To use die-casting using a different substance in plastic molds, or containers, would necessitate either an open definition of "metal" or a different label for the process.
In the latter case, the cast items are lexically de-labeled in method.
IF pressurizing patterns into metals (medals?) has a diff relationship to forcing metal (or plastic) into hollow molds
Implies: I characterize the processes by the "face (front side)" of my materials:
e.g. Pressed into a pattern --> impressed form
Result: Positive space --> Neg space sculpture (positive space form)
Mold --> encased form
Result: Negative space --> Positive space sculpture (negative space form)
Drawing and extrusion (force out)
Molding (force in)
If the form is faceless, are we working with a phenomenologically more "essential" object? The best way I can illustrate is convex/concave lens, their exteriority/interiority cancel each other out
Convex/concave lens case (obvious, but just to reiterate why I define it as "cancellation"):
Pressed into convex pattern --> concave (= convex)
Convex mold --> convex form (= concave)
In both cases, the objects have interchangeable forms/processes.
If we factor in light,
Projected image is the "cast" form, so (projection = substance)
Given projection substance, mold = angle of projection + placement of the surface image is "cast" upon
Since the surface is variable receptacle for the image,
surface = pattern
(When past convergence the image flips, to maintain the original image mirrors req, and perhaps we have the situation described in Robert Smithson's writings on his mirror displacements)
Then process of molding and patterning coincide.
I am inclined to compress (inclined as a figurative term and compress in a literal way) the above definitions into 2 dimensions, where the "lens" collapses into a circle on a canvas or drawing board, so it a flatlandish (and outlandish) view of the 3d situation I've described above. Process of viewing the circle, another projection, a completely transparent one in meaning (if meaning = subtance) and mold=viewercontext position changes image, and painting becomes a lens, and if linked to the above description by a process incorporating a stencil (=mold, spray over stencil = mold process, neg. space articulated 2d)... then the painting becomes faceless.
1.27.2010
A facetious analysis of a Jack Handey quotation
"As the evening sky faded from a salmon color to a sort of flint gray, I thought back to the salmon I caught that morning, and how gray he was, and how I named him Flint." - Jack Handey
The narrator (whom I can't distinguish from the writer) alludes to mortality, painting the sky's change over time encapsulated within the salmon (while making us aware of the way we illustrate an object/color by its name and the way its association makes that moment meaningful as a surreal moment where Wittgenstein on stilts Freudian-trips over Proust) so that we are thinking back to the visual figure of the moment that the narrator is thinking back. The internal imagery inverts itself so that it cancels each other out and completes each other doing a strange parody of the yin/yang balance. The process of us reading the quotation makes the passage turn into an active microcosm, the way we move back and forth visually between ourselves and our reflected selves and the idea of our reflection reacting to the idea of ourselves when we're in a hall of mirrors and the passage's structure reverses the time while the interior world speeds it forward but unlike what would happen in reality if you did that, which would be akin to causing a record scratch, the author reveals the potential of the artifice of writing except his record scratch brings us back to the interpretive gap that triggered my response.
The narrator (whom I can't distinguish from the writer) alludes to mortality, painting the sky's change over time encapsulated within the salmon (while making us aware of the way we illustrate an object/color by its name and the way its association makes that moment meaningful as a surreal moment where Wittgenstein on stilts Freudian-trips over Proust) so that we are thinking back to the visual figure of the moment that the narrator is thinking back. The internal imagery inverts itself so that it cancels each other out and completes each other doing a strange parody of the yin/yang balance. The process of us reading the quotation makes the passage turn into an active microcosm, the way we move back and forth visually between ourselves and our reflected selves and the idea of our reflection reacting to the idea of ourselves when we're in a hall of mirrors and the passage's structure reverses the time while the interior world speeds it forward but unlike what would happen in reality if you did that, which would be akin to causing a record scratch, the author reveals the potential of the artifice of writing except his record scratch brings us back to the interpretive gap that triggered my response.
10.15.2008
3.14.2007
3.07.2007
...And the Fury
[Photographs: A lone climb up Mt Fuji I tied my red ribboned bell to the coinstalk a few steps before I met a monk who told me it is too late to reach the peak, turn around NOW (his voice was stern and face was tree-hard with kind eyes), he said, turn around, turn around... you listening? Turn around and follow the path down now, it is not safe, see no one is with you, I will not go with you go down now, will be cold, dark, go down now but I said no I must keep climbing I said this morning I was going to reach the top and I was feeling bad every post along the way I would look up and there was always another large thing in the distance that I imagined was some huge mansion with a kind old man and a huge library full of rows and rows and rows of old calligraphed books and since I spoke English and not a word of Japanese other than daijobu which means are you ok I would say it and I use it so often because I sometimes attract not-ok people towards me (this has nothing to do with the old man and his library) because I am also not-ok and I try to help them because I know how not-ok it feels to feel not-ok but none of us would ever admit to being not-ok so just like that time I met a lady curled up in a ball sobbing sitting in a nook she taught me how to say it and then we repeated to each other daijobu, daijobu, daijobu, daijobu, daijobu until she cracked a shy smile there was not much else we could say to each other and she had unused tickets to the large concert in Roppongi where I was standing tiptoe over the gaggle of college boys yelling on the second story stoops to peek through the barriers where there were slices of jumping balloons feeling dizzy with the colors and the sounds slightly glum because the girl on stage had all these balloons and a mic and was just standing there, just standing there with a shrill cute song she had no pizzazz and I imagined breaking through the barrier and jumping down like a Nintendo character popping the balloons going wild I can yell louder even without a mic and then my sound would turn into a rainbow colored balloon as soon as she touched it she would make a bling sound and go POP. So as soon as she felt a bit better we walked together to the concert but as soon as we made it to the front it was letting out and people everywhere bumping into me because I was the clumsy bump not used to dodging through the rush hour subway systems and I think I was a funny pebble in their streamlined routine and the weird loss-feeling from making it to the front just to see it end was a repetition of that time in Mt Fuji where it was too late to keep climbing but I had made it up so far that it was also too late to start descending, the monk said follow the path, there are people ahead of you if you turn around, you can walk with them, but I'd decided I was going to reach the top I had not planned on climbing at all and had nothing but a pair of hawaiian print tourist cropped pants, tennis shoes and my mother's holey shirt I had torn its yellow sleeve reaching for the bell someone had dropped near the lava rocks and my camera tied onto my empty waterbottle with a white square towel one by one foot long I had found on the Third Summit post on my way up...I met the monk again the moment I was sitting on the 10th Summit I was so close to the top and I suddenly couldn't breathe anymore and I was sure I was going to die, something in my chest was about to pop and the pop had moved from my chest to my throat and my body started turning into a rock for an instant I wondered how Lacan must have felt when the sea-snakes wrapped around him because speared the Trojan Horse and knew it was all a scam, the monk had known how fast sunset would happen, I was fooled by the brightness and thought it would be day for much longer. The monk stood there he was quiet and for a second I was angry he wasn't helping me but also glad he didn't say anything because I was so ashamed about the freezing tears and the wind sound was screaming in my ears and I had the luck to meet a gentleman in white and I do not remember his name he had a holey towel wrapped around his head which in Korea means you're an old person with a very painful headache, or that you've lost your mind, he was walking down and knew how to make my breathing work again and when I did breathe and it was such a wonderful feeling and the breathing was gulping the experience and the happiness in a breath after not-breathing.
My shadow at noon, cast upon an ear in Malcolm Cochran's cement cornfield in the corner of ___ Rd, Dublin OH
My breakfast table, a computer and notebook away from Andrew WIlliam Elvish's book "Death Becomes Her: The death aesthetic in/as fashion advertising" opened to page 64-65, with Footnote 98 facing me:
98 States Kaja Silverman, "The oft repeated Lacanian assertion that woman is the phallus whereas man has the phallus dramatizes the profound ambiguities of the last term. In so far as the woman's body is understood as escaping symbolic structuration, she can be described as being the phallus but not having it )ie. as existing within the real, but being cut off from culture privilege.) "Histoire d'O: The Construction of a Female Subject." (in Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984, pp. 322).
My shadow at noon, cast upon an ear in Malcolm Cochran's cement cornfield in the corner of ___ Rd, Dublin OH
My breakfast table, a computer and notebook away from Andrew WIlliam Elvish's book "Death Becomes Her: The death aesthetic in/as fashion advertising" opened to page 64-65, with Footnote 98 facing me:
98 States Kaja Silverman, "The oft repeated Lacanian assertion that woman is the phallus whereas man has the phallus dramatizes the profound ambiguities of the last term. In so far as the woman's body is understood as escaping symbolic structuration, she can be described as being the phallus but not having it )ie. as existing within the real, but being cut off from culture privilege.) "Histoire d'O: The Construction of a Female Subject." (in Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984, pp. 322).
3.01.2007
power lines
Inverted, the power lines migrate into stripes in a composition book as words dilate into soundwaves scrawled by reeling birds. I grasp a passing plane with my gaze by traveling in vectors across the sidewalk while sampling unrequited wired moments as I throw conversations to the sky.
2.20.2007
2.18.2007
"No good deed goes unpunished"
After dropping you off, I get lost going the wrong way on Post Rd. I have to
circle around that area another time, which takes another 10 minutes. My
power steering decides to cut out again and I almost get into a huge
accident with at least two other cars. Then I take the wrong 270 exit (did
you know that 270 splits into all four directions in that area?) and I have
to circle all the way back through Dublin another time. That is when I see
the BMW place and call you.
Sorry to hear that.
To add a little more perspective, I feel rotten for dropping you off in the
wrong place. I know you asked me to, but you know me, I'm rather anal about
stuff like that. So I am feeling rotten and I make another wrong turn, but
this one is easier to correct. The air turns a deep royal blue at this
point, and my throat still hurts from all of the shouting. To make a long
story short, I show up to wushu with 30 minutes left to go in practice, but
it is ok. I still get to work on the things I need to, and I do not miss
anything crucial, so there is no harm done there.
Don't feel bad about it at all, I enjoyed the walk. I walked down a Perimeter to Venture road and passed by the Emerald City. There was a long line of trees and from a two dimensional standpoint they were a real life manifestation of Mondrian's early charcoal drawings. I saw a field of geese and my only regret was that I did not have a camera to capture their rhythmic array across the field of snow, a smooth expanse and my fingers tingled with the same reaction I have to a brand new sheaf of Arches print paper (again, from a 2d standpoint, the snow's texture had the same appearance) and they were scattered across the surface, mobile charcoal crumbs gliding about, leaving no trail so that every consecutive moment seemed a completely renewed image...). The sky was a shade I remember mixing out of gouache to use as a wash for a bunny-in-a-box painting, which amused me immensely because I was starting to see the sky fold itself into a box with a comic cartoon rabbit's head, paws and feet jutting out of it.
When you called me I was staring at the cars move in the horizon line beyond a large white expanse and from my standpoint they became multicolored dotted lines, the inversion of a very old cathode ray television set in the "blip" moment it turns off, and after you see a screen full of static (charged with the scrambled chaos of a uncountable unnameable indecipherable images, a decayed digital vesion of a boxed-out section of a trampled snowy sidewalk from a bird's eye view). I was staring out the window in the police car. The snow had crusted into a rippling array on the window and I was thinking simultaneously of Ann Hamilton's Venice Biennale installation and the warm gooey texture of the image seen through the window echoed the policeman's jovial voice. The contrast between the window's frozen sensation and my visual perception telling me it is a perfectly balanced warmth somehow was a reflection of my impassive glasses conversing with the policeman's honest eyes. So I was staring ouside imagining myself to be in Professor Hamilton's installation, on a smaller scale.
He had a cubic videocamera with a 6-button array on it that made it appear a die (he turns the object around and I find myself staring at a videocamera lens that constituted the die's "ONE" face). Suddenly I heard a curmudgeonly straining grunt and felt a massive, hauntingly opaque monochrome block being laboriously pushed towards a cliff edge: I struggled to block out the memory of Tony Smith's Die sculpture, my optimism endowing the Die with a heavier and heavier mass to stall its momentum because the for-bidding minimalist form hovered on the brink of smashing down upon on the delicate fancy of a die who had absentmindedly buttoned only the bottom row of its double-breasted coat (think WilyCoyote's 100 pound ACME iron block, or, as Professor Melville described it, a hulking sweaty man standing too close for your comfort as he gawks at you inside a crowded rush hour subway). Art In 1900's Chapter ___ image strapped a rocket to the grouch's back and down came the Die, I cringed regretting the mass I had added to the Die, because while I rationalized to myself that the weight wouldn't speed its fall, the utter inevitability of a much more painful impact felt unforgiveable... Luckily for me, the policeman's voice drew me back into reality and the little fancy beep-beeped with a lopsided grin harmonizing with the outside traffic, and instantaneously morphed into a different idea: The story of two dots staring at each other across an unbreachable white expanse, and only at the moment near the edge, approximating the landscape in the last chapter of If On A Winter's Night A Traveler (Calvino), they draw ever so slightly closer together, but whether or not they actually reach each other is left to the expanse over the edge of the die, the face I cannot see.
On the way back out to my
car, I slip in slush and pull a muscle near my groin. I have to spend ten
minutes trying to get my car started. - My car is now un-drivable. It won't
idle. - To get it out of the parking place I have to put it in park to start
it then gun the gas hard while it's still in park. I then have to hold down
the break simultaneously with the gas and switch into reverse, release the
break, and sling shot out of the space almost straining my back trying to
move that broken steering wheel quickly with no fluid. These two Chinese
girls parked next to me are watching me the whole time and I am so
embarassed. I finally get my car out, but it dies again in the middle of
the street.
I imagined you struggling with the car and the shudder-jolt it gave each time it turned off seemed, excuse me for the bathroom humor here, but I imagined it expelling a large fart and the frame cringing from the backlash. Just think of your car blasting gas. And as if on cue, a very gassy trumpet tune by Gerry Mulligan just came onto my headphones.
Somehow I managed to get to a gas station, get gas, do my little trick to
get it started and leave to drop off my movie. I should just go home, but I
am determined to get everything done so I stop at North Campus Video. I
take the movie in and when I get back out, the car is even harder to start.
I have to do the same trick, but it is even harder to get out of this space,
and my car dies everytime I have to slow down to keep from sliding into
someone elses car. On the way back to my house, it dies fifteen times (and
that is no exaggeration).
Does it die the same way each time?
Dear Sir,
Our team of expert car-psychology experts have come to the conclusion that your car is struggling with a massive identity crisis with disturbing hints of histrionic personality disorder. We are starting to deduce that your vehicle has a deeply repressed desire to be a video game hero. Its repeated failures indicate that the subject is approximating (to its mechanized capacity), the art of repeatedly dying and resurrecting itself. We suspect that this desire has its origins in a history of mishandling from previous owners. Our data shows that such subjects are naturally driven towards becoming inordinately influenced by NASCAR driving simulations, which, naturally, is a gateway towards virtual-reality fantasy games.
We recommend that you seek immediate help for your car. Left untreated for too long, this problem may amplify itself into a distorted, two-dimensional Pixellated Self-Perception, which we call "d-PSP."
Sincerely yours,
TVS
(The Vehicle Shrink)
I can't believe I actually get it home, but I do. Afterwards, I proceed to
call my dad, who gives me some advice and quotes my Uncle, who is fond of
saying: "No good deed goes unpunished." I cannot help but laugh out loud.
Sure, it's bleak, but this morning it rings true.
P.S. Happy birthday, Ms. Toni Morrison
circle around that area another time, which takes another 10 minutes. My
power steering decides to cut out again and I almost get into a huge
accident with at least two other cars. Then I take the wrong 270 exit (did
you know that 270 splits into all four directions in that area?) and I have
to circle all the way back through Dublin another time. That is when I see
the BMW place and call you.
Sorry to hear that.
To add a little more perspective, I feel rotten for dropping you off in the
wrong place. I know you asked me to, but you know me, I'm rather anal about
stuff like that. So I am feeling rotten and I make another wrong turn, but
this one is easier to correct. The air turns a deep royal blue at this
point, and my throat still hurts from all of the shouting. To make a long
story short, I show up to wushu with 30 minutes left to go in practice, but
it is ok. I still get to work on the things I need to, and I do not miss
anything crucial, so there is no harm done there.
Don't feel bad about it at all, I enjoyed the walk. I walked down a Perimeter to Venture road and passed by the Emerald City. There was a long line of trees and from a two dimensional standpoint they were a real life manifestation of Mondrian's early charcoal drawings. I saw a field of geese and my only regret was that I did not have a camera to capture their rhythmic array across the field of snow, a smooth expanse and my fingers tingled with the same reaction I have to a brand new sheaf of Arches print paper (again, from a 2d standpoint, the snow's texture had the same appearance) and they were scattered across the surface, mobile charcoal crumbs gliding about, leaving no trail so that every consecutive moment seemed a completely renewed image...). The sky was a shade I remember mixing out of gouache to use as a wash for a bunny-in-a-box painting, which amused me immensely because I was starting to see the sky fold itself into a box with a comic cartoon rabbit's head, paws and feet jutting out of it.
When you called me I was staring at the cars move in the horizon line beyond a large white expanse and from my standpoint they became multicolored dotted lines, the inversion of a very old cathode ray television set in the "blip" moment it turns off, and after you see a screen full of static (charged with the scrambled chaos of a uncountable unnameable indecipherable images, a decayed digital vesion of a boxed-out section of a trampled snowy sidewalk from a bird's eye view). I was staring out the window in the police car. The snow had crusted into a rippling array on the window and I was thinking simultaneously of Ann Hamilton's Venice Biennale installation and the warm gooey texture of the image seen through the window echoed the policeman's jovial voice. The contrast between the window's frozen sensation and my visual perception telling me it is a perfectly balanced warmth somehow was a reflection of my impassive glasses conversing with the policeman's honest eyes. So I was staring ouside imagining myself to be in Professor Hamilton's installation, on a smaller scale.
He had a cubic videocamera with a 6-button array on it that made it appear a die (he turns the object around and I find myself staring at a videocamera lens that constituted the die's "ONE" face). Suddenly I heard a curmudgeonly straining grunt and felt a massive, hauntingly opaque monochrome block being laboriously pushed towards a cliff edge: I struggled to block out the memory of Tony Smith's Die sculpture, my optimism endowing the Die with a heavier and heavier mass to stall its momentum because the for-bidding minimalist form hovered on the brink of smashing down upon on the delicate fancy of a die who had absentmindedly buttoned only the bottom row of its double-breasted coat (think WilyCoyote's 100 pound ACME iron block, or, as Professor Melville described it, a hulking sweaty man standing too close for your comfort as he gawks at you inside a crowded rush hour subway). Art In 1900's Chapter ___ image strapped a rocket to the grouch's back and down came the Die, I cringed regretting the mass I had added to the Die, because while I rationalized to myself that the weight wouldn't speed its fall, the utter inevitability of a much more painful impact felt unforgiveable... Luckily for me, the policeman's voice drew me back into reality and the little fancy beep-beeped with a lopsided grin harmonizing with the outside traffic, and instantaneously morphed into a different idea: The story of two dots staring at each other across an unbreachable white expanse, and only at the moment near the edge, approximating the landscape in the last chapter of If On A Winter's Night A Traveler (Calvino), they draw ever so slightly closer together, but whether or not they actually reach each other is left to the expanse over the edge of the die, the face I cannot see.
On the way back out to my
car, I slip in slush and pull a muscle near my groin. I have to spend ten
minutes trying to get my car started. - My car is now un-drivable. It won't
idle. - To get it out of the parking place I have to put it in park to start
it then gun the gas hard while it's still in park. I then have to hold down
the break simultaneously with the gas and switch into reverse, release the
break, and sling shot out of the space almost straining my back trying to
move that broken steering wheel quickly with no fluid. These two Chinese
girls parked next to me are watching me the whole time and I am so
embarassed. I finally get my car out, but it dies again in the middle of
the street.
I imagined you struggling with the car and the shudder-jolt it gave each time it turned off seemed, excuse me for the bathroom humor here, but I imagined it expelling a large fart and the frame cringing from the backlash. Just think of your car blasting gas. And as if on cue, a very gassy trumpet tune by Gerry Mulligan just came onto my headphones.
Somehow I managed to get to a gas station, get gas, do my little trick to
get it started and leave to drop off my movie. I should just go home, but I
am determined to get everything done so I stop at North Campus Video. I
take the movie in and when I get back out, the car is even harder to start.
I have to do the same trick, but it is even harder to get out of this space,
and my car dies everytime I have to slow down to keep from sliding into
someone elses car. On the way back to my house, it dies fifteen times (and
that is no exaggeration).
Does it die the same way each time?
Dear Sir,
Our team of expert car-psychology experts have come to the conclusion that your car is struggling with a massive identity crisis with disturbing hints of histrionic personality disorder. We are starting to deduce that your vehicle has a deeply repressed desire to be a video game hero. Its repeated failures indicate that the subject is approximating (to its mechanized capacity), the art of repeatedly dying and resurrecting itself. We suspect that this desire has its origins in a history of mishandling from previous owners. Our data shows that such subjects are naturally driven towards becoming inordinately influenced by NASCAR driving simulations, which, naturally, is a gateway towards virtual-reality fantasy games.
We recommend that you seek immediate help for your car. Left untreated for too long, this problem may amplify itself into a distorted, two-dimensional Pixellated Self-Perception, which we call "d-PSP."
Sincerely yours,
TVS
(The Vehicle Shrink)
I can't believe I actually get it home, but I do. Afterwards, I proceed to
call my dad, who gives me some advice and quotes my Uncle, who is fond of
saying: "No good deed goes unpunished." I cannot help but laugh out loud.
Sure, it's bleak, but this morning it rings true.
P.S. Happy birthday, Ms. Toni Morrison
2.17.2007
Lunar New Year
Happy "Chinese New Year."
This day in history, 1979, China invaded Vietnam in response to pro-Soviet maneuvers by Vietnam, initiating the Sino-Vietnamese War.
Downside: Over 26,000 Chinese and 10,000 Vietnamese casualties, "scorched earth policy," population displacement
Upside: The resulting conflict toppled the Khmer Rouge party in Cambodia, ending Pol-Pot's genocidal reign (approx. 1.5 milliion deaths and a scarred nation).
A visual response ...
... accompanied by a moment of silence:
:
This day in history, 1979, China invaded Vietnam in response to pro-Soviet maneuvers by Vietnam, initiating the Sino-Vietnamese War.
Downside: Over 26,000 Chinese and 10,000 Vietnamese casualties, "scorched earth policy," population displacement
Upside: The resulting conflict toppled the Khmer Rouge party in Cambodia, ending Pol-Pot's genocidal reign (approx. 1.5 milliion deaths and a scarred nation).
A visual response ...
... accompanied by a moment of silence:
:
2.15.2007
Judgment Overboard
1564: Italian natural philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician Galileo, born this day in 1564, made fundamental contributions to the sciences of motion and astronomy, as well as to the development of the scientific method.
Sitting in front of my Apple computer, I was planning to conclude my post by polishing off a lopsided bruised blushing apple, the thing of beauty, intoxication, control, the forbidden sweetness whose modern form requires more pesticide than any other food crop (Pollan). I dropped it while I wrote my passage about the American flag.
1764: Auguste Chouteau settled St. Louis at the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers.
The drifting experience to stop at the bank. Chouteau was the town's business and social leader who led St. Louis in diversifying into banking as the fur trade declined.
Saint Louis adapted to Spanish rule in 1770.
1898: USS Maine destroyed, leading to Spanish-American War.
On this day in 1898, an explosion in Havana harbour sank the battleship USS Maine, killing 260 American seamen and precipitating the Spanish-American War, which originated in the Cuban struggle for independence from Spain.
Spent the evening recording War, asking for the the word from anyone.
I was covetously staring at Surly Girl's Forbidden Fruit cocktail while I sipped my Love on the Rocks.
The waiter growls "War" underneath an ornate chandelier fit for a ship.
Ran back to the liquor store to belatedly ask him for Liberty or Death.
Two incidences of a Skull-and-Bones cap. One Skull-and-Bones sign hovering above my head.
Knocked on the door to Roots, stepping over a bag of American bread between the records strutting their wrapped-come-rad grooves, the man gave me a sticker emblazoned with REBELUTION stenciled under the breasts of a black and white lady in crimson shades and I asked him to say War he sounded Bostonian Waah, I walked out and I had to pee out my Love on the Rocks in an alleyway behind OH Exterminating Company,
Took two pictures of the American flag above the library.
A man leaning on a snow-ravaged brick wall calls out as I walk past, I am three panels away from the Che Guevera mural, "You on the peacekeepin side..." He was the last person I asked to say "War." He was reapeating "oppresso de libre," "de oppresso libre," "oppresso de libre."
My camera battery expired in front of the Che Guevara mural.
Stopped at Chase bank one block afterwards to punch in a Spanish transaction to retirar sesenta nombres.
Long drags of Liberty accompanied me home.
I burnt my rice and beans and as the violet mass froze behind the blinds, I fished out a potato boiled in sea salt water accompanied by a quarter head of boiled cabbage drizzled in apple cider vinegar. I split that one eyed tuber with a cleaver, carved away at the root that remade the economies of South America and Europe (Botany of Desire) and slid each half translucent slice off the blade. Tuber, tuber cult, tuberculosis. The vinegar matched the color of my brandy and chortled pungently at its companion's fermentation process. My headphones were playing the "Sea Above, Sky Below" and it was Dirty Three's seventh track in Ocean Songs.
One apple and a six pack of beer imported from Mexico.
Maria reaches up towards the lottery tickets as I step outside the corner store smoking the unfiltered remains of my broken Liberty cigarette.
The Pacifico Clara beer slides down my tongue with a steeled silver tinge. Seu Jorge sings Cru's Tive Razao.
1989: Under President Mikhail Gorbachev, the Soviet Union withdrew its last troops from Afghanistan after occupying the country since 1979.
Walked into Long's Bookstore at the corner of 11th St at approximately 8:29 PM and read the last lines of Salman Rushdie's Midnight Children and Shame, respectively:
"And then the explosion comes...Until I can no longer see what is no longer there, a phantom with one arm lifted in a gesture of farewell."
"...To be unable to live or die in peace."
The K in the Kaimir vanilla vodka brandy label at the brink of breaking through the liquor level held tense absorbing the stack of newspapers into its amber and gris depths.
Sitting in front of my Apple computer, I was planning to conclude my post by polishing off a lopsided bruised blushing apple, the thing of beauty, intoxication, control, the forbidden sweetness whose modern form requires more pesticide than any other food crop (Pollan). I dropped it while I wrote my passage about the American flag.
1764: Auguste Chouteau settled St. Louis at the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers.
The drifting experience to stop at the bank. Chouteau was the town's business and social leader who led St. Louis in diversifying into banking as the fur trade declined.
Saint Louis adapted to Spanish rule in 1770.
1898: USS Maine destroyed, leading to Spanish-American War.
On this day in 1898, an explosion in Havana harbour sank the battleship USS Maine, killing 260 American seamen and precipitating the Spanish-American War, which originated in the Cuban struggle for independence from Spain.
Spent the evening recording War, asking for the the word from anyone.
I was covetously staring at Surly Girl's Forbidden Fruit cocktail while I sipped my Love on the Rocks.
The waiter growls "War" underneath an ornate chandelier fit for a ship.
Ran back to the liquor store to belatedly ask him for Liberty or Death.
Two incidences of a Skull-and-Bones cap. One Skull-and-Bones sign hovering above my head.
Knocked on the door to Roots, stepping over a bag of American bread between the records strutting their wrapped-come-rad grooves, the man gave me a sticker emblazoned with REBELUTION stenciled under the breasts of a black and white lady in crimson shades and I asked him to say War he sounded Bostonian Waah, I walked out and I had to pee out my Love on the Rocks in an alleyway behind OH Exterminating Company,
Took two pictures of the American flag above the library.
A man leaning on a snow-ravaged brick wall calls out as I walk past, I am three panels away from the Che Guevera mural, "You on the peacekeepin side..." He was the last person I asked to say "War." He was reapeating "oppresso de libre," "de oppresso libre," "oppresso de libre."
My camera battery expired in front of the Che Guevara mural.
Stopped at Chase bank one block afterwards to punch in a Spanish transaction to retirar sesenta nombres.
Long drags of Liberty accompanied me home.
I burnt my rice and beans and as the violet mass froze behind the blinds, I fished out a potato boiled in sea salt water accompanied by a quarter head of boiled cabbage drizzled in apple cider vinegar. I split that one eyed tuber with a cleaver, carved away at the root that remade the economies of South America and Europe (Botany of Desire) and slid each half translucent slice off the blade. Tuber, tuber cult, tuberculosis. The vinegar matched the color of my brandy and chortled pungently at its companion's fermentation process. My headphones were playing the "Sea Above, Sky Below" and it was Dirty Three's seventh track in Ocean Songs.
One apple and a six pack of beer imported from Mexico.
Maria reaches up towards the lottery tickets as I step outside the corner store smoking the unfiltered remains of my broken Liberty cigarette.
The Pacifico Clara beer slides down my tongue with a steeled silver tinge. Seu Jorge sings Cru's Tive Razao.
1989: Under President Mikhail Gorbachev, the Soviet Union withdrew its last troops from Afghanistan after occupying the country since 1979.
Walked into Long's Bookstore at the corner of 11th St at approximately 8:29 PM and read the last lines of Salman Rushdie's Midnight Children and Shame, respectively:
"And then the explosion comes...Until I can no longer see what is no longer there, a phantom with one arm lifted in a gesture of farewell."
"...To be unable to live or die in peace."
The K in the Kaimir vanilla vodka brandy label at the brink of breaking through the liquor level held tense absorbing the stack of newspapers into its amber and gris depths.
2.14.2007
Happy(?) Valentine's
Retrospective note: "Contrarian" is probably the wrong term and probably is an insult to true contrarians. However, I also refuse to engage in revisionist action to change this error. Therefore, I recommend, for the context of this post, that you understand the term "contrarian" to mean something to the lines of "rebel without a cause"
A Contrarian's Journey Through This Day In History:
Today is Valentine's Day, the feast day of St. Valentine, a priest and physician who was martyred about AD 270 in Rome, and the tradition of exchanging greetings of love on Valentine's Day is based on the legend that Valentine had signed a letter to his jailer's daughter, with whom he had fallen in love, “from your Valentine.”
Contrarian Action 1:
A game of solitaire left unplayed (Addendum: I refused to think about painting myself white in line with the order from the Queen of Hearts).
Contrarian Action 2:
At 3:10 this morning (the analog equivalent of 270 military time) I read about Ann Hamilton's installation, tropos, having a nonverbal atemporal imaginary dialogue with her solitary myein (figure) sitting amidst 5,000 square feet of horsehair, ritualistically burning printed lines from a book. Abelard and Heloise was as far from my mind as possible as I consumed an English muffin slathered in marmalade from a jar that I did not replace on its shelf, an action displacing the moral implications of Alice's fall in the rabbit hole. I had unwritten dialogues of an event already passed, stifling an unspoken desire to re-enact the love letters stuffed into a crack in the wall in Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera. I let the thought decay in my mind and found philosophic justifications to pretend it was not a loosely framed perversion of the romantic passage. I slept most of the day and awoke to picked out all the songs with the word “Love” in their titles from my ITunes library and thought about how I was missing Rufus Wainwright’s “The Origins of Love.”
1989: Fatwa issued against Salman Rushdie
On this day in 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini of Iran issued a fatwa and offered a bounty for the assassination of author Salman Rushdie, whose novel The Satanic Verses (1988) Khomeini denounced as blasphemous.
Contrarian Action 3:
I ate grapes, random handfuls of them, thinking about how "grape" was the word "rape" whose p had done an about-face, whipped out its sinister curving phallus and stood menacing the cowering four letter string (four a death-related number in Asia) while reading about violence against women reminded of fatwas levied against raped Pakistani women.
Contrarian Action 4:
I took a short bike ride to Barnes and Noble, asked a random employee to recite the word Love, and flipped idly through Salman Rushdie's Shame. At a completely unrelated and inconsequential moment, I grab his Satanic Verses and leave my kitten-saliva drenched fingerprints smeared over the cover's butterfly grinning back at me with its mimetic markings, whose terror was not by its visual nature but the fact that the glossy, digitally manipulated paperback binding killed its butterfly's innate natural ephemerality, pinning the most stereotypical manifestation of the creature onto its RGB dot-matrix cover. This was a butterfly on digital steroids, framed lovingly by the cover artist, but with a mixture of the kind of detached, objectifying love an entomologist has towards his specimen, the love Warhol had for Marilyn as he screened her colors slathering gaudily on her TV-novelty-consumer-ravaged face. I had two Siamese Fighting fish in my backpack, wrapped in three layers of paper bags, paper bags reminding me of lunch feeling vaguely guilty about having coveted the Salmon sushi earlier that day. In a healthily uninformed manner, earlier that day I had not even thought about “Salman Rushdie.”
1946: The first general-purpose high-speed electronic digital computer, the ENIAC (Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer), was demonstrated to the public by its creators, J. Presper Eckert, Jr., and John W. Mauchly.
Contrarian Action 5:
The thought of an electronic stereo system sends shivers down my spine.
At about 5 PM today I ate a small crabapple patterned with streaks of pain, as if it had been dislodged from Gregor's back in Kafka's Metamorphosis. How I detested Gregor's family.
I damaged my lower back on New Year's Day, of my own inebriated volition.
In my mind I am ritualistically pulling out every mention of Gregor's family from their spine outwards to invert their fleshy forms, forming dissectable exoskeletons out of their conceptual contours.
I promptly forget the passage.
I was not thinking about Eckhart.
1929: Members of Al Capone's gang of bootleggers massacred a rival gang run by George Moran in Chicago during the Prohibition era.
Contrarian Acton 6:
I placed two Beta fish together into a teal blue Kush herbal tonic bottle and they seemed to coexist peacefully until one hour later I returned to find their limbs scattered at the bottom of the bottle. It was grotesque and terrifying. I put the bottle out of my sight, tried to deal with the nauseating horror by trying to convince myself that it did not happen, and made no immediate attempt to separate the fish. They were not fighting anymore. The frosted glass obscured their forms.
Corollary (Prohibited Anti-contrarian Action):
I crack open a bottle of Blue Moon, light up a cigarette with a menacing black lighter imagining the aftertaste of an Al Capone cigarillo. The yogurt covered raisins I stuffed in my mouth to distract myself left me with the uncomfortable sensation of chewing on raw fish flesh. I drank no other form of alcohol today and stared at the Hurricane Cocktail mix, not thinking about how the art of bartending was born from the Prohibition period.
Me not speak easy all day.
1920: With the establishment of woman suffrage in the United States, Carrie Chapman Catt formed the League of Women Voters in Chicago.
Contrarian Action 7:
At 7:20 P.M. I half napped through A Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night-Time with my Anthropology group project abstract, “Colonizing the Beauty Myth” resting on my crotch. I was thinking about death but not about the death penalty.
1876: Alexander Graham Bell applied for a patent for the telephone.
Contrarian Action 8:
I don’t own a telephone nor an answering machine.
1779: Captain James Cook was killed by Hawaiians in a dispute over the theft of a cutter.
Contrarian Action 9:
Set afloat a couple tremendously banal, dare-I-say-kitsch, cliché/idiom-saturated conversation about love and being in the same boat feeling somewhat bitter about being single on Valentine’s Day. I continued aforementioned banal conversation in an email sending a Hallmark-worthy message about how I “ride the vibe of an unimaginable amount of romantic occurrences.”
1766: Thomas Malthus, the English economist and demographer best known for his theory that population growth will always tend to outrun the food supply and should be checked by stern limits on reproduction, is believed to have been born this day.
Contrarian Action 10:
Today, I feasted upon an amount of food equivalent to satiate two members of the American population (or twenty members of the Sudanese population) while conveniently ignoring the article in the school newspaper about Plan B being offered in the Health Center.
Final Contrarian Action:
I am posting this entry at 11:59 PM on February 14, 2007.
Love,
Me.
P.S. Historical timeline from Brittannica Online.
A Contrarian's Journey Through This Day In History:
Today is Valentine's Day, the feast day of St. Valentine, a priest and physician who was martyred about AD 270 in Rome, and the tradition of exchanging greetings of love on Valentine's Day is based on the legend that Valentine had signed a letter to his jailer's daughter, with whom he had fallen in love, “from your Valentine.”
Contrarian Action 1:
A game of solitaire left unplayed (Addendum: I refused to think about painting myself white in line with the order from the Queen of Hearts).
Contrarian Action 2:
At 3:10 this morning (the analog equivalent of 270 military time) I read about Ann Hamilton's installation, tropos, having a nonverbal atemporal imaginary dialogue with her solitary myein (figure) sitting amidst 5,000 square feet of horsehair, ritualistically burning printed lines from a book. Abelard and Heloise was as far from my mind as possible as I consumed an English muffin slathered in marmalade from a jar that I did not replace on its shelf, an action displacing the moral implications of Alice's fall in the rabbit hole. I had unwritten dialogues of an event already passed, stifling an unspoken desire to re-enact the love letters stuffed into a crack in the wall in Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera. I let the thought decay in my mind and found philosophic justifications to pretend it was not a loosely framed perversion of the romantic passage. I slept most of the day and awoke to picked out all the songs with the word “Love” in their titles from my ITunes library and thought about how I was missing Rufus Wainwright’s “The Origins of Love.”
1989: Fatwa issued against Salman Rushdie
On this day in 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini of Iran issued a fatwa and offered a bounty for the assassination of author Salman Rushdie, whose novel The Satanic Verses (1988) Khomeini denounced as blasphemous.
Contrarian Action 3:
I ate grapes, random handfuls of them, thinking about how "grape" was the word "rape" whose p had done an about-face, whipped out its sinister curving phallus and stood menacing the cowering four letter string (four a death-related number in Asia) while reading about violence against women reminded of fatwas levied against raped Pakistani women.
Contrarian Action 4:
I took a short bike ride to Barnes and Noble, asked a random employee to recite the word Love, and flipped idly through Salman Rushdie's Shame. At a completely unrelated and inconsequential moment, I grab his Satanic Verses and leave my kitten-saliva drenched fingerprints smeared over the cover's butterfly grinning back at me with its mimetic markings, whose terror was not by its visual nature but the fact that the glossy, digitally manipulated paperback binding killed its butterfly's innate natural ephemerality, pinning the most stereotypical manifestation of the creature onto its RGB dot-matrix cover. This was a butterfly on digital steroids, framed lovingly by the cover artist, but with a mixture of the kind of detached, objectifying love an entomologist has towards his specimen, the love Warhol had for Marilyn as he screened her colors slathering gaudily on her TV-novelty-consumer-ravaged face. I had two Siamese Fighting fish in my backpack, wrapped in three layers of paper bags, paper bags reminding me of lunch feeling vaguely guilty about having coveted the Salmon sushi earlier that day. In a healthily uninformed manner, earlier that day I had not even thought about “Salman Rushdie.”
1946: The first general-purpose high-speed electronic digital computer, the ENIAC (Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer), was demonstrated to the public by its creators, J. Presper Eckert, Jr., and John W. Mauchly.
Contrarian Action 5:
The thought of an electronic stereo system sends shivers down my spine.
At about 5 PM today I ate a small crabapple patterned with streaks of pain, as if it had been dislodged from Gregor's back in Kafka's Metamorphosis. How I detested Gregor's family.
I damaged my lower back on New Year's Day, of my own inebriated volition.
In my mind I am ritualistically pulling out every mention of Gregor's family from their spine outwards to invert their fleshy forms, forming dissectable exoskeletons out of their conceptual contours.
I promptly forget the passage.
I was not thinking about Eckhart.
1929: Members of Al Capone's gang of bootleggers massacred a rival gang run by George Moran in Chicago during the Prohibition era.
Contrarian Acton 6:
I placed two Beta fish together into a teal blue Kush herbal tonic bottle and they seemed to coexist peacefully until one hour later I returned to find their limbs scattered at the bottom of the bottle. It was grotesque and terrifying. I put the bottle out of my sight, tried to deal with the nauseating horror by trying to convince myself that it did not happen, and made no immediate attempt to separate the fish. They were not fighting anymore. The frosted glass obscured their forms.
Corollary (Prohibited Anti-contrarian Action):
I crack open a bottle of Blue Moon, light up a cigarette with a menacing black lighter imagining the aftertaste of an Al Capone cigarillo. The yogurt covered raisins I stuffed in my mouth to distract myself left me with the uncomfortable sensation of chewing on raw fish flesh. I drank no other form of alcohol today and stared at the Hurricane Cocktail mix, not thinking about how the art of bartending was born from the Prohibition period.
Me not speak easy all day.
1920: With the establishment of woman suffrage in the United States, Carrie Chapman Catt formed the League of Women Voters in Chicago.
Contrarian Action 7:
At 7:20 P.M. I half napped through A Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night-Time with my Anthropology group project abstract, “Colonizing the Beauty Myth” resting on my crotch. I was thinking about death but not about the death penalty.
1876: Alexander Graham Bell applied for a patent for the telephone.
Contrarian Action 8:
I don’t own a telephone nor an answering machine.
1779: Captain James Cook was killed by Hawaiians in a dispute over the theft of a cutter.
Contrarian Action 9:
Set afloat a couple tremendously banal, dare-I-say-kitsch, cliché/idiom-saturated conversation about love and being in the same boat feeling somewhat bitter about being single on Valentine’s Day. I continued aforementioned banal conversation in an email sending a Hallmark-worthy message about how I “ride the vibe of an unimaginable amount of romantic occurrences.”
1766: Thomas Malthus, the English economist and demographer best known for his theory that population growth will always tend to outrun the food supply and should be checked by stern limits on reproduction, is believed to have been born this day.
Contrarian Action 10:
Today, I feasted upon an amount of food equivalent to satiate two members of the American population (or twenty members of the Sudanese population) while conveniently ignoring the article in the school newspaper about Plan B being offered in the Health Center.
Final Contrarian Action:
I am posting this entry at 11:59 PM on February 14, 2007.
Love,
Me.
P.S. Historical timeline from Brittannica Online.
1.31.2007
Rejected Words
Format: A result of "Justifying" a pile of words discarded in the process of writing Screened Words.
Screened Words
A short excerpt from Screened Words (From a 6 hour stream typing project recorded in time lapse video):
BORGES: That is due, perhaps, to an overemployment of circumstantial details, a way of writing I learned from poets; it is a procedure that infects everything with falseness, since there may be a wealth of details in the event, yet not in memory...I believe, nonetheless, that I have discovered a more private and inward reason. I will reveal it; it does not matter that I may be judged a fantast ("The Immortal").
I : This moment commemorates a moment passed while a janitor walks by trundling a wastebasket. The broom sweeps the gravelly wheeling rhythm across the floor. Its auditory texture strokes my fingers, which salivate with Pavlov's-dog-zeal to imagine a two-inch bristle brush running over a congealed sand mound doused with enamel paint whose cracks form the spaces between these letters: I have devised these bars for my conceptual detention and I have swallowed the fragments I might have shored against my ruins. The words fall, half masticated, out of my mouth. As Tradition tips Fernanada's faded urn towards me, half-mockingly, catch a glimpse of words spittooned by the many previous word eaters, glistening with the sickly hue of a rotting jellyfish.
BORGES: I willingly admit that he has written a number of sound pages, but those pages will not save me, perhaps because the good in them no longer belongs to any individual...but rather to language itself, or to tradition.” (Borges and I)
I : Momentarily dreamt I was sliding through a shifting resin structure cast by halogen lamps positioned to glaze the space with an unbearable lightness of being. The sculpture is a checkmate, two checks mating, perspiring shadows along the ceiling. The shadows were dripping down the walls and I moved with them, the way telephone lines in the sky transform themselves from a two dimensional line image to implied movement carving away the solid marbled sky tone to free negative space labyrinths with their electronic communication buzz.
BORGES: Every act (every thought) is an echo of others that preceded it in the past, with no visible beginning, and the faithful presage of others that will repeat it in the future, ad vertiginem. (“The Immortal”)
I : Every act (every thought) ad vertiginem, the faithful presage of others that will repeat it in the future with no visible beginning is an echo of others that preceded it in the past....
1.24.2007
Signs: The Symbol, Icon, and Index
American philosopher and founder of pragmatism Charles Sanders Peirce categorizes the "signs" that make up our reality by their relations to the interpreter and referent, deducing three main groups: Symbols, icons, and indexes. To put it simply, the argument argues that Symbols have a conventional relation (e.g. language); Indexes exhibit a causal relationship (e.g. footprints), and Icons are resemblant (appearance). Peirce's semiotic theory has been influential for 20th century artists dealing with words and images. In our current context, his algorithmic groupings also form the core of Social Network Analysis.
(Sources: Art Since 1900, by Foster/Krauss/Bois/Buhcloh; further info link http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/peirce/#syn)
My response is a visual and metaphorical exercise on Peirce: Dreams, images and words have become interchangeable actors in a Comedia dell'Arte production, seemingly capricious, positioned (simultaneously) inside, outside, over and under a stage who lewdly unfurls herself in a vain attempt to emulate the successive moments occupied by each actor. Their masks shift again. Dreams narrate the words as they gaze at the white screen, glaringly aware of their implied silhouette: A high-contrast afterthought draping across its shoulder. Image watches every instant reprocessed and stays in the sidelines, waiting for the interruptible instant. She dons an elusive pose to defy her understudy role.
ARTGUMENT: The digitally-produced image embodies my visual examination of the simultaneous relationship between the three sign "types." On a perception level, we may not need the language filter to "read" and instantaneously recognize the crosswalk (Crosswalk itself implying crossing the classification boundaries). The street crossing "sign" exhibits a walking action, which holds potential for an indexical mark enacted by both referent and interpreter, it is a conventional symbol, and references the "iconized" human form. I play with tangential shapes and subverting fore/background relationships, as well as breaking apart the color-constituents to strip away perspective-based labels. Every color in the image in some manner refers to or complements another color within the image (it is completely self-contained in a chromatic sense, and the image tips its nonexistant hat to Ed Hopper's perfectly coordinated color schemes).
THOUGHTS: What does it mean for you to be seeing this image deconstructed in a purely digital (simulated) context? Do you see the image cancelling itself out in a visually formulaic way? If I presented a white diamond-shaped sign crafted to the exact dimensions of the road sign, would it mean the same thing? Does my work refer more to language (as a sign) or image? Is my analogy between "symbol, icon, index" with respect to "words, images, dreams" an internally interchangeable metaphor? Is this method of sign-analysis an effective comment on the artifices within digital media and text-based communication?
1.10.2007
What is Visiophilia?
Visiophilia is a word that blitzkreigged itself into existence in a giddy conversation passing by poster of a half-naked man curling his printed surface with the force of his sleek demeanor as we left the simulated color spectrum explosions in a grinding b.o.-infused nightclub downtown to discover a more profoundly sensual tribute to the absent rain, its aftermath forming a cacophonous visual confetti splashed with multidirectional shadows overlapping in the parking lot. A rainy alley does not intend the nightclub's painfully demystifying white light signaling closing time.
If time was the only phenomenological reality, a visiophiliac displays an abridged temporal figure. Visiophilia in its purest (unattainable) "form" would entail continually reborn perception. Experience becomes an ecstatic sensory bombardment, where sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste indulge in impulsive orgies. This sentence becomes a line of letters moving forward, ____ing Paul Klee's line: A dot (that went for a walk).
The line is a beleaguered trail of words throwing letter forms ahead of it in an attempt to smother the uncompromising cursor beat while they scramble desperately towards the only exit available to them: The articulation exhausted by its self-awareness as a set of automatically flailing gestures unable to diverge from its prescribed print. Prescribed print spits its intoxicants and leaves its indignant thoughts scattered in all of an instant.
Visiophilia is an unrelenting state of mind. It induces visual inebriation, delirium at the price of essential and simple pleasures. Visiophilia is hyperaware, but only marginally attentive. It becomes difficult to appreciate another's presence when you are absorbed by how their voice trampolines on their demeanor and crashes headfirst into the synchronously fluctuating array of colors outlined by variable association. The voice points toward the impossibility and absurdity in instantaneously recycling consciousness. Images and words metamorph into ritualistic offerings, momentary respites from accustomed perception to suggest a constancy effect (our eyes' ability to normalize the color world through categoric identification). This perspective may provide an alternative to the societal spectacle and replaces it with a self-concieved spectacle.
You might have realized by now that I have created for myself the conceptual equivalent of a Staten Island Dump for refused thoughts and discarded words. In any blog (including my own), you are simply dumpster diving: Surfing through obsolete scud missile shells shed off weapons of mass distraction, gaining vicarious compost gratification out of a text-based, essentially simulated medium. You already understand this the way a understands the Surgeon General's Warnings.
In your foray, you may find an inspiring set of rusty words to transform, recombine and weld together. I offer my digital space as a "gallery" for viewer responses and visual interpretations.
If time was the only phenomenological reality, a visiophiliac displays an abridged temporal figure. Visiophilia in its purest (unattainable) "form" would entail continually reborn perception. Experience becomes an ecstatic sensory bombardment, where sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste indulge in impulsive orgies. This sentence becomes a line of letters moving forward, ____ing Paul Klee's line: A dot (that went for a walk).
The line is a beleaguered trail of words throwing letter forms ahead of it in an attempt to smother the uncompromising cursor beat while they scramble desperately towards the only exit available to them: The articulation exhausted by its self-awareness as a set of automatically flailing gestures unable to diverge from its prescribed print. Prescribed print spits its intoxicants and leaves its indignant thoughts scattered in all of an instant.
Visiophilia is an unrelenting state of mind. It induces visual inebriation, delirium at the price of essential and simple pleasures. Visiophilia is hyperaware, but only marginally attentive. It becomes difficult to appreciate another's presence when you are absorbed by how their voice trampolines on their demeanor and crashes headfirst into the synchronously fluctuating array of colors outlined by variable association. The voice points toward the impossibility and absurdity in instantaneously recycling consciousness. Images and words metamorph into ritualistic offerings, momentary respites from accustomed perception to suggest a constancy effect (our eyes' ability to normalize the color world through categoric identification). This perspective may provide an alternative to the societal spectacle and replaces it with a self-concieved spectacle.
You might have realized by now that I have created for myself the conceptual equivalent of a Staten Island Dump for refused thoughts and discarded words. In any blog (including my own), you are simply dumpster diving: Surfing through obsolete scud missile shells shed off weapons of mass distraction, gaining vicarious compost gratification out of a text-based, essentially simulated medium. You already understand this the way a understands the Surgeon General's Warnings.
In your foray, you may find an inspiring set of rusty words to transform, recombine and weld together. I offer my digital space as a "gallery" for viewer responses and visual interpretations.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)