eeeeeeeeeeei. webspinna.

mister rogers
dr. phil
celine dion
christian bale

kurt schwitters
funky! (e)

seaworld main page
gibbon
dolphin clicks
dolphins underwater
bottlenose
lamb
anteater
racoon
echolocation

rhythm remix science remix

this is your life:

• Michael Jackson’s Thriller
• Bad cut-up video
• Material Memory

But also:

prostitutes duchamp moca deleuze shit bellbottom jeans scarlett letter duality duality racial angela davis physics philosophers vector animal WU TANG! gospels christianity prosthetic sex reykjavik shit microwave entropic optometry (for your oh-so-jaded eyes) scientific basis realism psychological echo feng shui shit panthers du bois apollo sphinx party party party oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral oral and on and on.

But who controls the environment you grew up in?
Confusion tyrannizes.

loop loop loop,
reply reply reply,
poker-faced language.
Today we live in a society defined by restricted perspective, old hierarchies.

But now things come under question.

Everything comes out ready made, repetition, taken from the whole of nature. Environment collecting, registering coincidences. Shift your memories from their fragmented predecessors to a subjective truth. I don’t really cook, but I can mix and absorb feelings to forms, ripping through allegiance, transmute, make something consensual. Visualize it. Divorce the image from its arbitrage, its slogan, there is nothing that you have to say right now. Today, the voice you speak with is silent. It is simultaneously your own and not your own. Conventional discourse belongs to a machine, defining interpretation. So keep cranking out the drift recontexualizing to its primal pre-linguistic science fiction extensions jazz and blues and dematerialized jumping off from the original archive changing the system by changing the frequency reprocessing endlessly endlessly endlessly. Science fiction and theater are no more imaginary or foolish or blinding than realism and The Word. Visual automatic writing forms identity, makes sense of the incubation zombie reading the phonograph while carrying a lamb in plastic buckets.

Does this have external or social meaning beyond your own perception?

It is starting…but invention ultimately only goes so far,
individualism stops direction alteration thinking
contributions discoveries and it goes on and on
loop loop loop reply reply reply. Personal implosion
creates a consciousness but to move, to communicate
something directly relational? well The Word is Law but
representation is coordinated - it is experience - the
final hearse to solidify your worst fear of no new thoughts
but when an EXCHANGE of GLANCES meets admitting that
appropriation draws from relativism and dispels self not
collective mystery, a mix of past appropriation to be able
to understand and say THE WORD and rhyming preconceptions
that are THE WORD tells cinematic style stories always moving
moving moving. We have to flow between the pendulum swing if
we want new ways to say shit.Creating the word ‘shit’ was
a remix, a great part of history, lets remix it again.
Doubleshit shitflock dreamshit artshit doubleplusartshit
shitness gutenshit galsahxiyt shitstyemic, whatever you’re
into. Not everything all the time but peril gives way to
struggle gives way to uncertainty gives way to the
passionately tricksterish. A Victorian era biologist or
something found that a series of sounds gives way to
signifying, investigation, narratives, culture, thinking,
NOT that thinking gives way to culture and narrative and
investigation and signifying and sound. Our hardware/software
is a beautiful accident carried by an invisible vector, it
generates on its own, transmitting what does not have to be
a disease if you transmutate the sounds. And in the process
they remain our own but refer to everything and everyone else,
we create collective where everyone can contribute – if you
think of one you think of us all.

Just think: respectful synthesis, bats
flying through the night.

Blood and Guts in High School

Acker’s literary strategies of montage, appropriation, and use of several different literary forms (letters, poems, children’s stories, plays, etc. in addition to more traditional narrative) in Blood and Guts in High School immediately alerted me to a remix of the remix technique the dadaists used to assert the absurdity of their time. A large component of dada literature involved taking the format of texts they believed promoted nationalism and justification of war (i.e., journalism, Expressionism) and breaking it down into nonsense, thus depleting it of meaning. In doing so they replaced the authority of the original texts with their own. I think Acker employs this process to subvert the history of masculine literature as a whole. In response to the overtly sexist Sahih, Janey states, “For 2,000 years you’ve had the nerve to tell women who we are. We use your words; we eat your food. Every way we get money has to be a crime. We are plagiarists, liars, and criminals,” implying that the world is defined in masculine terms and so women are forced to exist and express themselves under those conditions. However, she executes this plagiarism extremely effectively, using their words to undermine them, challenging the concept of a solely masculine literary authority. In addition, based on the context, an unchanged plagiarized form can take on a whole new meaning. Acker seems to use Burroughs’ cut-up method throughout the book, but based on the relationship of this form to the story, it’s confused fragmentation translates to Janey’s state of mind and creates a sense of her perception.

I also think it’s important to address Georges Bataille’s role in terms of a pornographic, surrealist structure with a high concentration of “fucks” and “cunts.” Despite Story of the Eye’s explicit sexual description, I find it to be more about Bataille’s theory of heterology than sex itself. Heterology is essentially “the study of that which is different.” Specifically, Story of the Eye is about the dichotomy between spherical objects (eyes, eggs) and liquids (tears, urine, semen). Sex is important, however, because as Acker says, “We don't know what humans are like… It's not like people do everything they do for economic reasons. You've got to look at the imagination; you've got to look at sex.” The sexual content and “base” language functions more as an embrace of the disgusting and painful because “erotic pleasure is not only the negation of an agony that takes place at the same instant, but also a lubricious participation in that agony.” While Bataille’s novella is not necessarily about sex, however, I think Blood and Guts in High School is. It seems to me that Acker uses Bataille’s concept of heterology in reference to feminine sexuality, particularly in Janey’s desire to fuck and the painful consequences that sex brings. She both negates and participates in agony, and therefore the crudeness of Acker’s language is vital. I don’t believe, as one reviewer said, that Acker’s writing ability is impaired by her language choice. Without the pain that she borrows from Bataille, the complexities and double-standards behind female sexuality would be dishonest and turned into something superficial, making the book read more like an episode of Sex and the City. And the less Sex and the City in this world, the better.


For Bataille’s ramblings on the excessive and disgusting, here’s a pretty interesting essay on D.A.F. De Sade:
http://www.sauer-thompson.com/essays/BatailleUseValueSade.pdf


Also, I couldn’t find a link to a good dada poem that described what I discussed above, but here’s an example below:


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Year 1 of World Peace
Baader, Hausmann, Huelsenbeck, Tristan Tzara


Dada Statement
Hirsch Copper and Brass weaker than ever. Will Germany starve?
Then it must sign. Attractive young lady with 38:22:38 figure for
Herman Loeb. If Germany does not sign, then it will
probably sign. In a marketplace of unit values, prices
tend to fall. If Germany signs it will probably be
signing so as not to have to sign. Lovehalls.
Latenightextratheskywhizzingalong. From Viktorhahn. Lloyd
George thinks it was possible that Clemenceau is of the opinion
that Wilson believes Germany must sign, for she won’t be able
not to sign. As a result club dada declares itself in favour of
total freedom of the press-ure because the press-ure is the
cultural weapon
without which we would never learn that Germany really
will not sign simply in order to sign.
(Club dada, Dept. for Freedom of the Press, in so far as good form allows.)

The new age begins with the year of Chief Dada’s death Ad

mary and i.

Who is Mary, you ask?

Fuck if I know.

However afraid I am of her, I long to know so that I can keep her in line. All I can gather is that she is annoying and makes my life hard. I make my living as her speech-writer.

I do all of her paperwork, actually, in order to shift the ocean current toward responsibility and respectability, giving her the right words to say and the proper amount of coyness and ambition. I also picked out her glasses. They help to fool most people into thinking that she is very smart. She says she doesn’t need them, that she doesn’t mind bumping into everything and everyone, that she can see everything she needs to.

Oh bother.

The little bitch keeps me from sleeping, in part because she refuses to do any of this work on her own and in part because I can never find her. She hides in baskets of fluff and behind squares of fabric, projecting light signals to strangers.

What a fucking weirdo!

She does do what I tell her to, most of the time, but she easily stumbles. Sometimes she flat-out rejects the stories I give her to tell and tells her own. They are about owls and scorpions and phallic-shaped factories, but she never speaks – at most she makes a low, guttural, intelligible noise (“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhh”).

She gives everybody hugs. It’s embarrassing.

I try to keep her at bay by pushing her onto her back, like a turtle, and I watch her flounder, plastron up, for a little while. But then she just morphs into an archaeopteryx or a whale or a hedgehog and flies or swims or scurries away, vomiting out litters of amorphous babies and sticking arrows into her hard palate. She is happy.

It is deplorable. This is no place to be content.

Without me, she logically makes no sense in this world. And as much as she protests that this world is not the right one, I am at least able to intimidate her into staying here. She needs me. I give her speech, I give her purpose, I give her meaning.

I do not know if this means anything at all.

missed connection (exercise in style).

Sexy LongNeck: Is It Fate?? - w4m (S Bus)
Date: 2009-09-03, 3:47AM MDT

You were on the bus today at about noon. Your long neck caught my eye, as did your hat, felt? with some sort of cord around it. You seemed annoyed by the person next to you who kept stepping on your feet, I wanted to make some sort of comment or say something clever but you rushed away to the first open seat before I got a chance.

Then, about two hours later I saw you again! You were talking with a friend and I got close enough to hear him say something about the buttons on your coat before I majorly pussed out and passed you by.

Seeing you again seemed like some sort of sign and I can't believe I missed that opportunity. Your mesmerizing and I can't get the event out of my head. Ah well... I hope you read this and write me back... tell me what color shoes I was wearing so I know it's you.

Stay sexy, LongNeck. ;)!!

gertrude stein remix.

*from the stomach there is hiding, from the airsacks there is choking, in the larynx there is babbling, on the tastebuds there is biting. on the tastebuds there is biting. in biting everything is secret, in biting everything is tidy, in biting there is solitary, in biting there is conformity, in biting there is continuity and somehow accepting there is bonding. all the fat men wear argyle and all the big trucks wear big tires and all the lips hold tobacco pipes and all the skin holds itself. this makes silence.