new years revolutions

In no particular order.

Be less of a bleeding heart liberal and more of a stabbing heart revolutionary.
Drink more frequently and pay less money for it.
Learn to sew.
Acquire attractive weapons; shoot television sets in the forest.
Eat more trash.
Vomit more frequently; also, vomit eye out once more--that shit looked tough as hell.
Sell most possessions in order to be more frequently possessed by Dionysus.
Finally get a fucking typewriter and cut all ties to the despiritualizing world of computer-aided poetics.
Catch up on all the weird Baltimore and New York music that has been lately floating past my world without so much as a signal unless I happen to stumble across it on Myspace and my ears pulsate like an long-denied orgasm finally coming to staggering fruition.
Become more of a fag and also more of a greaser.
Discover more Italo Disco.
Do whatever the opposite of "chilling out" is.
Up my game in the magic/occult department.
Listen to Ghost Mice more frequently.
Get to know Insane Clown Posse with decreasing irony.
Become a better drummer.
Disrupt at least one church service a month.
Get that tattoo of Kafka's mug on my wrist. Maybe also get a Kafka mug. Who knows?

Exmas.

Christmas is a good cross-section of everything I hate. It's got: family values, consumerism, tacky decoration, and, of course, Christian dogma. I suppose revelling in the cheese of Christmas-- one of the two things you can't talk shit on in America (the other thing being anything associated with 9/11 that isn't middle-eastern), is something of the last resort of the disenfranchized from xmas glee...With so many smiles and so many sweaters, how can your young heart not feel warmed? Christmas is a time when we can all get TOGETHER...the awkward reunion of disparate members of the extended family unit who can participate together in various banal and impersonal rituals after clammering around in the chaotic tide of aggrivated shoppers shovelling out Christmas Savings dollars to the ultimate support of grand imperialist exploitational systems which lock in place the impossibility of global "together"ness...

Anyway, here are two grand Christmas relics from this year which should inspire joy in the hearts of people of all ages:























and this

www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8qE6WQmNus

Happy hollowdays.

Red dinos

By popular demand (Tess), I have posted a play I wrote about Marxist dinosaurs. Enjoy.

http://www.sendspace.com/file/0asnuk

Asger Jorn

A fun Situationist and painter from Denmark. The second painting is especially awesome--"detournement" without a rigid and pedantic political objective...that's something I always thought lacked in the Situationists' "art." Instead of reconstructing and re-examining space in their (anti) art, as they did in their theory, they stuck to the format of literal insertion of theory into spectacular mediums...Jorn rejected their somewhat teleological "end of art" stuff and created art which felt close to the "form follows fun" idea that founded their urbanography and psychogeographic ideas. If "modern" art itself can be seen as a spectacle, where does the category of "art" end, and how could a new urban geography which emphasized psychic pleasure and interactive personality be defined as somehow oppositional to this spectacular art? Is a new format somehow stricken from the category of "art" simply because of its creator's opposition to what that category has hitherto entailed? This is a point which has always bothered my in Situationist dogma. And it is true that their critiques often attain a sort of dogma in interpretation and appropriation; there is almost a "thou shalt not" lingering in the background of their theory-- "thou shalt not create 'modern art' "--as though, with the immense myriad of expressions this elusive term has been applied to, there is somehow a linear, temporal, and categorical end to this term. "Modern" and "postmodern" are not times so much as tendencies which mark a particular time more than another. But this is only retrospective-- had the Situationists not been careful to be adamant, almost absolutist in their dogma, and had they actually made more practical moves to re-interpret space in a tactile fashion, "history" would undoubtedly have called their work a sign of the times, modern art for modern times, etc. The sharp lens of art criticism could be considered the antidote to this generalizing tendency which formed the flimsy foundation for the Situationists' repudiation of the production of modern art. Instead of a radically sharp critique of individual expressions within an already shakily-defined "epoch" of art, or, more precisely, epoch of capitalism taking expression in this mode of art, the Situationists preferred to see artistic expression in a tight vaccuum and analyze it thusly. Without going into a deeper critique of the Situationists' aims, failings, and successes, suffice to summarize that though their critique was valid, timely, and incredibly important to contemporary subversive thought, it is dangerous and dulling (of the sharp point of critique) to take up its more ideological expressions (especially on art) as an absolute template for future creations. The Situationists were not art critics, they were critics of art, and they weren't critics of art from its own merits but from its placement within commodity-representation society. The work of Asger Jorn could be seen as an element of the negation of ideology which the Situationists so desperately wanted to espouse, but failed, in their persistence upon actions directed in a certain fashion, being utilized in strict and general opposition to a large scheme of antithecal production.

brahstronomy

Eventually the fuckin' universe is gonna shrink to a little speck again, and then there's gonna be another big bang. That shit will be seriously intense. It's gonna keep doing that gradually forever...it'll be like "surprised kitty" but with the universe.

untitled

A short time ago I wondered about you but
you were just a specter on a bus.

Now you’re the ghost orb in all my photographs,
the ghost dust on all my phonographs,
I am loose in the old loud charisma of this that is now our ghost town
when you don’t call me to your dirty window with a whisper like a tiny horn
I am groping in the stairwell of a strange epoch when you don’t wisp me off my big calendar

You taught me to spell calendar and now, here again is your ghost
the ghost sand on my dirty paper
hollering like old bread
from a muted record
spinning on my shoulder.

Rachel Lattimore

I love her stuff sooo much.


Anyway, I'm thinking about maybe writing a short horror movie about lesbian seperatists. A travelling guy ends up in a lesbian seperatist commune and is suddenly put under a series of strange and brutal experiments for the purpose of eventually creating a male-less reproductive method as suggested in SCUM manifesto. What do you think?