and such merriment
as i could stand
Beloved,
where are you?
where i?
if words could tumble like small misgivings
falling like black stars?)
I have always been an adventurer, for whom experience speaks in unintelligible and archaic tongues.
I have danced, naked and shaven, in stinking, sacrificial blood at a temple-rite, and scattered bloodstained rhododendrons at the feet of phallic pillars that stood in sentinel columns beneath a moon-tilted night.
I have deciphered the salt and the sand, and played with my phantasmagorical ancestors in the twisted shadows of ancient shrines smeared with graffiti and piss and holy water.
I have done those things.
I’ve been assaulted by the cacophony of seditious temple-bells whose voices spoke the primeval warning, "Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento!" which, thanks to my faulty Latin, translated as, “Don’t look back! You’ll turn into a homonym!”
I've been an editor, a teacher, an actress, a fashion designer, a nightclub singer, a child-laborer, a kept woman, a wife, a mother, a tea-garden socialite, a palace denizen, a temple mascot, a club-kid, an office-drone, an academic and a stone-mason. I’ve been a tailor, a wanderer, a homeless bum, a volunteer and a barbarian.
I've driven 60 miles wearing a blindfold. I've hunted man-eating tigers, and rescued virgins from naughty ex-maharajahs. I’ve sat in chairs of solid gold. I’ve lived in disease-wracked slums. I've been waited on hand and foot. I've been treated like a whore. I've been an icon and a loser. I've been sued and dismissed, insulted and worshipped, venerated and reviled.
And I’ve learned nothing except that life is a fragile structure built of pridian dreams.
My works are "Gasoline", "Six Pages of Angels", "Celedin", "Liber Genesis" and "Song of Sind".
For me, poetry is primarily a performance art, quintessentially lucent, infinitely accessible, its language taut with the foibles and the idiomatic follies of its present-day audience.
'Julian Damanas' "Gasoline" similarly masters challenges that other poets rarely even attempt. Imagine the peak oil crisis as an apocalyptic allegory, narrated in a sinister, exotic, prophetic voice that reminded me of Coleridge's "Kubla Khan" as well as T.S. Eliot's multilingual chorus of voices and genres in "The Waste Land". Damanas evokes the ecstatic frenzy of great powers moving inexorably toward mutual obliteration.' Jendi Reiter, Judge, War Poetry contest
http://www.winningwriters.com
He is the creator created by American air, nourished by American food, a perceptual sponge made drunken in the heady draughts of American water, regardless of his intellectual or cultural inheritance. He has sipped from the American cup, and is forever changed. Like a ravening gourmand, starved of variety, sans goodwill, compromise, even comprehension, he has eaten of the delights of America’s smorgasbord of colors and tints, and is forever changed. He is a man who is made by the landscape and memory of his vision, regardless if he is a citizen of this nation, a recent transplant, or a son of a daughter of The Mayflower. Regardless if he is American. He is the man conquered. Struck down by American Grace. His anthem is America. His Art is America. .."
The Vitalist Manifesto
"..You ask us: What is American Art?
It is the product of the American Artist. It is inherent in the contour of his limbs and torso as he bends to his task of creation, standing firm on American soil. His work is his environment. His mind is his environment. His breath is his environment. He produces here. What he produces is American Art. Its lifeline is the Hudson and the Mississippi. Its veins run with the salted tenor of the Great Salt Lake. It owes the frame and musculature of its corpus to the wheat and corn of the American earth, lying brown and windswept beneath a Midwestern American sun. His art is the Dakotas and central Minnesota . It is the vast stretches of the Plains states. It is Kansas. It is Nevada. It is Texas. The American artist is Chicago. He is Louisiana. He is New York. He is Georgia, California, and Phoenix, Arizona. He is the machine of his memory. He produces this vision. Choice is incendiary. He has none.. .."
