Utilitarians: shall we assume our forgotten science is hidden somewhere deep in the cellular memory banks? Imagination has given in to information. Then heretical methods won’t suffice. For we are subject to location. Yet the earthbound field no longer attracts. It seems that we are being utilised for some kind of sensorial induction.
As in a dream, we are passing time by supplying and constructing our bodies and surrounding objects as instruments for assuming passing time has real integral quality.
Let’s explore the content of our applications. (more…)
The spectral sign of imagination is superfluous and profane. It is an anti-consumerist luxury, an antidote against the poison of quantification.
It is an anti-artefact, not a psychological reflection of whatever data assigns it an author or creator. It is not a metaphor.
The material out of which this play emerges is by magic ritual and sheer chance. As the reader or viewer you are complicit in the transmission of this play.
And it is play.
The intention is not to make ‘art’ so that it becomes ‘work’ for a political or personal ideology. It is not to fulfill the purpose of an identity. In offering the ultimate, nothing needs to be qualified.
Against self-surveillance and identification, the astonishment of presence is always inconclusive.
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[pdf: The Present: Controversy]
Reflecting upon heat maintaining the conditions for life to exist on the earth at an intermediated origin of attraction, ‘constituent parts’ are made up of:
- Criticism of abrogation
- Impressions formed by content, however absurd
- Piracy of the quested
- Documentary evidence
- Graphic effects/photo montage/fabricated chance events
- The most perverse analogy imaginable
- The Transparent metaphor
- The Attributes of Verification
- Vectors and stealth
- Objectives, with their Hallucinators named
- The signatures’ Function, which is the same as Knowledge
1. This is not supposed to be a natural jump from one parallel universe to another and beyond. It is merely the present, pre-conditioned requirement, as most people are wont to liken such things to anyway (Our Meteorologist, by replacing the Mythic and Mystic considerations, was displeased that something looked a bit like being started, yet it hadn’t, and nothing was how it should have been). (Read more… )
[pdf: The Present: Infiltration]
When the day drives dead leaves over pastures of the molten fissures of heaven-spawned and mysterious knowledges, when we speak of that fabulous encompassed destiny, that known and familiar radiance shaped by dusk and dawn’s methods of the present restructuring—never to be disembodied—always fixed even without space or time—then together the irrationality of our Ultimate Glasnost shall be woven forever in the dew and shall forever be.
The Society Culture promulgates is usually quite Moist, and it is extremely unlikely that at its most Primitive, Society was the same as either Truth or Madness. (Read more… )
Lilliane’s new song poured from the hi-fi, bringing me to tears: “What Will We Be Burning?”. I was honoured to be inhabiting her lyrics. In one of her rooms where Sancho had fitted a black taxi cab, I read aloud one of my screenplays. She was so hyperactive and thin and muscular. Really elegant! Irresistible, despite our better judgement.
So, in the morning, we found ourselves displayed lewdly at the table, breaking our fast on one another’s bodies, and avocado and papaya and coconut. Once we were conjoined, we became very still in the fusion of pompoir. But, she called a sudden halt, panicking over what to wear for her appointment with a photographer she was already late for.
She showed me a warning she’d scrawled with a felt-tipped pen on her denim shirt sleeve cuff.
After many attempts at costume, she settled on a bright orange business suit, blue silk stockings and stilettos.
We met a photographer in a gallery and he talked about ‘creating an image, the capturing of a soul’s light’.
Later, we browsed through a record shop and Lilianne seemed to realise, ‘there’s no point in anything’. She was accosted by a supercilious music radio station host who recognised her from her last television show.
‘I’m more shy than I think I am.’
‘No, it’s the other way round.’
He didn’t need any persuasion.
© A. A. Walker
[full text published in DARK CLOUDS]
The Vampire has the luxury of enough finesse to activate indelible vocal shapes glazing over the emotional rationalisation of an inner struggle against art essayed against politics: ‘Democratic Suppliance’ by Barings Hood in the latest edition of Angelique. For the advert-priest of undemocratic dogma, that glow’s discernment. A skull is encompassed by a shipwrecked rhetoric speared by history, painted in a forger’s hand. The Vampire is well pleased.
‘The body is an instrument of itself, voice the conduit of script.’
Divested of the last remnant of daylight, passengers to Venus are following the spectacular uprising of the alchemical Black Sun. Inside the Black Sun, multitudes are in dream-time. Their will o’ the wisps are swirling through the door left ajar. Venusians digitise the invisible realms of artificial reason, releasing signals from interspatial dream-time. The blind fire of dream-time — you don’t know it yet — it’s an insane medium for a miracle.
The power chord is deranged. We’ve been shoved by the hooves of the unicorn into dream-time’s dark fire of good scripture. Fundamentally, names, dates and places are rid of the reflections of our costume jewelery. In the spirit-count of switched flesh, the repercussions of slumber are pleased to deliver the bloody fruit of no dawn. We are sliding over into the Black Sun, cutting stars to the quick in the soft dilated aura of no dawn. We are delivered as one red rose to impart the savage life.
Now, let’s let rip… (read more… )
[text & image © A. A. Walker]