metonic showers/ long hours

let 'the incredible lightness of being' be your anthem to 'the time is out of joint'. there is a strange euphoria thats accomanies tramautic experiences. in this new millenium are we in some whatever place or cynical time cruxx...and what did the nineties give us? NAFTA!? SO do we give ourselves to a schitzophenic time siezure or constitute an new spectacular continuity? thinking about place is important, for one the situationist international was right to protest place commodities but in all their diagnostics they were looking for end to politics. the place and time to speak about it is right here obviously. but because we reflect on negtivity and absent centers doesnt require cynicism or the dadaist 'abolition of the future'. its enought in fact to be wise to our own semblenceness. peeling off the fantasy to reverse or alter something like 'american exceptionalism' is totally over shooting the mark. i for one would love to ceate a big fucking spectacle, and i wonder at a radical reorginization of common sense.

hallmark holiday

start from the beginning, take stock of your whole body and especially your breath, slowly bringing your attention to your toes. it is there you begin to relax completely, one organ to the next, you locate every ounce of tension paying particular attention to the little muscles like around the eyes for instance, the joints in your fingers, the tension held in the groin or thighs. and let it go. let it all disappear. if you find that something remains, if the tension or anxiety is twice vivid as before, you know that your dumb body is no longer bearing the grunt of it. healing our bodies cannot mend our emotions, only they reveal or obscure them further. eventually we can find the very bottom of it and take from this a sense of unbearable nothingness. i have found no use in trying to heal those wounds; same as the babe suckling for milk, we are unconsciously doing it anyway and at best, we can wizen ourselves to the fact of doing it. but does that mean these are so many empty gestures? we are wise to ourselves but must go about as if it were all the same, as if we didn't know... the pretense of meaning is its architect.

the first mistake; my prayers were all too earnest, my promises too sincere. i know that life is not experienced through observation, just as desire doesnt find a spark by any plea or prayer. and the words her mouth wouldnt dare to speak, my eyes were privy to them encrypted in text and told to the entire world. his face and hand would stain her image and engross the story even more than the irony which proceeded in its conception and rebirth. so that i played the central role in my own nightmare is only a small portion of it, but, just a day after their lips met for the last time and she gave her self to him, it was the very next christmas day her legs opened to meet my lips and tongue which were held neither sacred nor apart from any other, the christmas she wept when we met again. her contradictions are equaled only by her betrayal which are both illuminated only in part by her words 'we are nothing but bodies separated only by skin.' sharp shocks that exploded my world equally in opposite directions but into one indecipherable chasm from where the 'word' whore was never shouted like all the slaps to her face and a christmas with her parents was played out to a near perfect portrayal to each one another for some fucking 'ideal' situation in her life, a safe-keeping for all my torments which for my part was committed to out of a respect that had everything to do with them. and for admitting she was a coward by never telling me i am supposed to take her apology, and in the wake of her actions to be genuine or grounds for forgiveness. and to whom is this situation more of an embarresment? do these wounds ever heal or like so many promises instead become irrelevant? or do they constitute (if i continue with) a new beginning where we are merely the said bodies occupying a space that is itself a kind of body separated only by other spaces...and when does this become a stupid, masochistic waste of time (a certain somebody wispers "it already has")!!!??

pinnochio v. hasselhoff

It is not helpful for us dissect celebraties, to ruminate over a seperation of man and myth. But when we turn our attention towards the allure, the human condition that goads us into glory, we begin to illuminate our idols and construct their image conscoiusly. Many people do this on a daily basis in fact-publicicsts, PR firms, narraters, ideologogues. They speak to a body of yearning who can neither be seen or felt, but like a hungry ghost it is heard in echoes of adulation and wanting. Those who would trace its profiles draw the rainbow of desires and common sensibility; they illuminate the heavans and cast shadows upon everything in its horizon. But those who would dispell the world of ghosts like Marx, who would surrender ideology and aesthetics to a false consciousness, are haunted by a spectre of their own-indeed communism has been given this name..."A spectre is haunting europe, the spectre of communism." They are haunted by a spirit who would have nothing to do with spirits. The exorcists of desire erect souless buildings and mosaics that reflect nothing other than material necessity. Moses engaged in a similar project, but was scandalized by the fact that the 'One True' had no face that would not consume us, no voice that would not destroy us utterly. The 'thing' of our dangerous and disgusting desires is sublated and the 'Golden Calf' returnes in jahweh's 'lessor faces' -divine messengers and a holy ghost in that we may know his glory about the world. Our heros and villains are just like this; not individuals in the sense that we know them (not to you or I); they live in our gazing upon, as conjured object-images that move in the world as apparitions do (they walk through walls or appear suddenly in your sleep). All of this is explained in popular media and culture.The story of superman (uber-man) opens with the plight of villains who were nefarious enough to warrant a condemnation within mirrors indefinitely, who return via the folly of a desperate man seeking their power; he is consumed upon first contact. This is not only the price of opening a “Pandora’s Box” but a necccessary step for the narrative to complete itself, where the forces of evil come to face their epic conquest by powers of goodness. This is accurately depicted as powers discovered along the way (they were not given but conjured) who were administered by a single man, the phallic body of our precipitous adulation. But how did the uber-man find his way to earth? When the world is turned upside down a great mourning appears and a haunting is set forth. The thing of reconciliation is set just above the horizon and although we are forced to grasp at this as if it were a real body, as if Pinocchio were a real boy, the sun burns our fingers off. This is why Lois fell in love with Clark Kent only after she knew him as the heroic figure in the news. Were he to become real again his phallic appeal would vanish entirely (it was only when he sought to give up his special status, his Je ne sais quoi that the world became vulnerable to all the evils of the nether world). When in the film Brazil Sam Lowry escaped his captures and his liberator Harry Tuttle immediately falls under a fatal duress. Instead of running he comes to his to his rescue and he recognizes for the first time in this embrace the person who he had wish to become; that the entire time Tuttle was the the expression of all his most controversial desires. This is when Harry Tuttle disintegrates into a mass of worthless paper shards that blow about the cold cityscape untended and forgotten. This is because Lowry was a realist, an iconoclastic spoiler of illusions. Idols and graven images and all great ideas are Harry Tuttles. As ghosts, they are ethereal bodies of lacking in every aspect but name (the corporeality of being-in-names, its body of speech). Names are spoken in hauntings, invocations that carry with them the unfinished business of a world not quite at home with itself. Without its name it cannot be conjured, cannot appear to us in our sleep. When Hamlet proclaimed 'The time is out of joint' he was invoking the spirit of his dead father, who was the name for unspeakable horrors, foul crimes of a past made present who's only salvation lived in the promise of a future indulgence. The experience of the present is always consumed by a kind of spectral lacking, the shadow play of an impossible belonging that permeates the world like a holy ghost. Even though it eludes our grasp, that it has no voice that will not destroy us, no face that will not blind us; even though Harry Tuttle disapears the moment we think we've got him finally, the world moves about its whims, without this ghost, without its continual conjuration, we are merely the profane flesh bags attested to by the stoics, toiling about obscure mundanity. Just ask Mr. Hasselhoff.

>>>>>bbbbborn4pornnnnn<<<<<<<<<

recently ive been getting into broad appeal pop music that has more of a feel good vibes. for ever i was into stuff that had nothing to do with feeling good or crowd pleasing, non song music that took moments to disregard the audience and do something interesting or strange, like take a breK FROM PER4FUNCTORY NORMALNESS, THE 'NORMAL' SITUATION. Like adult. or suicide, black dice among others. at these shows i often wanted to take a break from my own normal situation, temporarily, emotionally, take a dive somewhere outside of formal communicatibility or more importantly the molds that we pour our energies into that they may be recieved by other human beings. the poets are endlessly looking for ways to evade the cliche' expression. but there is in language a tension which has not only to do with the obligation to represent our person through rigid structures that have nothing to do with our actual being, but also that they have everything to do with our experience of being (the form is defining content). the world is absolutely topsy turvey in this way and music offers itself as an energy that communicates on its own terms. AND MUSIC IS, having no neccessary body or rational discourse or reference to concept (tone and pitch are are different cases entirely; they are real objects or, or the superficial roadblocks to the form but not meaning) it is in itself an exceptional continuity or a sensing before words ....For this reason i have disdain for the person who says "i just love that song(the macarana)!!! and genre-centric musicians who buy into replication and precidence. worse yet is the music capitalist who empties out content into a product, or the opportunist that works any genre whatsoever to get listend too (i.e. black eyed peas). music movements and even genre defining artists are guilty of this lazyness. replication is fruitful in certain respects but i find the experience lackluster. the attitude which is genre-conscious but not genre-defined is commendable. glass candy is a good example of just such a band. they have a track called 'superficial roadblocks' on their album music dream which i imagine the themes to be stuttering over the sexual energies of music and dancing. it is in a later album where 'soft boundries/animal imgination' captures this energy perfectly. whats interesting in track 2 about 'ripe apples' is the name itself, it is a kind of metaphor to song. it is song that captures chaotic tendencies in pre-speech or noise music and coalesces it into a fleshy fruit. it is a cocoon of meaning, but like the poem it consists of the 'creature' that would leave it. an obsession with music that disregards its audience is something to do with a deisre for a real intimacy. pop appeal on the other hand is the stamp of a symbolic panopticon, a forboding figure of a kind of perpetual 'no' who smashes the mind and desire into a formal submission. because of this pop culture is the grooming grounds of disconnected bodies, the intimacy in personal aleination; virtual communication in its truest sense. it is a case of looking ffor love in all the wrong places.

Here's a link to it:
http://www.myspace.com/rockthetoy

http://www.myspace.com/glasscandy

horse boy v. saggers

in response to "dont publish that!"

the 60s generation subverted Decartes's axiom "i drift thereofre i am" and founded the self affirmation "i am therefore i drift." when vietnam shattered the few remaining illusions of a rationality american society, what rose in its wake was a sense of vulnerablity, all the more salient within a burgeoning global society and president Carters refutation of americsn exceptionslism. sense of world would construct this "i am." the laudable "i am loved therefore i drift " later fell victim to Ronald Reagan but it just-was as bankrupt as the american narcissist, "i am, therefore there is love (therefore love)." they shared a treading towards meaning in a world wholly devoid of substantive content; thanks to the nineties we can now admit that and the 'i am' just doesnt matter, we are but we wont. But we are frustrated and anxious by thye fact that "i am nothing therefore i drift" is a coded "i am no narcissist therefore pay attention to me" or a literal falling apart of self and world. What this phobia holds proof to is the priority of something, something uncertain which by virtue of ts uncertainty has the charecter of embodiment; sentient prey of bigger and more spectacular contingent certainties. Therefore i affirm the priority of desire even in the face-world of values and truth claims, the fact that truth has no claim upon love, only in that it may embody this force, or represent some obscure cornerstone of driftin apart together (together apart), lends me to take refuge in a whatever place, or this whatever in particular (in your heart not neccessarily). That the claims of drifting and world are overlapping has everything to do with the fact that meaning is an absent guest (like beetlejuice he is not invited but conjured) and we still set a place for him ath the table and set ourselves somewhere between the 'form is emptiness' and bodhidarmas left hand to forgive ourselves in secret not for what we have done, but for the fact that we are knowing it anyway. 'Namaste' is best expessed in irony and our generation can no longer associate itslef with broad conjuctions like 'i am self, i am world." and so i say "go about the world drifter, and love greatly"