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Wednesday, 30 January 2013

Tuesday, 29 January 2013

LAST
TUESDAYISM

PHYLOGENIC MEMOIRS. 

Thursday, 17 January 2013

Tuesday, 15 January 2013







The borderlines of the virtual reality scape and the bland living room where he sat became indivisible, Marlowe smoked. Eyes raised towards the grey screen promising a hither too unknown vivid hallucination lay ahead. The room was dark. He remembered an old film directed by Robert Montgomery called 'Lady In The Lake'  from the Raymond Chandler novel of the same name. With the pressure of 3-D Cinema hanging low against his dimly lit Hollywood studio door, Robert Montgomery choose instead to invent the first person shooter. Marlowe reminisced how one could chart a linear line between 'Lady of The Lake' and the dreamscapes he chased first in 'Doom' as a child and now in 'Bioshock'. And yet, he was still enthralled by rejecting the game map, by moving beyond the linearity of the narrative (here, he chuckled, what would Foucault have said?), engaging strange creatures with nothing new to say over and and over again for hours, initiating bizarre stalker-like love affairs by repeat phone call in Ganguro Girl... This film theorist guy, see Marlowe was a film graduate who used to teach down at the local college until the great epoch had ended... See this film theorist guy, in the late 70s, he took the memories of Chris Marker's La Jetee and re-edited them into a new sequence, creating what he called La Rejetee, memories that he (the film theorist) would now own. Memories that were his. Marlowe liked to think that was what he had been chasing through the video game hallucination since childhood, the creation of new memories, his memories. 

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Tuesday, 8 January 2013


.. In that Empire, the Art of Cartography attained such Perfection that the map of a single 
Province occupied the entirety of a City, and the map of the Empire, the entirety of a 
Province. In time, those Unconscionable Maps no longer satisfied, and the Cartographers 
Guilds struck a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire, and which coin- 
cided point for point with it. The following Generations, who were not so fond of the 
Study of Cartography as their Forebears had been, saw that that vast Map was Useless, 
and not without some Pitilessness was it, that they delivered it up to the Inclemencies of 
Sun and Winters. In the Deserts of the West, still today, there are Tattered Ruins of that 
Map, inhabited by Animals and Beggars; in all the Land there is no other Relic of the 
Disciplines of Geography. 



かわいそうで
LOL, TOTES JUST CUT CHRIS MARKER OUT OF FOUCAULTS ARCHIVE. 

Monday, 7 January 2013







There were only seven inmates in the Bastille. 

Friday, 4 January 2013

omg, so P/K. 

Thursday, 3 January 2013











... And I don't know what the shaman is trying to achieve... there isn't any light in this room; - it's black.. well not a real black, but you know pretty much black. And the shaman is making my heart go all crazy and I feel like I'm going to puke. Actually I'm pretty sure I'm going to puke ... The shaman is still dancing in this underground club and I can no longer feel the leather pushing up against my knees, I'm like... some place else? But my stomach hurts and my face feels feverish and the shaman won't stop fucking dancing. There is a smoke here that hangs on everything, pushing the dust of old customers up into the air as you slide down... In my case sliding down against the fucking booth against the back fucking wall as the Shaman spins so quick you can't decipher his shapes... I was wrong about the light actually, the light isn't black... Not black, it's an ink blue that seems to go fluorescent in the light when he comes too close shaking his breast tassels in a metaphor of nothing. It's that blue... You know. THAT BLUE. The blue of the portals to another reality. The blue that French guy is always talking about, not that guy, not the guy who wrote about portraits being portraits if he says so... No, not that french guy. The other one. The blue guy. I bet he was pretty fucking blue too, when he had a heart attack because he saw his face in a fucking moving picture. I'm feeling pretty much like him right now, the shaman doesn't give a shit though. He's still whirling round. How are the others watching him and not... going... like ... Out of their minds? If I stand up I'll lose the world and go crashing through the fucking ceiling to like... the neverending man. The light is void dark blue, or as our friends in France say, le vide bleu. And although I know there are other people in this joint: The amount of booths and chairs in this place tell me that. (The booths and chairs are dark red, or la vide rouge.) I can't see them. Perhaps it's just like I said, that smoke screen coming off the chairs every time you put even just the fucking tip of your finger on them. The end of a movie, the fucking skins of customers gone by... People have fun in this place man. Perhaps the human skin that has like evaporated... hides that shit man. Or maybe I'm the only one here this time. Anyway, look... I'm trying to tell you a story so can we like get to my main fucking point? The fucking shaman is dancing, I'm sweating, against a dark wall which is sweating with damp back at me and the light is la vide bleu, the chairs la vide rouge. And this fucking joker shaman guy is in the middle of the club shaking his blue breast tassels and screaming to the HIGH FUCKING HEAVENS all in my face. And that sends me right over the fucking edge. I don't do anything, but I like hit... the edge.. the closure, the fucking heel. The like ultimate annihilation detonation point extraordinaire. 

I lower my eyes to catch my breath. The Shaman is dancing, and dancing, and dancing. Grinding and grinding and grinding. Screaming and screaming and screaming. The dust of those who came before and no longer walk among us from the floor of this joint is being like distributed by the gnarled feet of the shaman - and I'm thinking how did this guy even end up in a place like this? The dust starts to travel up to meet my lowered eyes, like curling itself into my nostrils. I can feel it. It feels like the G-Y-M ... GYM all over again. Other peoples shit getting into all your shit. As you can imagine, this is enough to snap me back into the real world. And I raise my eye's to meet the shamans. 









Tuesday, 1 January 2013



'Thus in the same way that all cultural images and objects become general—the film Independence Day being not dissimilar in homogeneity and degree of spectacle from any individual's photos of their newborn child on Facebook —so too does the authorial stance of the artist become general. Any sorting of images or aspects of culture, applied with a declaration or narrative gesture, becomes not dissimilar to our experience of everyday life, regardless of the degree to which the images are spectacular. What comes to matter is not that an artist has presented some aspect of the spectacle and how it fits neatly into some aspect of a linear historical trajectory. What matters is that in the presentation they have created a proposition towards an alternate conception of cultural objects.'
Artie Vierkant, 'The Image Object Post-Internet' 














Next time Darling,


Maybe, next time. 
DA-

They say work hard, study hard.
But I like long walksSEIN. and rain.