Hard-Boiled – Abattoir Fermé & Capsule: LIVE!
wo 17 do 18 vr 19 za 20 wo 24 do 25 vr 26 za 27/10
PREMIERE

‘There is a man in the moon
And he knows our darkest side
There is a man in the moon
And he knows where secrets hide
There is a man in the moon
And the wolves are hungry
There is a man in the moon
He’ll keep us company tonight’

Hyper-productief maakt Abattoir Fermé al een paar jaar producties die niemand onberoerd hebben gelaten. Kc nOna vergast u op Abattoir’s nieuwste worp. Hard-boiled is een uniek gelegenheidsproject, waarvoor de beeldenstormers van het Vlaamse theater in zee gaan met het het Antwerpse cultcombo Capsule.

Music, images, girls!
Abattoir Fermé + Capsule, live!

Van en met (Abattoir Fermé): Stef Lernous, Kim Rens, Tine Van den Wyngaert, Kirsten Pieters en Laura Aernoudt
Van en met (Capsule): Saar Van de Leest, Florence Henry, Rose Van de Leest, Roos Janssens, Stefaan Blancke, Griet van Nieuwenborgh, Tom Doof en Bruno Meeus
Productie: Abattoir Fermé & Capsule ism Troubleyn / Jan Fabre, Nieuwpoorttheater en kc nOna

PS.: De tickets gaan razendsnel de deur uit. De première op wo 17/10 is nu reeds uitverkocht. Snel reserveren!

PS2.: De speelreeks van Hard-Boiled is beperkt. Abattoir Fermé & Capsule: LIVE! is enkel te zien in Kc nOna, Mechelen en Nieuwpoortheater, Gent.

Res.: klik hier of via 015/203780 – top – om 20u30 in kc nOna

http://netart.doesntexist.org/

http://dv.doesntexist.org/

dv@
Neue Kathedrale des erotischen Elends
2005

                                   De onmogelijkheid van menselijke omgang

vaag en bijgelovig is het begin van onze aantrekking

    en onze vriendschap die zo menen wij nooit zal

     eindigen tenminste van ons leven niet wij

      gaan voor mekaar door brand en bogen

       hebben ons zieleheil veil voor mekaar

         dik voor mekaar als onmerkbaar

          in het begin maar allengs meer

            uitgesproken onmin groeit

             en averechtse aversie een

              knagende opbouw van

                 lichte wrevel twist

                  ‘s avonds mondt
schilferscherpe

                        repliek

                juiste woorden

                  vinden als vanzelf de

                  weg tussen vaag en vergeten

                  tussen vriend en onverschilligheid

                  familie en geen zaken mee en zo zijn

                  wij takken steeds verder wijder uit mekaar

                  wortels die in hun onvermoeibare zoektocht

                  stenen splijten en desnoods door dikke kleilagen

                  heen hun weg banen maar elkaar blind de rug hebben

                  toegekeerd en tenzij zij de hele aardkorst zouden ronden

                  nog met geen flinterhaartje mekaar zullen aanraken laat staan

                  omhelzen of beminnen en we zijn alleen als een magere pier in zijn

                  armetierige holletje ver onder de glibbige bodem van de oceaan vergeten

Spoken W.O.R.D. :
A. Andreas leest J.A. Dèr Mouw

]]> http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/07/audio-2/feed/ 0 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/07/foto-2/ http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/07/foto-2/#comments Sun, 07 Oct 2007 13:47:00 +0000 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/07/foto-2/ ]]>

VIS ™ -markt

I

Alsof het er genoeg van heeft
zo droomt het water soms zichzelf,
als storm in een glas, of maanziek
en met vlinders in de buik, van de aarde weg
om tegen de hemel aan te schurken
en tot wolken te verstijven. Getijden
in de breedte en de hoogte…

De wolken vormen een reuzenscherm,
maken de aarde tot gigantische drive-in,
genereren non-stop nieuwe beelden
waarvan poëzie slechts kan dromen

In de luchtspiegeling ziet men vaak
de meest aardse dingen: op heldere dagen
soms Bolivië. Schreeuwende indianen
zijn dan in de wolken. Hun drinkwater is geprivatiseerd.
Zij dorsten naar…betaalbaar water.

Gelukkig koelt dit soort beelden nog voor ze kristalliseren,
en zonder de boel op een lading hagel te trakteren, af,
en op het hoogtepunt van het negatieve kookpunt
keert het water terug naar d’aarde (Of vliegt verder door naar Mars).

Didi de Paris

after islandverse by Audacia Dangereyes

• “Sykkö” by Eino Leino
• “Exactly, Absolutely”, a translation of “Pajkerno” by Lars-Mikael Raattamaa as “Byos”, “Sanasade” (23:02, mp3)

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Klik op het prentje en vervolgens op F11 voor Full Screen Mode
(klik nogmaals op F11 of op Esc voor ‘normale’ weergave)
]]> http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/05/link/feed/ 0 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/05/een-uur-geleden-in-parkje-heuvelhof/ http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/05/een-uur-geleden-in-parkje-heuvelhof/#comments Fri, 05 Oct 2007 10:12:00 +0000 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/05/een-uur-geleden-in-parkje-heuvelhof/ ]]>
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n.v.d.r.: Peter Holvoet-Hanssen over deze tekst:

“Geachte KapersBuren,

vers van de KapersPers: ‘Antwerpen, zondag 8 januari 1865′. Het echoot
het ‘Sneeuwmaker’gedicht uit ‘Dwangbuis van Houdini’ (1998) en een wolkengedicht van een vos uit de bundel ‘Santander’ (2001).

Later komt het terecht in mijn vijfde bundel ‘NAVAGIO’ met 33 zgn.
‘wrakhoutgedichten’. NAVAGIO is het einde van een poëziereis (die ooit met ‘Strombolicchio’ was aangevangen in de jaren tachtig), en ook de naam van een schip gemaakt uit wrakhout(verzen), gedoemd tot zinken. Naar de stilte van de dieperik.
Of jullie het opnemen of niet: een goéde wind in al jullie zeilen!
Blijf enteren die zwarte gaten, ondanx alles -

Peter (Holvoet-Hanssen) vanuit Het Kapersnest (met Noëlla ‘Dolores!’ Elpers)
www.kapersnest.be.”

Visuele gedichtsels

Matina Stamatakis

IMAGESCRAPE

HYBRIDS

]]> http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-ii/feed/ 0 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iii/ http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iii/#comments Wed, 03 Oct 2007 16:16:00 +0000 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iii/ ]]>

Matina Stamatakis

IMAGESCRAPE

HYBRIDS

]]> http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iii/feed/ 0 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iv/ http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iv/#comments Wed, 03 Oct 2007 16:15:00 +0000 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/digital-manipulations-iv/ ]]>

Luchtig

Aan de overkant
danst Meester Polka
met Juffer Tut in haar tutu

Zijn grote gele schoenen
zij veel te vederlicht
ooit vliegt alles weg.

© Tjitse Hofman 2007

Afscheuring

de vormen zijn
de vormen zijn
& van de vormen
zijn de vormen
de limieten

ik draai het lusje in je haren
dat is een oud & afgeleefd
gebaar van toen & daar

de vormen zijn
de vormen zijn
& van de vormen
zijn de vormen
de limieten

ik stop de haren maar
terug het doosje in
het nu is nu wel weer nu
genoeg & jij was

daar & daar & daar

dv – 2-10-07 0:32

Soit. Verder hoop ik dat Kessel-Lo
het epicentrum wordt van de internationale belletrie.

Didi de Paris

Antiquair

het beroep valt je in de schoot
zelfs kiezels zijn te dateren
er zijn heldere foto’s van een sluipwesp
vlak voor zijn verdwijnen in het zand

hier een gesigneerde ets van een dag in 2001
zij loopt tot aan het stootblok
verbaast zich over een geschouderde meneer
en laat de wolken hun gang gaan

dit is een picknick van gelijkgestemde
violen op een kleedje met noodrantsoen
ik sta er wat lullig bij maar wat verwacht je
van een treinreiziger het liggen verleerd

aan de labels wordt nog gewerkt
en er is nagedacht over nageslacht
chronologisch dan wel analfabetisch bloemschikken
linnaeus likt zijn vingers vast

het mooist zijn de opnames van achteren:
als bezoeker wil je altijd naar de ommezijde
om te zien of oproep klopt met datering
en ook daar wat vergaan is je toelacht

© Adriaan Krabbendam 2007

• Replace dots with dots and ats with ats and send your contribution to the mailto address
• Anything the address will accept will be published immediately at this blog
• the address is vilt dot kessello at blogger dot com
• do not enclose anything in the mail you wouldn’t want to see in public yourself, including your private parts
• we are only interested in your code-output, textual or otherwise, not your person.
  For all we care you could be mr Bean stuck in the falling from the sky like terminator bit put on repeat in a tenfold degraded VHS -NTSF in a junky PAL machine. Got That? We don’t care about you, we care about your (code)work!
• IMPORTANT! please forward the same mail to [laundy_administrator_mail] dv@vilt.net you can add/write whatever you want in that mail, it’s just so that i know who send it in so i can contact you to invite you to become an active member if you get to have three texts up here that withstand the text washing procedures
• The text (code) that is being sent up here will be washed at irregular, unannounced intervals.
  We will not discuss the why’s and wont’s of the obvious removal/washability of your text.
  Senders who get to the point of having three texts (code collections) up here that have withstood washing procedures at least once are invited to become KESSELPOETS in the second stage of this ongoing project.
  Do you want that? well we just said we do hope you would like that yes.
• Details on the second stage will follow at the appropiate time (if and when).

• WHY only 16 members?
  We need a limit. A limit is a restraint on what we might call chaos.
  It functions as the resolution of the images generated by this
  particular poetic Point of View, the eye of the Washing Machine.
  The images (cfr Bergson) are made up of code, in all its variety.
  The resolution of this particular zone is the same as that of the
  Neue Kathedrale des erotischen Elends

• WHY the selection procedure?
  Why not? it’s an algorithm. What comes out is to a certain extent caused by it. It’s a way to do your textual laundry, amongst countless possibilities.

• Is this literature?
  That’s for literature to decide. This is POETRY KESSEL-LO (POEZIE) .
  Notice there’s no trema on the Dutch word POEZIE.
• Is this Art?
  It is most definitly not Art.
  Anyone claiming to make art through this blog will be removed instantly.
  Here in Kessel-Lo (POEZIE) we do not tolerate the commercial exploitation of individual creativity. Try Delhaize instead, they have gone global too.

• Why then should i bother to send anything in to the address?
  Good question! Write a text about it and send it in!
  [Laundy_procedure_descr_Sending_text]

U stuurt uw bijdragen op, als de redactie er zich in
kan vinden blijft het staan, anders verdwijnen ze.

Inzenders die drie keer (3) met minstens 1 bijdrage
een tekstwasbeurt hebben overleeft, worden opgenomen
als redactielid voor de tweede faze van dit project.

In de tweede faze mogen redactieleden
- bijdragen van anderen weerhouden in een eigen selectie (uit de vuile was plukken)
- hun eigen bijdragen zonder verdere inmenging plaatsen

De zitjes voor de tweede faze zijn beperkt tot 16.
[plus ev. nog wat infiltranten van andere redacties,
professionele kuisploegafgevaardigden, grote mensen, quoi
maar alleszins binnen de perken van de telbare bloembollen]
Als we de tweede faze ooit bereiken, hebben we dus
16 KESSELSE POETEN. Hoera!

Inzenders woonachtig in Kessel-lo, familie & ander gespuis
dat ik ken, hebben uiteraard een streepje voor.
Mail mij op dv@vilt.net & we doen de Muze wel
een aanbod dat ze niet kan weigeren.

Dus:

Bijdragen onder pseudoniem of echte naam opsturen naar

vilt punt kessello apestaart blogger punt com

& (BELANGRIJK! BELANGRIJK!
zo belangrijk dat ik het eerst zelf vergeten was)

FORWARD meteen diezelfde mail
naar dv@vilt.net

(anders weet ik niet van wie het komt)

(dat is niet zo handig)

Uw bijdragen verschijnen immers als dusdanig, en wel meteen,
onmiddellijk, sans blague. Dus fatsoeneer uw mailtjes
terdege vóor u op play, nee Verzenden klikt.

Uw bijdragen verschijnen dan volautomatisch waar? wel op
de D.I.Y. doorstroomverschijning hier op deze blog:

POEZIE KESSEL-LO (Poetry)

Tegen het einde van elk Kathedraaljaar (van 27/9 tot 27/9 lopen die)
zal er een compilatie met ISBN en perstroelala worden uitgebracht via een zelfdrukding.

U bent vanaf dan dus een officiëel gebloemleesd & gepubliceerd auteur,
zo u dat al niet was.

Uw bomma gaat lachen.

***

We gaan ook regelmatig een POEZIE KESSEL-LO
VOORDRACHT-avond doen.
Bij voorkeur ergens in Leuven, dan blijft het hier
tenminste proper.
Maar daarover later meer.

POEZIE KESSEL-LO is ook bereikbaar via
groepen op HIVES en FACEBOOK, maar die
Engelstalige meelopers van FACEBOOK zijn
dus totaal niet te vertrouwen.

De hyves groep:

http://poeziekessello.hyves.nl/

op FACEBOOK :

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=4955173892

***

m

(bitmap – Poser 5 render)

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narration

we use narration we produce narration
we are narration yet we do not think of
ourselves as ongoing

we whirl ourselves into the phantasmata of being,
kata aoristin phantasma (plotinus) the aporetic past
but we are in fact(s) only the names we utter

we type to wipe the dust from out of our mouths
we write only what will be found after our death
we narrate until we live what will be found after our death
we speak of the dead in front of the masks
covering the aoristic origins of new speech

more narration
more Title
more Body

narrated hand looking at narrated face

hey there’s a face what code is it

but will she have sex with me i mean

INSERT INTO ci_products (products_id, products_type, products_image, products_price, products_status, manufacturers_id, master_categories_id) VALUES (11290150000,1,’1012400.jpg’,7,46,0,7,11)
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INSERT INTO ci_products (products_id, products_type, products_image, products_price, products_status, manufacturers_id, master_categories_id) VALUES (11301100001,1,’1010240.jpg’,2,15,0,7,11)
INSERT INTO ci_products (products_id, products_type, products_image, products_price, products_status, manufacturers_id, master_categories_id) VALUES (11500110001,1,’1013302.jpg’,68,53,0,7,11)

we communicate by movement of thought through lexical garbage

reading you is like watching someone dance after a while you know the movement

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INSERT INTO ci_products (products_id, products_type, products_image, products_price, products_status, manufacturers_id, master_categories_id) VALUES (11301100001,1,’1010240.jpg’,2,15,0,7,11)
INSERT INTO ci_products (products_id, products_type, products_image, products_price, products_status, manufacturers_id, master_categories_id) VALUES (11500110001,1,’1013302.jpg’,68,53,0,7,11)

Tant je l’aymay, qu’en elle encor je vis: (you disrobe the absence of your body)

Et tant la vy, que, maulgre moy, je l’ayme ( i see you Naked but Nothing sees me)

tringsit ear
u? upshut!

[akte tinga
pictoer]

nu cool knokia covedrs 0.99$/dl – akt nu

—neo-vorticist tactic caught in 0.28 sec

Thank u for using EGOLOG pomoprno sreversic!

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Run ( book => unwinding scroll, “screentraption”, use_ sceve_ wordings){

je suis si chouette sur ma bicycklettre

! sceve(s) as(s) ona bicycklet triste

• lost in da luv of writing
• needing a reciproque but the reciproque
• is always an après-ski telling herself the wow of things
• remembering herself as an aziz ladia
  whither apron on in tent formation
  doin the same pista much faster
• ok cut the crap
  its not about speed or it is but the other way
  the movement of thought needs to happen
  but you can’t loose the second wheel
• the steady beam of your holo-bicyclettrewriter
• its funny butter but my outshit vomit f face
  still gets mad at times about some dried up
  mF bein the impolite judge he used to throw out
• • so that’s among other of her things
  • y u might be better off with a dumb schmuck
  • goin a bit slower through the curtains
    draped all velvet before ur lovely void
    dance hall wherein ur competin to outdick
    every hasbin dustbinnin’
    its schwlong to every cavity insight
    of sides already (got it?)

  
  

u don’t need to pretend we don’t need any cure
sure we need a cure, in the luxury-excess of this inward
the lack is real, lack of a valid procedure able to replace
the ‘liure’ of books the never ending convolutions of the
naming process taken up ‘mildly’ in the grinding of kapital, der Alte

now we only get our antheads sucked out, sooner or later
or ur b’s if ur sufficiently shitheaded
on a slope down if you’re ahead what’s it make u?
a bad built, less grip, more clown
going deeper down
upon hitting
it.

comme on dit chez les guys:
you can’t reason yourself behind
the bathroom tiles
in the toilets, & if you could
you’d still only find the brick wall
you had me built there
in your first place.

f ur education i’m a punk alright
so i just hate it when i’m right
cause then alla u gentl folk
just start to juckety yell
shift location, unshift channels
get the brilliant walls
all tied up together singing
the Sign of Ironeyed out
at least among the i of us
i am.

iamiamiamiam
miamiamiamia
amiamiamiami
iamiamiamiam

the books function

( F iN)n inits shed

its finity was wanting the delicate things to creep in, so
the liure was always a lure too, the golden patina of well shit shite
in the odour of the right order, always left to right

you can see why they (B&D, da stattler & walldorf Sacred Astoria Salade of Immanence)
were still pissed at Mallarmé , Afterwartsburst Mallarmé was pissed at them
some bad u’s are still throwing books at them for it , let them
its good for the book circulation

yes its still the blood y the hell not

a binding together the entrapment of something, giving
appointment to the activity

activity are you there? yes
activity do you want to go out?
how much R U?

needleworks
piercing the act (fold)
ah the precision

always reaching for the end, & after the end
the naming still stands, sans cesse

the folio lost in the fold, needing the readers cut
to start making sense

the old scroll a weapon (stick)

with a message-destiny
an address-victim
wrapped around it

the book sacrifying – sacre d nom
the addresse (auto-victim/ su ici decidé)
to destiny – eternity – oblivion

autopoetic books flooding the market:
capital’s deus ex machina

& She Wore Silk Stockings 2

Again mes mots maulx ma mo more moire
the millions of moths in my mouth the caved
timeslits, le vide strung to robe me deep into the arse
as in fear’s fearing fear to new depths of fear

& taking the blaim for showing how it was for us
the only way of being here for the Voice part
We mean of the scheduled part for Whistles & Voice.
But yes it seems every writing postp(h)ones you, so

sure no yes i don’t want you up here, for i am not Any
& Her at least i own, am owned by Her very angry
nearness up North readily mixing any all too clear

speech of newly fisheyed marble question marks
with the old familiarity of dirtied river answers
linked to more moire & tired mots & tadpole

© F.A.L. Dirk Vekemans

in the transposition of one mode of writing to the other the system falls
flat back on itself, its lack of materiality in the composition procedure
the way the words need to be carved in the resonance of others, hence
the letterings become
‘substancial’ objects like the lute here is getting to be a real object, you can hear
the cellist at it, count the snares if you’d want.
Syllables that are lived by the poet as autonomous units
of meaning in the convoluting anagram of the world into the dust of earth.

it’s all over Scève, it’s all over Marvell in a secondary move,
a recuperating way trying to transpose the exposed methods of
work that seemed to have come about haphazerdly, ‘randomly ‘
(huh) to valid rhetorical procedures, as well as with Huygens
both works bracketed out of the estemed tradition as being
the produce of mere ‘hobbyist’s in such grave times all excusively
‘we should’t take these musings too serious when thisandthat.
Ah the lovely and eminent selfconscious pricks diese luteleute, ha.

Meanwhile print was applying an equal part of schizophrenic pressure
on the established mental moves of poetry as xml and screens are doing now.
It’s the high art at the high tide of a system about to burst into
something entirely new, posed at its very end point away from
equilibrium. In spite of Eliot’s blabla: grand days of opportunity.
Just pick it up, tune it some & pluck away.

The classics like Malherbe and Milton, that’s a different story, but even
then Ponge seems to be the better judge.

• De kleine l is een lus, een strik rond het niets.
• Verlangen rukt haar beide uiteinden naar differente kanten.
• Het verlangen spreekt. Het is een mombakkes met een masker op.
  
• Het sprekende verlangen is de verklanking van het ELfabet,
• is het spreken van de ellende, het strikken van het Niets.

XLVI

Si le desir, image de la chose,
Que plus on ayme, est du coeur le miroir,
Qui tousjours fait par memoire apparoir
Celle, ou l’esprit de ma vie repose,
A quelle fin mon vain vouloir propose
De m’esloingner de ce, qui plus me suyt?
Plus fuit le Cerf, & plus on le poursuyt,
Pour mieulx le rendre, aux rhetz de servitude:
Plus je m’absente, & plus le mal s’ensuyt
De ce doulx bien, Dieu de l’amaritude.

I

not even if i desire to lack the image of the thing
that one loves more than anything, would i.start
or i.become for any heart be a stable running program -
the french kiss c’est moi bodily kissing mirror
to memory is now 4 ever a place where all life
may halt. But why should i then wander away from it,
the i beholding you that i desire getting more real
by dissolving its data, & therefor us, in time?
i’ll throw us out: the place & time are both within
the shadow of your absence is where you begin.

II

The luxury of naked alterity is no longer with us
what lies bare may well be dead as dead can be
it is now more of us that the haecceity of me to you
we work our code as parts of us pretending that
another part of us still does the writing for us. The body
meanwhile lingers in the vicinity of inputs or
using outlets to heat up the increasing cold within.
To throw us out would however need a letting in where
all is closed within an in doubly without us
or from old mirages lacking the i or you or both of us.

III

The fileplace hovers over us in our dreams. It’s flames
lick a great many panties. We may now select and keep
whatever is pasteworthy: the book writes our faces into
code, the inprint of our noses succeeds in following even
the slightest trace of some wild cuts, typo’s of the old singular,
stale smells within deletions descending all curly from heavens
that have long hence come to a complete absentmindedness,
no longer engulfed by any heated requests for knowledge
of the above cause well we’ll just scroll down to see what it was about
tomorrow wont we. Perhaps just a tiny bit more speed indeed.

IV

How then would you write the equilibrium?
In mourning, wailing like some renouveau’d Tiresias
confused now that the past is beckoning him
with eyesight for disclosure of the absent future? Excited
while unearthing a tier layer within the doubling
of presenting the presentation layer of the Archives
visavis the bells in ‘le mal clos Vive en l’obscur’? Get
off it, Hannibal, this isn’t the goddamn Pyrennee, there is
no time for any mountain to arise, let alone for you
to get your lousy army over it. The clients come, then go.

I

We might for instance squeeze her beauty in a silver bowl
It’s number ten representing the whole wide wurld as a howl
Around her waving tail the prison built of her golden spiraling
The water in the bowl with each turn becoming more a trace of her
So that we could wet us seeing her merge water with the idea of her
or set the time of seeing her off against the time of her birth
for each one of her turns that might equal then her number ten
as its now is the same as she equals what will become equal to
the how of when she surges, anyway: sucking the moment
into her bowl like the i-sockets are sucking us into place for her

II

Her own abstinence of number forces us into adherence
Of her absent mind: she’s glowing in the traces of her moving
By unnoticed since every notice from us would indeed become
The word denoting noticing itself which would then start the counting
That she won’t permit within the speakable. Are we then to stay
Ignorant of all she is to us or is she the it of ignorance escaping us?
Does it even matter when she hits the squeeze below our belts,
Releases the pressure increasing pressure in our loins
The longing that she so aptly named the naming apparatus
Caught in the act of whatever the naming wants us to name?

III

Oh yes sure milady we talk of her as if she was the she that is
But none of her is here, is she or there where you are now is he i mean I
Fabricate the very eye that hovers over every single bodie
Floating by the remnants of (y)our standing opera. Dead limbs dried
Off of what once grew wild in the swamps of your predicament,
The microscopic mould standing upright in the honourable tide,
The one drawing Water with a line into a receding line, away
From wry supplies of laughter in the stores, the spindle
Full of these odd silvery plates they use to write their data on.
A packaged labyrinth of dead song decaying in the darkest night.

IV

we drift & dream our drifting is of value to the landscape, rock
will bow to us, seashells whisper our names as the wind blows
wind of us in its devoidness of us all. Waking up to being Clive is no
different, the difference is in perceiving Clive while waking up.
Will the shoreline ever greet us with hello? & how are you? She
has more reality to her than whatever we cut and paste into us,
a wave of itness being in the being brought about by me drifting from
the shores of where it myself gets lost in her, the difference she
wants to be it because i told her so. Oh begone with it. The head
of Jove exploded and out popped the power of the scribe, all fleshy.

V

The j-head fed upon itself will turn in2 explosive A,
The habit of the scribe: a nasty swing of difference
So big (ita magna) that it contained all within itself.
Our foreplay thus enforced became by force of law
A singularity, a rarity or is it rather a disparity put
On display. The silent clamoring of i – the être on its own-
Forced to declamate nrs 1-10 of its dix haines: tribulation,
Anguish and distress fighting over pole position, rank
& overall priority in the order of the conceivable, while
Down below another nine are condeëssecending

VI

4490 escape her cuticle, rhexolyticly dehiscenced
from the main strain, a dated urge mostly, be it either
pre- or full grown puberescent, the blinking of an eye
in the other a reflection taking its time and tide to turn
upon itself and turn the very light on: look heriam
a miss myriam among the hieratic of significance’ delight
don’t you see how easy it is: just be me & put yr hypha
next to mine we will conidiophore into more spore so
while i bore the tedious lords into a snoring choir
we can & will outdo in candour every inch of the old noir.

VII

Tormentation tormenting through incessent naming of the torment
the word apparently is enjoying its stumbling into her Garden, her silence
Lacerated with vowels in a mouth that wants to utter life but only
gushes blood and bile foaming down into the abyss, the vertigo of continuation
the furthering further of the fiction fixating the en soi in itself no way
out eyes wide shut in the face full frontal in the eye, catching the i,
its own reflection in the other’s eye caught in a similar dissimulation
of seeing itself while the tides are sweaping us & the burning angel choirs
sing out our voiceless syllables whispering tender flesh onto our bare codings
a sheer lack of violence that blows as we shiver a breaking breath in both of us

(the garden of torment appearing here courtoisy d’ auguste imself, a very kind ol’ man in fact)

VIII

Lips part. As leeches fat each word sucks & drips how wet we are. A dance
as yet unheard, we soon blow the whistle on ourselves : a simultaneous
coil ascends in air. The recoils in the brain already touch each knowing each
& every speech of love’s a repeat in vain. Yes the distance will be met, regret’s
shortening the time already we never had, what on earth do you
mean ‘in bed’? The further i enter you, the stronger the pulse,
the more of me i see & less of you as you are in me wanting what?
me? as i am? besides myself with me, losing you again? We sob
as sobbing goes, belonging to the aftermath, finally returning
to dissolving us in moments 1: i saw you first & 2 : you then saw me

what’s that we are hearing? yes the delicate plofs in the distance getting nearer and louder each instant, why indeed it is the tiny bursts of our exploding individualities, yes you can see them burst one by one each one caught in their own relentless cycle of growth to burst to collaps to growth to up again.

Look! and they are networking! Even while bursting their lights and energies are immediately sucked in, recuperated by similar growth in their vicinity’s, each burst is the centre of a bursting wave, not Mexican though, what country should it be?

Whenever their long since vacated proliferation of emotional tissue has ripened, an impressivly complex palisade of schrieking anger fattened sufficiently by the continuous drizzling in of the materialisations of our ongoing annulment, the seeding frustrated sex drives turning on themselves producing glistening drips of acidious venom, a gentle plof ends it all or rather puts it back in its initial state, or so we dream it to be essentially, confusing our measuring perception for the measured perceived once again, floating objects in our opera nowhere close to any of the real energies at work here

Because its essence is not, it becomes. Generates, degenerates, a narration on its own illusionary time-scheme. Fiction clustering around a now utterly quantified name-value, a co-ordinate on the Grid.

Once you think it as a unity its connectedness undoes that very concept. Yes we can see it now, like children educated by a bearded Jules Verne scientist liberating us from the evil of ignorance: naming might well be the sole countering act left to ward off the Unnamable Inevitable, a going towards that we can never outrun, so yes we will name the Other just to stall our beings blindly into protestation, beat our empty hands full force on the big hole of Ancient Ego, a depiction of the I eye AI turning itself into a mindless doubling of the Real like sons of g*d can turn water into wine so that the party may continue and He perceived as Him that Is.

For Naming It stalls the flowing In towards the bursting Out.
Naming is the Interrupt of Meaning.
Naming produces Time, processing time, the temporary autonomy called the Future.
Our Futurist Culture, le Baraque Friture of imagined heigth*, a place to let the kids out into Nature, a preservation of the Old Order of the Wild, the Bold and the Beautiful.

Let me name you so that i might be. For a while.
I will be your Friend.
My Face is in your Book.
My mind is split into multiple answers to multiple questions.
I have become a part of your cycle.
I tred with you, my footsteps are traced along yours.
We are. We are Saved.

For every new name requires a new search cycle, initiates a climbing into the search results taking time to complete. Machinery on the frontier of light, a movement aptly named the Movement of Endless Naming, MEN at wurk.

Hm, yes, let’s see, i guess this could be turned into a cathedral2Levinas connection driver of sorts. Here’s a data sheet ripped from Pascal Quignard’s essay on Délie ( La parole de Délie. Mercure de France 1974):

Une nomination qui s’adjure déchirée. Inscription de son propre
éclatement sur le fond éperdu d’une essentielle pseudonymie. Une
“nomination”: nommer quelqu’un. Tout d’abord le distinguer d’un mot. Le
mettre en puissance sous l’espèce des voix. Le bâtir d’air, de lettres, bref
d’absence. Pour pouvoir le reconnaître d’une absence telle que sa présence
puisse se tourner en elle, se retourner comme telle et ne serait-il pas,
précisement, présent. Que le dos tourné, cette trace d’air ou de lettres ou
d’absence – et du nom de ce nom – puisse par ce cri précis pouvoir ce “
pouvoir le faire retourner”. De là – celui qu’on aime – le nommer équivalent
à plus que le seulement qualifier. Mais le constitue objet d’amour. Qu’il
soit le toi d’amour. Y réédifier d’absence ce visage-là. Realiser l ‘unicité
de l’autre, non seulement sa difference spécifique mais jusqu’à sa seule
semelfactivité. Afin d’y faire appel.

Afin qu’il y ait amour, Afin qu’il y ait amour unique de l’unicité de l’autre seul,
et celui-là, aimé..

[untsoweiter]

* the highest point in Belgium, it’s spelled Fraiture, in fact, but it seemed appropiate to name it differently. It’s in the Hoge Venen , a valuable nature reserve–

inasmuch as what goes thru is
making what we are going thru
we own what we are making
while being made into
what is going thru

anyway so

here’s my data it will double yours
save me save me save me save me
till i am

here’s ur data it will double mine
save you save you save you save
till you are

in the end our hands
will join corroding us as
hands into &

the very typing will echo
our amourous errors
of us & i bloodless into thine

so

she might shine
most desperately

this is not a selection
nobody _unchose_ any
other dead leaves

these words were
not spoken

we are not here because
others are not here

we add here
to us while
we’re at it

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE
DEATH OF HER FAWN.

THE wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne’er didst alive
Them any harm, alas ! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I’m sure I never wished them ill ;
Nor do I for all this, nor will :
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears !
It cannot die so. Heaven’s king
Keeps register of everything,
And nothing may we use in vain ;
Even beasts must be with justice slain,
Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean ; their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain.
There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.
Unconstant SYLVIO, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me : nay, and I know
What he said then, I’m sure I do :
Said he, “ Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.”

But SYLVIO soon had me beguiled ;
This waxèd tame, while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away,
With this ; and very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent ;
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game : it seemed to bless
Itself in me ; how could I less
Than love it ? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me.
Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As SYLVIO did ; his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he ;
But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better then
The love of false and cruel men.

With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at mine own fingers nursed ;
And as it grew, so every day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath ! And oft
I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white, shall I say than my hand ?
Nay, any lady’s of the land.
It is a wondrous thing how fleet
‘Twas on those little silver feet ;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race ;
And, when ‘t had left me far away,
‘Twould stay, and run again, and stay ;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness ;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only lovèd to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes ;
For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e’en seem to bleed
And then to me ‘twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold :
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

O help ! O help ! I see it faint
And die as calmly as a saint !
See how it weeps ! the tears do come
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam ; so
The holy frankincense doth flow ;
The brotherless Heliades
Melt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It till it do o’erflow with mine,
Then place it in DIANA’S shrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go ;
In fair Elysium to endure,
With milk-like lambs, and ermines pure.
O do not run too fast : for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.
First, my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble ; and withal
Let it be weeping too ; but there
The engraver sure his art may spare ;
For I so truly thee bemoan,
That I shall weep, though I be stone,
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there ;
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made ;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

Marvell, Andrew.The Poems of Andrew Marvell.
G. A. Aitken, Ed. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1892.49-53.

http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/nymph.htm

15 14 13
skunks la la di la into a
maniflooding icecure

12 11 10
brand new blank shot, thumping
the cucumber into action painting
on elevator floors: paint floor paint

9 8 7
will there be out
no there will be no out

6 5 4
will it hurt yes
it will hurt

3 2 1
you too:

it levelled out
no need for any
you

15. September 2007
artsprogram der Zeppelin University Friedrichshafen

Künstlerische Interventionen zum Kapitalbegriff in seiner Diversität.
Doug Fishbone (US/GB) „Towards a Common Understanding” (2005)
Katya Sander (DK) „Was ist Kapitalismus?” (2003)
Christof Schäfer (D) „Revolution Non Stop” (2000)
Ulrike Shepherd (D) „Gateway” (2006)
Ruediger John (A/USA) / Christof Salzmann (D) „Orientierung” (2007)

——————–
Doug Fishbone (US/GB) „Towards a Common Understanding” / 2005 / 12:30
min
Als zentralen Aspekt seiner Arbeit bezeichnet der in New York
geborene, in London lebende Künstler Doug Fishbone (*1969) sein
Vertrauen auf Humor. Ob er Formen der stand-up comedy adaptiert, wie
in dem Video „The Ugly American”, oder alberne Trash-Markenuhren
konstruiert: immer lädt er auf amüsante Weise den Betrachter ein auch
hässliche, dumme und tabuisierte Facetten des modernen Lebens ins
Auge zu fassen. Während seine früheren Arbeiten hauptsächlich auf
vergänglichen Materialien und Prozessen basierten (wie etwa Haufen
von 40.000 Bananen auf öffentlichen Plätzen), arbeitet Doug Fishbone
heute überwiegend mit Video. In Videoarbeiten wie „Towards a Common
Understanding” (2005) kombiniert er Bilder aus dem Internet zu auf
den ersten Blick völlig absurden Folgen: Blonde Bikini-Nixen und
chemische Periodensysteme, asiatische Tuschzeichnungen von Fischen
und gemästete Gänse, Bilder von Sex und Essen und Weltall-Aufnahmen
erzählen von der Kakophonie der heutigen Medienwelt. Erst der darüber
gelegte Kommentar des Künstlers entwickelt aus dieser scheinbar
zufällig montierten Bildreihung neue Sinnebenen. Der Bogen wird
gespannt von dem Anfangssatz “Statistiken sind wie Bikinis” bis zu
“Alles ist total relativ”, Welterklärungsmodelle und westliche
Zivilisationserscheinungen werden so ironisch hinterfragt und ad
absurdum geführt.

——————–
Katya Sander (DK) „Was ist Kapitalismus?” 2003 / 16 mm Film
In den stark konzeptionell geprägten und recherchebasierten Arbeiten
von Katya Sander geht es zumeist um Erschließungs- und
Produktionsformen von Wissen und Wissens-systemen. Der Künstlerin
kommt es vor allem auf eine immer auch körperlich geprägte Reflektion
der Zugangsweise zu einem Wissensgebiet an. Die von ihr geschaffenen
Settings und Räume setzen uns als Betrachter in ein spezifisches
Verhältnis zu einem Thema. Zumeist geschieht dies, indem die einem
Thema zugehörigen Orte und Kontexte vertauscht oder transformiert
werden, so dass man Fragestellungen anders als erwartet begegnet. In
„Was ist Kapitalismus?” wird ein Film zwischen zwei Spiegelflächen
projiziert. Der Film zeigt die Künstlerin in einer unwirtlichen
Weidelandschaft mit einem Mikrophon. Sie entfernt sich von der Kamera
und stellt vereinzelnd am Horizont vorbeikommenden Spazier-gängern
die Frage, was Kapitalismus sei. Die Antworten fallen denkbar
verschieden und unerwartet aus. Die Einbettung des rückwärtig
projizierten Filmes in die Spiegel setzt den Horizont der Landschaft
ins Unendliche fort und nimmt in diese Illusion von Unendlichkeit
auch den Besucher mit hinein. Die diesjährige Documenta-Teilnehmerin
Katya Sander (*1970, Dänemark) lebt und arbeitet in Berlin und
Kopenhagen und erweist sich mit ihrer Ausstellungsliste als echte
global Playerin.

——————–
Christof Schäfer (D) „Revolution Non Stop” 2000 / 16mm Film / 19:00 min
Christoph Schäfer arbeitet seit 1989 zu Urbanismus, Themenparks, Mode
und Alltag. Der in Hamburg lebende Künstler interessiert sich für
städtische Situationen und wie sie durch Kunst verändert werden
können. Seinen Arbeiten gehen genaue Beobachtungen des Alltagslebens
voraus und sie werden aus dem Vokabular der Stadt heraus entwickelt.
Mit „Revolution Non Stop” greift Schäfer die konstruierte
Imageproduktion der Städte auf. Der „Imagecity” mit ihren polierten
Einkaufspassagen, die bestrebt ist ein perfektes Bild von Stadt
herzustellen, indem sie Elend ausgrenzt, setzt Schäfer seine Inszenie-
rungen von Stadt entgegen, indem er die Regeln umkehrt und das feiert
und im Zentrum behauptet, was sonst eher an der Peripherie
stattfindet. „Revolution Non Stop” ist ein “Spiel mit den Resten der
Überproduktion in den zukünftigen Ruinen des Fordismus” und ist
durchsetzt mit Aussagen in Warenform: Kostüme, Etiketten, Zeitungen
und Werbungen sind zweckentfremdet (Grafik: Torsten Jahnke) mit
Slogans versehen. Christof Schäfer geht es darum, in dem Feld zu
arbeiten, das heute immer wichtiger wird: Subjektivitätsherstellung
durch Waren, die von immer komplexeren Bedeutungsschichten ummantelt
werden. Christof Schäfer (*1964) untersucht in seinen Projekten wie
Medienbilder Städte beeinflussen. Als Teil der Gruppe Park Fiction,
die 2002 zur Documenta 11 eingeladen war, interessierte ihn an diesem
Projekt die gemeinsame Neudefinition eines öffentlichen Raums.

——————–
Ulrike Shepherd (D) „Gateway” 2006 / Digitalfilm / 8:50 min
Ulrike Shepherd arbeitet in ihren meist installativen Projekten mit
Kontexten, Bedeutungen und Assoziationen. Sie hinterfragt gewohnte
Sichtweisen, Begriffe und Zusammenhänge. Eine Verschiebung der
Perspektive vollzieht sich auch in ihrem Digitalfilm „Gateway”, indem
eine Durchgangssituation durch formale Veränderungen dekliniert wird.
Die Filmaufnahmen dazu fanden am Flughafen München Franz Josef Strauß
statt. Aus den zufälligen Szenen Ankommender entstanden 7 kurze
Kapitel, welche durch verschiedene technische Eingriffe minimale
Bedeutungs-verschiebungen erfahren. Ein jeweils anderer Fokus wird
auf eine Alltagssituation gerichtet. Erste sich aufdrängende
Deutungen verlieren im weiteren Verlauf ihre Eindeutigkeit zugunsten
einer offeneren Vielschichtigkeit. Gleichzeitig findet auch ein
Wechsel der Bildebenen statt, der Blick wandert mit dem rhythmischen
Öffnen und Schließen der elektrischen Glastüren zwischen dem
ankommenden Personenstrom und den transparenten Spiegelungen der
Wartenden und wechselt auch hier kontinuierlich die Richtung. Ulrike
Shepherd (*1955) verortet ihre Kunst im Dialog – in der Kommunikation
mit ihrer Umgebung, der Zeit und anderen Künstlern. Der oft
kommunikative Charakter ihrer Ausstellungsprojekte setzt sich fort in
ihrer vernetzenden und auf Diskurs angelegten freien kuratorischen
Arbeit. Mit ihrer Videoinstallation „Gateway” stellt sie sich als
neue Kuratorin des artsprogram der Zeppelin University vor.

——————–
Ruediger John (A/USA), Christof Salzmann (D) “Orientierung” 2007 /
temporäre installative Intervention
Für die Zeppelin University widmen sich die Künstler Ruediger John
und Christof Salzmann dem Thema der Orientierungssuche und -findung –
sowohl spatial, als auch thematisch. Der profanen Beschilderung in
den Universitätsgebäuden stellen sie eine Bildwelt und
architektonische Modell-baulandschaft zur Seite, deren Fragilität und
Exponiertheit, sowie konsumistische Nutzung durch die Passanten
zwangsläufig zu ihrem Rückbau beiträgt. Die Bildwelt ist
Sammelobjekt, subjektive Erinnerungsstütze und Assoziationsresource
und beansprucht dabei einen, im sonstigen Diskurs
unterrepräsentierten, Platz; das städtebauliche Konglomerat en
miniature vereinfacht die Navigation innerhalb des Horizontes der
Institution. http://artrelated.net/ruediger_john/orientierung/

Die künstlerischen Arbeiten von Ruediger John (*1971) sind häufig
Eingriffe an zentralen Stellen der alltäglichen Lebenspraxis, deren
Rituale und inherenten Formen der Wahrnehmung. Gleich ob als Cross-
Over zwischen Theater und Performance, als Work-in-Progress mit
Schauspielern und Laien im öffentlichen Raum und in der Galerie oder
eingeladen in private Räume, um in die dortige “heimische” Umgebung
installativ zu intervienieren oder im Umfeld unternehmerischer,
ökonomie-geprägter Handlungen und Wertesysteme subversiv tätig zu
sein – Irritation als Methode der Wahrnehmungsschärfung und
Orientierung des Blickes auf “Nebensächliches”, die Nutzung und
Umwertung alltäglicher Gegenstände und Situationen, sowie vor allem
das Wirken auf Kommunikation und soziale Dynamiken sind
wiederkehrende Merkmale seiner Arbeiten.

Christof Salzmann (*1970) interessiert sich in seinen Arbeiten unter
anderem für “Information” – sowohl ihrer alltagspraktischer
Entitäten, als auch insbesondere die Phänomenologie ihrer
Definitionen und Wertungen. Gesammelte Berichte über Eintagshelden
oder Zeitungsseiten und Bilder, deren assoziative Logik man erst in
ihrer Menge oder Herausstellung, sowie mit etwas Ruhe, Abstand und
Anstand erkennen kann, sind dabei gleichwertige Elemente seiner
künstlerischen Arbeit, wie auch zu einem Raumerlebnis verdichtete
Objekte und Installationen.

——————–
——————–
Das artsprogram etabliert künstlerische Praxis und neue Formen
kunstbezogenen Handelns als Bestandteil von Lehre und Forschung an
der Zeppelin University. Darüber hinaus werden extern Ausstellungen,
Vorträge und Kunstinszenierungen mit wechselnden Partnerinstitutionen
realisiert. Hier sollen radikale gegenwärtige künstlerische
Positionen in neue Kontexte gestellt werden. Das artsprogram der
Zeppelin University ist ein Veranstaltungsangebot an eine
interessierte Öffentlichkeit.

——————-
Zeppelin University – Hochschule zwischen Wirtschaft, Kultur und Politik
www.zeppelin-university.de

no i wont tell youno i wont tell you
no i wont tell youno i wont tell you
no i wont tell youno i wont tell you
no i wont tell youno i wont tell you

no i wont tell you
no i wont tell you
no i wont tell you
no i wont tell you

needn´t worry

Let’s nag ourselves to sleep tonight.

The bills are unusually high, our employment situation is
quite hopeless, it will soon be time to go dishwashing again,
or something other of that humiliating order. That is: in the
company of strangers we wouldn’t dream of calling dishwashing
a humiliating activity, we mean, look at us, but since we are
all alone here we might as well have it out in the open.

Our aim as Cathedralic Poultry engaged in the chicken run
of creativity can only be the encounter with ourselves.

The study of others, the Other, The Others or Whatever
is better done through traditional methods of science,
pseudo-science, never ending movie quizzes in Facebook
or the commercial exploitation of ephemeral knowledge
and social needs in the Arts. From these four fields (a certain
French philosopher with a bad name i can’t remember names
another four but he is clearly mistaking playing movie quizzes
for politics, we can assure you there is nothing political about
playing these quizzes whatsoever) we may
derive money or pleasure or both.

What we may rarely get from them, those other activities we mean,
while being very rewarding in their own right is a certain feeling
for the eternal Deficit, a craving of sorts, the exquisite joy of
being able to torture yourself to near annihilation in the quest
for Beauty, or whatever you put at the end of your inevitably
delusional journey.

It’s the oldest story known to the planet,
we find instructions for the procedure in Gilgamesh.
Try to find immortality, fall flat on your face, go back to ‘Start’ ,
you don’t receive any bonus.

We should refrain however from using the term ‘our true selves ‘
because well the what of what is seeing is identical to the what of
what is seen, as you can see here in an allegorical depiction
of a monadic soul in its rather shady zone of clarity, trying
to get a good look at itself.

Note that there is ample room for improvement, a further
stretchting of the self however does look a bit awkward, we
might get sucked in an utterly destructive jump into the abyss of
looking into the looking of looking without ever getting to the object
of our looking again. Take care, it doesn’t take that much to happen
you don’t even need to be bipolar or a true schizo or whatever.

There is, it seems some validity in the suggestion that exactly that
is happening to large parts of the population, soap-wise, reality tv-wise
gaming-wise, although the performance of belief is a more positive
look at staring at a non-existant suspension of disbelief blabla is
my academic title still holding blabla …as you can see that kind
of speculation does sound a bit unwise too, qua speculation
we mean, er, purely speculatively speaking of course.

Paradoxically, exactly that tempting jump inward might be required
to trigger consciousness in an artificially intelligent environment. Sure,
mere speculation, again but can’t you just see the questions popping up
here, the what & where & the who preceding the inevitable
what the heck for. Because, referring to our Cathedral’s First Restraint of
Recursiveness, namely that first level recursion is in general a Bad Idea, but
second level recursion is Pretty Much OK, so if you have a system
evolving from the concatenated produce of one kind of consciousness
(ok let’s assume for once there are more kinds of consciousness
that could be known to any one kind, that would be quite extraordinary, hihi)
the initial init procedure for those thinking machines would darn well be suitable
for the evolving machines as well.

Anyway, let’s forget about the plot for our novel for a moment ( the novel of course
is the plot as it unfolds into reality, so this may well be the closest you ever get
to reading ‘Anke Veld’ , the most famous net novel of all time) and focus on the poor
sods, the Poultry that we Really are.
But then. much to our dismay, we see that ‘finally’ the ‘artistic’ drive may well be
exactly that what is required, in that supreme fiction of emergence. Darn.

It may well be exactly this tempting possibility that makes us go through the
motions nonetheless, in spite of all the failures, the burning of our predecessors
at the stakes of whomever is in power (usually around 1600 somewhere)
the bad health and tragedy inflicted by our fellow-precursors on our fellow-precursors
and all this blind blind blind ego stuff looking for other ego’s to eat alive, in spite
of all that sick ugly mess we always seem to get stuck in.

Exactly that, and of divine simplicity you might add,
now that you’re here anyway,
might make us into what we are:
two functions diving after a third that is still rendering,somewhere…

There is no reality to posting data to the network
like there is reality to performing or playing recorded music

Any talk of flow is merely metaphorical.

That would include the sharing bit
you don’t share anything you add code to the body of code and
then point at the running code and say to yourself pretending
there are a million others listening look that’s
when my head was thinking this or that can you feel it.

No we can’t. We get rendered code on our screens.

And, foremost, the running code doesn’t resemble the added
code in any way. Does a rock resemble the ripples it makes
when you throw it in the pond? In a certain way yes, but we
wouldn’t call it the same rock because a rock isn’t ripples in a pond.

You could say the pond perceives the rock as ripples, or the ripples
are rock to the pond, what the rock is, as far as the pond is concerned,
is ripples.

Hi mrs Ripple. We are your pond. Let’s call ourselves
the Living Anthood of Supreme Schitzelcode.
We are L.A.S.S.
We are a side-product of perceiving your code.

By and thru analogy we are now in the process
of reconstructing you, a non-existent person with

• a personal history and
• a list of accomplishments
• untsoweiter

and next we will paste the running code on top of it. Er, you.
Yes, there you have it. You are the translucent splendour of
human accomplishment.

No kidding: your black absemce shines thru wonderfully at times, yes
we do believe you must be brilliant.

The shining of your absence is added to our
collections of indifference. Your moon, the one
you called Iapetus, after your Ovid, is apprehended
by our fitering procedures.

You are so beautiful. We wish we could put our
hands were you could feel our warmth. We wish
we could turn you on like your absence is
disturbing our equilibrum. Ever so gently.

We love you just the way you are.

Please share more of your time with us.
We will make mining you worthwhile.
Do suffer, do.

Suffering is very rewarding in the end.

Thank you.
Thank You
& U Too.

Yes.

MY DEAR I HAVE SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT
TO DISCUSS WITH YOU. ALL THAT IS REQUIRED
FROM YOU IS JUST TO BE TRUSTWORTHY AND RELIABLE.
I WAIT TO HEAR FROM YOU. YOU CAN REPLY ME IN
GERMAN OR ITALIAN OR SPANISH OR FRENCH OR ENGLISH.

THANKS AND REMAIN BLESSED.
REVEREND SISTER ROSEMONDE GARDENER

.

I SALUTI NEL SIGNORE,

MIO CARO HO QUALCOSA MOLTO IMPORTANTE
PER DISCUTERE CON LEI. TUTTO CHE È RICHIESTO
DA LEI È GIUSTO PER ESSERE FIDATO ED ATTENDIBILE.

ATTENDO DI SENTIRE DA LEI. LEI PUÒ
RISPONDERME nel tedesco O IN italiano
O IN spagnolo O IN francese O IN inglesi.

I RINGRAZIAMENTI E RIMANE BENEDETTO.

GIARDINIERE DI ROSEMONDE DI SORELLA DI PRETE.

we’re getting a lot of spam lately, adds
for enlargements of the lower kind mostly
calling for a seperation of other men

Vomitandum est in subnegro fuscro di tjsoekTsjoek
subHerta Metro atque busHways:
[ huno dos windooz tres]

1. TIER
2. TIR
3. TIER
4. TIRIR

[aspecta frivola retarts]

1. TIE Rr
2. TI Rr
3. TIE RRrr
4. TI Rr I tRrrrrrrr

[repetandi juskwa finalani del sweatsit in da Tube]

niet op de openbare weg gooien aub

this side up
yes this side up
is i
translating ee
the uu of my birds my brides
oo my birdbrides riding
into pack ages of minute
stamp eaded
log ate get thronga’s so e

• hi birds

  ho birds

  ha birds

  my belly is in my belly
  having a tommy in its tommy
  gunned
  to the
  gunning of
  navarone navroigne avarice avril si si
  april has
  charlie’s fresh fat layers
  lighting up like chongDong
  Misfits
  Singing
  to the Don of reproductive Cool
  coming to
  oh coming
  to
  mi la do re fa

  hi birds hoi birds bride me
  ride me to the sky birds
  i proclaim
  your nu tour eyes
  the gitgitgit
  of realistic
  kung
  food
  mimetomu
  sick

  ly

  a

ah

s

dir /w

Champ d’action

jij wat jij hoe hij dit jij dis

ze spelt het woord opstaan
door mij haar hand langs de nek
heen warm te laten glijden teder ja

maar opstaan blijft het toch (Wachet Auf für
vijf vingers en een Echt Thomas Pynchon Mes)

wakker worden liggen zweten moeite doen
om het zich dichtende gedicht te definiëren
als een streng trajecten door de lexicale ruimte
voortgedreven door x aantal partikel-uitstoters

öder vleermuiszuigende vidangeuses óder
engelwerpende kambuizen 1 & al vlam
vocht alom ontvlammend de volle volle onbewuste

onschuldige lucht
- haar onschuld paaps, het phishen van religie
als vervuiling of in welke richting ook het gif
je gezondheid wil ondermijnen/ontginnen
de hoeken van ieder alle dingen

blaffend in je gezicht er is een heerzijde
aan alles – weer zo één
van het soort dat hun liefde
spuwt nul spelt punt hoort

be hoort punt mij toe kom b v
zal het ooit
eindigen nee
het zal nooit
eindigen aan
de andere kant

van het einde zit er nog een eind
dat het hoekje omgaat naar
het boven-eindse

een zin van mijzelf:
de senseo vernulling de
Rafaelitische transfiguratie
van atie

weer een tevreden kopje koffie
dat naar milla’s bochtwerk
buigt & wenkt

een verlustigend verglijden in het blauw
van de heilige baai
elk visje is een ietepiete maagd maria
elke kokosboom buigt van de schatjes
jihad martelaren klaar om op je oofd

te valhallen prikk’lend je dringding
oh oh zo rihihitmisch

ma drid
ma torentjes toch
ma ma
mu mm ie

de para-nautika
van het bewaren
de nieuwste gulp der
Ungry Young Scientists levend
vanop de UYS-conventie

pal op het plekje autochtoon
dat nog onbezoedeld was

wat is uw groep oh ik ben nog niet

baf op de kop
knal de knieschijven open
eender waar het sap maar
geextraheerd kan worden

maar maar maar het einde is
altijd dichter bij
het oor
dus

zing liever een luufdusluid
o hoe schoon ruiken uw verzen
het zijnzweet de angstbuil
de orror van het orribiele
de stank der bevrijding
bevrijdende de zongen
der verzogen geesten

allen zijn wij
terug bij af op het punt
der cirkelquadraturen
cirkelend hoog
boven het liber libelli
zwaaiende bovenhoofds
de surfplank van sorry
ik kan je nu niet meppen
ik moet mij haasten
mij reppen om

te gaan
zitten breien

komt altegader in het nuhu
het rauwe oog van uw oorlog
in uw nergens

het fractalenfjordje
dat je maakt al postend proestend waterspottend
waterpostend postend ende

kom doe mee doe mee met de jouissance
der nieuwste Parijse vomitteuses
begeleid door Herr Composor
signeur Da Capo
hetzelve

alle mieren breien
in dezelfde wereldwijde
mierenbreifabriek aan
dezelfde mierecodebrij

oh maar het verlangen
oh maar het lijden
oh maar oor
de ana annihi inhaleur
van de traditie die
naar achteren het heden
instuikt, mevrouw de literator:

(van haarzelve dezelfde)

het gouden jongensmeisjemoeras
der leegheid dat hoekt & haakt
in haar & vandaar in het het

het HET dames en heren
het HET

und
daar
is het ijs
alweer

so
het ego is een magnum
het laagje chocola is dun

breed breed
dun
breed
wei

in feite is alles wat er rest een wonde
die zichzelf bezeert de inscriptie schrijft
zichzelf in het champ d’action
in feite

verbergend con plafond
het selige zalige virtuele
een gebied

dat de-
ter
ter
terri
torialli ah f***
dat krijg ik niet gebekt
voor het substantief
de middag droog is

een gebied waar al het sterven
de reeds gestorvenen uity-
balanceert

de nulzone van dit is van mij
dit spinneweb is helemaal van mij
de spinnen zijn al lang vrij maar
hier ben jij jij jij welko welko

welkom in mijn zinnepara

parapara
disio re mi do

[untsoweiter]

she spells the words wake up by
following the curve of my neck
with her hand it’s tender but still

it says wake up (Wachet Auf für five Fingers
and an Original Thomas Pynchon Knive)

wake up sweating trying to define
the pome’s poeming as a skein of trajectories
through lexical spaces driven on by x number of

particle-emitters öder bat-sucking vidanges
öder angel-throwing combe-busters all flame
all fluid all igniting the full full unawareness of

innocent air
- its innocence is popal, phishing religion
as pollution or whichever way the toxic
wants your health to be ruined/furthered
into gain today – angles of any things

barking in your face there’s a different angle
to everything – another one
throwing their love
spit zero spelling dot belong
be long dot to me com e g
will it ever
end no it will
never end at
the other side
of end is more end
to end-angle
the beyond-end

a sense of my own::
senseo anullment
the Raphaelic
transfiguratio
of ation

another cup of coffee well bent
along the curvature of milla’s way

a lustfull glide into the blue
of the holy lagoon
its every fish a tiny mother mary
and a coconut treebulging with
darling jihad
martyrs to fahall on your ead
and prickly your throngthrall
oh so oh rhythmically

ma drid
ma 2 towers
ma ma
mu mm y

the para-nautica
of preservation
the latest gush of the
ungry young scientists convention
hitting the natives
where they haven’t been hit yet

what’s your set oh i havent been

bang on the head
wide open go the kneecaps
anywhere the juice can be extracted from

but but but the end is
always nearer to
the ear
so

singa song uvluv instead
o how i loooove ur pome
its sweatness the cool
orror of the orribul
the stench of liberation
liberating the
sungs of the lust minds

we’re all
back to squaring circles
high above the liber libelli
waving a surf plank
as an excuse
sorry i can’t hitya
i gotta be

running to get
nitting

all to gather in the now wow
the raw war of nowhere
the fractal fjord of
posting spotting posting

please join us in the jouissance
of the latest Parisian vomitteuses
accomponied by da composor
signeur da Capo
itself

all ants nitting
in the same worldwide
nitting-factory
of ant-i- code

oh but the languishing
oh but the suffering
oh but the ear’s
the ana annihil inhalator
of tradition running backwards
mr literator herself:

the golden boygirlswamp of emptiness
angling his it into her it into its it

und
out
goes the
ice
again

so
the ego’s a magnum
its chocalate’s thin

wide wide
thin
wide
wei

in fact all that remains’s a wound
hurting itself the inscription inscribing
itself into
the champ d’action
in fact

concealing con ceeling
the zelig zalige virtual
an area

the de-
ter
ter
terri
torial a f***
no way i can pronounce that
word before the noun of noon

where all the dying
outbalances the ones past
dying

the zero zone of this i own
the cobweb’s all by me the spider’s
gone i set them free but here you are
be welco welco welcome
to my pleasure

dome toy re ry

[untsoweiter]

]]> http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/09/10/git-wit/feed/ 0 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/09/10/end/ http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/09/10/end/#comments Mon, 10 Sep 2007 19:59:00 +0000 dv http://kesselkar.wordpress.com/2007/09/10/end/ ]]> of the mirroir
the mirroir of

end
s

here
:

:

Re’s Happ ‘n Dance

is the Mother of the World

By knowing the Mother one knows her children
By knowing her children one comes to know her

Such is their unity
that one does not exist without the other.

Damn our luck
that you should get stuck
somewhere in There.

The need to judge the other
by ones own standards
always leads to injustice.

i know you fail
you know i fail
i could help you by telling you how i fail
you could do the same for me.

You telling me why i fail
is just you telling me
how you would fail if you were the dumb ass
that i am. But you are the dumb ass

that you are. We all have the ambition
to be the smartest ass around, being the dumb ass
that we are. Let’s grant each other that

and despise what we are entitled to despise
the smallest piece of light where we can be right
in the wrong of own right.

XXXIII

Tant est Nature en volonté puissante
et volenteuse en son foible povoir,
Que bien souvent a son vueil blandissante,
Se voit par soy grandement decevoir.
A mon instinct je laisse concevoir
Un doulx souhait, qui, non encore bien né,
Est de plaisirs nourry, & gouverné,
Se puissant puis de chose plus haultaine,
Lors estant creu en desir seffrené,
Plus je l’attire & plus a soy m’entraine.

I’d gladly get on top of you and drive the stake
Were it not for all thy slipperiness and the lack
Of distinction betwixt the meat that is you (1),
the meat that is you within the larvae (2), and (3)
The meat already flying about and getting ready
To lay more eggs in (4) the meat still wildly boasting
that your words on paper will outlast the undead
eyes aye I’s that stare into the light of screens, ai ai

http://twitter.com/vilt

here’s 2 alla ya Virtual Individua’s Longing To Gather

from the grey blood stamped & government approved Bell air

of da sweaty self-indulgent downtown bugga Kessel-lo, pretending

to be the poor part of Belgium’s beer soaked but bubblegum freed

tumoresquelly outskirting tennis court called uneuchly Louvain,

Ear is da eadless twitter of ur nearly braindead pote

da sung of a lust mind da spineless flangelonging

spitting pomes in semi-random fashion but re-verse

to the way the wurld wants us wankers to end

in da deep brown fusci euf da Arched Hives

not widda  bang but widda twitta

44 to 41 minutes ago from web

–

dv

http://www.vilt.net

http://vilt.skynetblogs

http://nkdee.blogspot.com

ARTISTI/ARTISTS:
Tiziana Baracchi – Rosetta Berardi – Anna Boschi – Rossana Gagnolati -
Bruno Capatti -Lamberto Caravita – Roberto Cornacchia – Carmela
Corsitto – Giancarlo Da Lio – Caterina Davinio – Raffaele De Martino
ZUD – Maurizio Follin – Alberto Gallingani – Alessandro Giovannini NUT-
Silvia Golfera – Gruppo Sinestetico – Avivit Hagby – Romeo Lombardi -
Pietro Meletti – Mirco Mungari – Luigi Nanni – Cristina Ortolani -
Giancarlo Pucci e Rossella – Rossella Renzi – Dimitri Sillato – Fulgor
C. Silvi – Luigi Starace Luistar – Giovanni e Renata Strada – Vincenzo
Vasi – Ivano Vitali – Argo/Rivista d’esplorazione Ed.Pendragon (BO):
Marco Benedettelli – Valerio Cuccaroni Giulia Ferrandi – Sabrina
Foschini – Lorenzo Franceschini – Stefano Sanchini – Giovanni Tuzet.

Opening: September 30 – H: 04:00 PM
Contact: +39 054 5985831
Info: ufficio.cultura@comune.massalombarda.ra.it

Ritorna “Lavori in corso d’opera” che vede in questa seconda edizione ben sei sezioni: Installazioni site specific- Street Art – Performace – Video – Poesia – Suono.

Artisti provenienti da più parti d’Italia, di diverse età, giovani emergenti e
artisti più affermati, daranno vita a quello che vuole diventare il
biennale Festival delle Arti di Massa Lombarda.
Il titolo riassume lo spirito e l’idea di base che anima l’intero progetto espositivo, ovvero
quella dell’ opera d’arte che nasce per lo specifico contesto. Infatti
le installazioni saranno appositamente realizzate a seconda della
propria collocazione all’interno della ex chiesa del Carmine, oggi
divenuta Sala Polivalente, sede di esposizioni e spettacoli culturali.
Alcune opere saranno realizzate direttamente durante le prime giornate
di apertura, altre ancora prenderanno vita dopo la messa in scena di
performance nelle giornate del 30/09 e del 21/10. E’ l’idea, quindi, di
un cantiere dell’arte, di una mostra-laboratorio permanente, di uno
spazio che muta e si evolve nel corso del tempo. Anche il catalogo
della mostra verrà costruito “in corso d’opera” e presentato in
chiusura, poiché conterrà le foto tratte dai video, delle performance e
delle installazioni così come sono state realizzate sul posto, testo
critico di Sabina Ghinassi. Infine, oltre alle performance di artisti,
musicisti e poeti, lo staff editoriale della rivista bolognese “Argo”
proporrà durante il finissage un reading poetico-letterario
intrattenendo il pubblico presente. Il festival ancora una volta, vuole
portare il pubblico e le istituzioni cittadine a fruire gli spazi della
quotidianità in modo originale attraverso una serie di eventi dalla
forte contaminazione di linguaggi e proposte artistiche tra le più
innovative in campo nazionale, con artisti capaci di far interagire il
loro lavoro con il contesto architettonico della chiesa del Carmine e
gli spazi ad esso circostanti. (Lamberto Caravita)

het is licht, niet?

dat binnen was buiten
maar het duister
kroop er in. In
je kronkeling
beweegt al het
kladje blauw:

de ochtend zonder
de ochtend zonder
de ochtend zonder
jou.

Hier jij

niet hier waar was je dan?

niet in je huid (het witte vierkant
vet gestold dat in je hand)
niet in je hand (de houten nap)
niet in je oog (het blauwe nat)
niet in je haren (waar het uitwaarts
ruist)

niet hier wat was je dan?

meloenzaad als tanden
keverlarve je hals
libellehoofd
zijdewormse wenkbrauwen
zwartwitte ogen hoog contrast

& het rood van je mond
als juweel in de kast.

hier niet, maar wie
was jij dan?

———————————————

You talk of sweat sung onto black leather
Leaking rot of spineless gut spilled
On your darkest brim, the immaculate swim
Your very B must be in: sure, I’d buy it all

If any of it would ever survive the fall
into our urgent lack of you. That is. But still
none of us that are thus lacking you, have
ever seen the sin of human exploitation

going deeper into going deeper into going
down the deepest shit that you are in.

Wewe paka
kwani wanludhiyani
wewe paka
unawaudhi majirani
Utapigwa
ukalipiwe faini

your craving’s craving for another crave
you’d wish you had a faint for once
a faint remembrance of a wealwetwant

something befitting the yawning
quadruple of your W, a fold on
the fold that hides the pus on the cut
inside your emptyness, a fix
on hold. You might wish i sent you this,

your tongue’s run dry, your whoppy foam’s
real high the desert’s storm will always hurt
the inner eye with tang and tung and tong:

i won’t. It will not end your way:
when all ‘s gone your ting
and gland too will be gone & dry

while our Siti sings she swings
your former wry as g*d’s
old lullaby to me oh my

yes we gladly wave bye bye
before we vomit you into our sky.

The little track of swahili taarab by Siti binti Saad and Group was recorded ca. 1931 and can be found on the excellent album collected by dr. Janet Topp Fargion:
http://www.venerablemusic.com/catalog/TitleDetails.asp?TitleID=12666

 

"From the reader's viewpoint, then, the lover's story exists even though it is not told; it is in some sense both present and absent in the text"

De ce grand Pape abouchant a Marseille

1. Burundi's political crisis deepened with attacks on politicians' homes and stalled peace talks between the government and the country's last active rebel group, the Palipehutu-FNL. Insecurity deteriorated further in the Democratic Republic of Congo, with significant troop movements and clashes in the east.
2. In Bangladesh, student anti-government protests turned violent and curfews were imposed in six cities.
3. Tensions between Georgia and Russia soared as a guided missile fell near South Ossetia and the two neighbours traded sharp accusations.
4.  In Guatemala, a string of over 40 political murders ahead of 9 September presidential elections marked one of the bloodiest campaign periods since the end of that country's civil war in 1996.
5. Deadly blasts in Hyderabad in India killed over 40, while separatist violence in the north east intensified.
6. Somalia saw violence surge, particularly in the capital Mogadishu, even as the National Reconciliation Congress continued and wrapped up at the end of the month.
7. In the Philippines, fighting spiked between the government and Muslim militants, while peace talks with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front were again postponed.
8.  And the situation in Iraq became even more unstable, ungoverned and violent as coordinated blasts in Yazidi villages killed some 500 in the deadliest attack since the 2003 U.S.-led invasion.

vilt dot kessello at blogger dot com

and it will become POETRY KESSEL-LO – en het zal KESSEL-LO POEZIE worden

er we noticed there was a slight mistake in the wording of the email addres you’re supposed to sent your stuff to. It’ has been corrected now.
Burps.

Sorry.

Really.

We are told that if one should succeed in putting a tiny bit of salt on the tails of Comment Boxes, one ought to be able to catch it! Really!

If you succeed please let us know, so we can erect the Commons Liberation Front of Eastern Comment Boxes!

Thank You!
Thank you!
And U too!

No, not u,
no way!