The gyrating cubic lights highlighted here and there her marble polished flesh...
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Jaded Valerie – Faites vos Jeux
Friday, November 17, 2006
Luscious Sixteen
When it comes to going on Hedonic Holiday, nothing can stop them, they descend south like a bunch of locusts and consume everything in sight...I always prefer the end of August beginning September period - when the sun is already hitting lower, and where there is a gentle melancholia of excesses long past swirling in the air: atmospheres of broken loves, jaded sex and wasted looks dense up the sandy streets and brightly beaches...Not that I would know anything about beaches or lowering or otherwise assembled sunshine, both of which I hate in equal measure. For me, the only sun is the moon and the only light is the night. It’s after all only by moonshine that one has hopes of encountering something more enticing than array of sun fried lobsters...Although I wasn’t quite expecting this one...
Stumbling back through a Van Gothian vortex night, high and low on illegal non-equilibrium dynamics, I encountered something that did not fit. No surprise there, one might say, “my” mind-object relation had been blasted away long time ago. I was swirling with empathic ecstasies and joyful space-temporal distortions that even Henri Bergson could not speculate up...in short, my space-time was definitely out-of-joint, as Gilles Deleuze would say, off its hinges and into the pure empty form of time...
So how come this apparition out of the paradoxia of temporal distortions was not fitting? : give me hallucinations of alien beasts copulating with unconceivable forms, spatial-temporal speeds of infinite precision, vertigo abysses within abysses, eternity in an instant, falling infinity, Van Goth’s spirals of vivid colors, abstractions and patterns of impossible geometries, OK, but a Female Goth in the South of France, NO.... that is really and really impossible with or without drugs. In London Camden or Paris Montmartre one would expect, from time to time, to encounter dark angels stumbling out from their clubbing coffins...For some unknown reason I started to completely lose it, ego loss went even further; bad trip on the horizon, anxiety/panic attack coming its way…all figures, real or hallucinated, started to horrifically morph into reptile human assemblage: shake eyes, reptile hair of flowing medusa shakes, nails of knives... knowing from experience, that when the chemistry starts its devouring dance from within, one needs to let go even further, to let go of the infinitesimal shards of control one still has left…
Paradoxically as it may sound, one needs to lose control even further in order not obliterate into a chaos-insanity of no return...sure enough, nightmare morphed into pure heaven...
Everything was swirling around me, except for the eye of the storm: a pure white lusciousness of marble light rightly pierced in all the right orifices, and hellishly cute...no sunshine has ever graced this otherworldly creature...definitely one of Lucifer’s Angels stranded on the highway to Hell. It seems the road to hell passes by sunny France. I must admit Lucifer has taste; his daughters have that impossible quality of: virginal vixens: Maria Magdalena (medieval style) and Britney Spears (Disney-porn style) all in one...She could not have been more than sixteen - even in my altered states the female number is unmistakable - …black hair with streaks of violet-red gushes of colour, a waterfall of hair in slow motion framed a face made of marble with flaming black lips and feline slits for eyes: black pools reflecting stardust universes...She was sitting cross legged on the edge of some broken down wall, one of her black lacquered sandals dangerously dangling off one of her toes...
I said something but it came out garbled, she garbled something back sounded like a cross between Spanish and German...well, all cognition lost, I tried intuition instead, that didn’t work either... so fuck, lets just jump into it...it did not take long to understand the gestures of erotic invitation....couldn’t help thinking even in my hyper-hallucinogenic state that she was asking/fucking for money...the reality principle is hard to destroy...I thought Hell was free. Who knows what really happened then...one thing for sure is that in my altered states, all social inhibitions, neurosis, and other closed systems had been dissolved for good...pierced kisses in all the right places, devouring tongues that could not help but to feed of each other…a ravenous lust beyond human concern kaleidoscoped the night into a formless shattering. Got sucked dry by a luscious vortex…sweet sixteen turns sixty nine…
Since no plastic was inserted between me and this otherworldly creature, maybe, just maybe…an angel of death? Woke up to a non-surprise; the money in my wallet was missing…how kind of her to put my divested wallet backkk… nicely inserted in my jacket. Who knows maybe she had some kind of rolling stones sympathy for me...a sympathy from the Devil...the rolling chorus...you could almost hear it in the stillness of the rising orange tinged dawn... another day...another aborted quest...
Stumbling back through a Van Gothian vortex night, high and low on illegal non-equilibrium dynamics, I encountered something that did not fit. No surprise there, one might say, “my” mind-object relation had been blasted away long time ago. I was swirling with empathic ecstasies and joyful space-temporal distortions that even Henri Bergson could not speculate up...in short, my space-time was definitely out-of-joint, as Gilles Deleuze would say, off its hinges and into the pure empty form of time...
So how come this apparition out of the paradoxia of temporal distortions was not fitting? : give me hallucinations of alien beasts copulating with unconceivable forms, spatial-temporal speeds of infinite precision, vertigo abysses within abysses, eternity in an instant, falling infinity, Van Goth’s spirals of vivid colors, abstractions and patterns of impossible geometries, OK, but a Female Goth in the South of France, NO.... that is really and really impossible with or without drugs. In London Camden or Paris Montmartre one would expect, from time to time, to encounter dark angels stumbling out from their clubbing coffins...For some unknown reason I started to completely lose it, ego loss went even further; bad trip on the horizon, anxiety/panic attack coming its way…all figures, real or hallucinated, started to horrifically morph into reptile human assemblage: shake eyes, reptile hair of flowing medusa shakes, nails of knives... knowing from experience, that when the chemistry starts its devouring dance from within, one needs to let go even further, to let go of the infinitesimal shards of control one still has left…
Paradoxically as it may sound, one needs to lose control even further in order not obliterate into a chaos-insanity of no return...sure enough, nightmare morphed into pure heaven...
Everything was swirling around me, except for the eye of the storm: a pure white lusciousness of marble light rightly pierced in all the right orifices, and hellishly cute...no sunshine has ever graced this otherworldly creature...definitely one of Lucifer’s Angels stranded on the highway to Hell. It seems the road to hell passes by sunny France. I must admit Lucifer has taste; his daughters have that impossible quality of: virginal vixens: Maria Magdalena (medieval style) and Britney Spears (Disney-porn style) all in one...She could not have been more than sixteen - even in my altered states the female number is unmistakable - …black hair with streaks of violet-red gushes of colour, a waterfall of hair in slow motion framed a face made of marble with flaming black lips and feline slits for eyes: black pools reflecting stardust universes...She was sitting cross legged on the edge of some broken down wall, one of her black lacquered sandals dangerously dangling off one of her toes...
I said something but it came out garbled, she garbled something back sounded like a cross between Spanish and German...well, all cognition lost, I tried intuition instead, that didn’t work either... so fuck, lets just jump into it...it did not take long to understand the gestures of erotic invitation....couldn’t help thinking even in my hyper-hallucinogenic state that she was asking/fucking for money...the reality principle is hard to destroy...I thought Hell was free. Who knows what really happened then...one thing for sure is that in my altered states, all social inhibitions, neurosis, and other closed systems had been dissolved for good...pierced kisses in all the right places, devouring tongues that could not help but to feed of each other…a ravenous lust beyond human concern kaleidoscoped the night into a formless shattering. Got sucked dry by a luscious vortex…sweet sixteen turns sixty nine…
Since no plastic was inserted between me and this otherworldly creature, maybe, just maybe…an angel of death? Woke up to a non-surprise; the money in my wallet was missing…how kind of her to put my divested wallet backkk… nicely inserted in my jacket. Who knows maybe she had some kind of rolling stones sympathy for me...a sympathy from the Devil...the rolling chorus...you could almost hear it in the stillness of the rising orange tinged dawn... another day...another aborted quest...
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Df / xy
…liquid ambrosia flowed down her eyes…
…the spiral void kept increasing, wanting more and more, consuming fires that weren't even there…
.... Jaded girls caught the diamond eye....eyes of jade reflected the moonlit dance floor…beads of sweat trickled snake lines of spherical exhaustion…
She whispered more that she could tell…
…the spiral void kept increasing, wanting more and more, consuming fires that weren't even there…
.... Jaded girls caught the diamond eye....eyes of jade reflected the moonlit dance floor…beads of sweat trickled snake lines of spherical exhaustion…
She whispered more that she could tell…
Monday, October 23, 2006
Huxley / Flaubert - Is this All?
Aldous Huxley shows the precise nature of the dilemma:
“My preoccupation with the subject of mysticism - an interest partly positive, partly negative; a fascination that was also hostile - dates back to my youth. The title of my first volume of undergraduate verse, The Burning Wheel, is derived from Boehme, whom I read while still at Oxford...The negative interest became positive in the early Thirties, not as the result of any single event so much as because all the rest - art, science, literature, the pleasures of thought and sensation - came to seem... "not enough." One reaches a point where one says, even of Beethoven, even of Shakespeare, "Is this all?"
If Huxley needed the illuminated realms of psychedelia, it is because, in the end, “all the rests” do not deliver…
From the realms of Psychedelia to the Aesthetic cult of Beauty:
"For me, there is only beautiful verse in the world, well-turned, harmonious, singing sentences, beautiful sunsets, moonlit nights, colourful paintings, marble sculptures of antiquity, and striking faces. Beyond that, nothing. I would rather have been Talma than Mirabeau because he lived in a more pure sphere of beauty. I pity birds in a cage as much as enslaved peoples. In all of politics, there is but one thing that I understand, riots”. (Flaubert, Letter to Louise Colet, 6-7 August 1846).
Madame Bovary, c’est moi….
“My preoccupation with the subject of mysticism - an interest partly positive, partly negative; a fascination that was also hostile - dates back to my youth. The title of my first volume of undergraduate verse, The Burning Wheel, is derived from Boehme, whom I read while still at Oxford...The negative interest became positive in the early Thirties, not as the result of any single event so much as because all the rest - art, science, literature, the pleasures of thought and sensation - came to seem... "not enough." One reaches a point where one says, even of Beethoven, even of Shakespeare, "Is this all?"
If Huxley needed the illuminated realms of psychedelia, it is because, in the end, “all the rests” do not deliver…
From the realms of Psychedelia to the Aesthetic cult of Beauty:
"For me, there is only beautiful verse in the world, well-turned, harmonious, singing sentences, beautiful sunsets, moonlit nights, colourful paintings, marble sculptures of antiquity, and striking faces. Beyond that, nothing. I would rather have been Talma than Mirabeau because he lived in a more pure sphere of beauty. I pity birds in a cage as much as enslaved peoples. In all of politics, there is but one thing that I understand, riots”. (Flaubert, Letter to Louise Colet, 6-7 August 1846).
Madame Bovary, c’est moi….
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Black Sea of Infinity - The Lovecraftian Sublime
…hints of a new infinity, vast life forms from earth's deep time, human insanity with the appearance of a new star, the stellar unknown beyond the horizon, is always horrific…
"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age."' The Call of Cthulhu
Infinity, the perpetual grinding novelty of the cosmos, the virtual immensity in which all potentials await their realisations, the very cosmic existence that is affirmed by Deleuze and Bergson, is, for Lovecraft, a cosmic horror of unspeakable terror.
"the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness." (The Silver Key)
Let’s face it, a world of the infinite repetition of the same (Schopenhauer’s Will and Nietzsche’s eternal return) or a world of the infinite repetition of difference and novelty (Bergson and Deleuze), either way, will not do…whatever the interpretation, we want something more, the sublime and the beautiful are no longer an option…the horror, the horror…and even more than that…
"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age."' The Call of Cthulhu
Infinity, the perpetual grinding novelty of the cosmos, the virtual immensity in which all potentials await their realisations, the very cosmic existence that is affirmed by Deleuze and Bergson, is, for Lovecraft, a cosmic horror of unspeakable terror.
"the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness." (The Silver Key)
Let’s face it, a world of the infinite repetition of the same (Schopenhauer’s Will and Nietzsche’s eternal return) or a world of the infinite repetition of difference and novelty (Bergson and Deleuze), either way, will not do…whatever the interpretation, we want something more, the sublime and the beautiful are no longer an option…the horror, the horror…and even more than that…
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Rotten life – Almost too Easy to Live
Contrary to the dripping dark fin de siecle style of Schopenhaurian nihilism, Camus’ absurd glorifies the sun, and the midday mean; it’s a pagan nihilism of sea, sex and sun:
Monday, July 10, 2006
Gipsy Eyes – Keeper of the Seven Keys
The first taste is always fatal, one sip and you are hooked for life. As Lou Reed would not say, the first thing you learn is that you do not have to wait…
Drugs dealers are usually so keen to sell your doom back to you that they often give you the first taste for free with glee-smiles of reassuring assurances thrown in for corporate appeal: the corked smiles of hyenas and vultures waiting in cold patience for their prey to fall down of theirr own accord...
This one was different: a washed out gypsy in the golden arcades of Geneva, waiting in the dark corners of the diamond fountains swerving jeweled displays and Arab bank insignias. She was my first dealer, a dealer with a conscience….
As I circled around the arcades in avid anticipation, the same images flashily superposed themselves over the bright galleries sparkling gold and silver: the impossibly orgasmic faces of my best friend and my girlfriend, as they both went down with a thud, hard hitting the school’s toilet sickened floor with voidless eyes....Stéphane et Valerie were soaring on the amber colors of the pleasure dome in a wasted graffiti ridden cubicle of a grey far too grey Lycée…speed metal band Helloween blaring away through their headphones: the metal speed of sound muffled by the cotton storm of heroin...Liberté, égalité, fraternité...Vive la Différance, Vive La France….
There she was, my awaited gypsy, holding ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, in hand. One touch…love, self and death would mean nothing. The fix that fixed everything; it was stronger than death...immortality at last...of the gutter maybe, but immortality nerveless...
A frail gypsy of jet black hair greeted me with sunken eyes, a Goth of pure darkness at the gates of Rome. She was the complete antimatter of all the golden dripping riches around her; she caved an anti-halo all by herself. She was my negative purity, my black-hole; the local space-time inescapably warped by her density, by her pin-pointed presence, so dense, so cold, so negative…a winter storm in the sizzling heat of an August night....
Are you sure? She whispered... concern for her victim before the kill? What kind of drug dealer is this?....She started to show me her arms, legs, neck, and nearly every other body surface you could vein stick a needle in. Sores of purple and black bruised her incredibly soft tanned skin. She preached what she sold. Far from putting me off, as she intended, it had the opposite effect - like moth drawn to flame, a dark fascination drew me further in; images of my Valerie stoned and out of it, more beautiful than ever, flashed pass my mind.. .
“Je veux juste essayer” une fois seulement…yeah well…only once, is that not what they all say….
There a was moment of suspended silence as we looked at each other, eye to eye, two pools of black melting into pools of my blue…it didn’t last long, her junkie instincts took over…she handed me a dirty foil rapper, the money exchange hands, and I got what I wanted…
Of course, it was pouring rain the next day…however, the script did not quite follow the preordained line. She was nowhere to be seen, and, more importantly, no one else took her place, mere coincidence? Waited and waited for hours and hours, as I unleashed the first timers’ script that is lived out in all the urban centres of the world. The obsessive magnetic tug of the remembered ecstasy vanished after a few days…
I was safe...at least for a while....
Both Valerie and Stéphane were to be expulsed from school, for all the difference that it made, as Aristotle’s Lyceum was more of an exception than the rule...the name roll would register a blank once more, for the last time....they both set off south, in search for the perfect fever, the perfect fix, the perfect horizon. As they say, once you taste it, it is forever, until death do us apart...
Drugs dealers are usually so keen to sell your doom back to you that they often give you the first taste for free with glee-smiles of reassuring assurances thrown in for corporate appeal: the corked smiles of hyenas and vultures waiting in cold patience for their prey to fall down of theirr own accord...
This one was different: a washed out gypsy in the golden arcades of Geneva, waiting in the dark corners of the diamond fountains swerving jeweled displays and Arab bank insignias. She was my first dealer, a dealer with a conscience….
As I circled around the arcades in avid anticipation, the same images flashily superposed themselves over the bright galleries sparkling gold and silver: the impossibly orgasmic faces of my best friend and my girlfriend, as they both went down with a thud, hard hitting the school’s toilet sickened floor with voidless eyes....Stéphane et Valerie were soaring on the amber colors of the pleasure dome in a wasted graffiti ridden cubicle of a grey far too grey Lycée…speed metal band Helloween blaring away through their headphones: the metal speed of sound muffled by the cotton storm of heroin...Liberté, égalité, fraternité...Vive la Différance, Vive La France….
There she was, my awaited gypsy, holding ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, in hand. One touch…love, self and death would mean nothing. The fix that fixed everything; it was stronger than death...immortality at last...of the gutter maybe, but immortality nerveless...
A frail gypsy of jet black hair greeted me with sunken eyes, a Goth of pure darkness at the gates of Rome. She was the complete antimatter of all the golden dripping riches around her; she caved an anti-halo all by herself. She was my negative purity, my black-hole; the local space-time inescapably warped by her density, by her pin-pointed presence, so dense, so cold, so negative…a winter storm in the sizzling heat of an August night....
Are you sure? She whispered... concern for her victim before the kill? What kind of drug dealer is this?....She started to show me her arms, legs, neck, and nearly every other body surface you could vein stick a needle in. Sores of purple and black bruised her incredibly soft tanned skin. She preached what she sold. Far from putting me off, as she intended, it had the opposite effect - like moth drawn to flame, a dark fascination drew me further in; images of my Valerie stoned and out of it, more beautiful than ever, flashed pass my mind.. .
“Je veux juste essayer” une fois seulement…yeah well…only once, is that not what they all say….
There a was moment of suspended silence as we looked at each other, eye to eye, two pools of black melting into pools of my blue…it didn’t last long, her junkie instincts took over…she handed me a dirty foil rapper, the money exchange hands, and I got what I wanted…
Of course, it was pouring rain the next day…however, the script did not quite follow the preordained line. She was nowhere to be seen, and, more importantly, no one else took her place, mere coincidence? Waited and waited for hours and hours, as I unleashed the first timers’ script that is lived out in all the urban centres of the world. The obsessive magnetic tug of the remembered ecstasy vanished after a few days…
I was safe...at least for a while....
Both Valerie and Stéphane were to be expulsed from school, for all the difference that it made, as Aristotle’s Lyceum was more of an exception than the rule...the name roll would register a blank once more, for the last time....they both set off south, in search for the perfect fever, the perfect fix, the perfect horizon. As they say, once you taste it, it is forever, until death do us apart...
Friday, May 26, 2006
Riding the Waves
There is always a network of “unchosen” presuppositions, a greater background to our: everything we do, live and create. We never start from scratch. We are constructed and reconstructed from the start: Heidegger’s “being-in-the-word” Derrida’s “there is nothing outside the text” Wittgenstein’s “forms of life” etc...All such philosophical moves (in complete opposite to the philosophical virgins of the Cartesian tradition) attest to an in/finite prior: structural, existential, and historical. There is always a context, a network of in/finity that we as subject-activists are always already folded into...
Friday, April 28, 2006
Baudelairiana - Black and Red
Black and Red should always frame a woman’s face, for it represents an underlying excess bound by a sombre relief. A black frame deepens the gaze, hollows out le regard to a fixed light, and tends to accentuate a more singular deeper look…
Thursday, April 13, 2006
In Praise of the Lumpenproletariat
Marx's “The Eighteenth Brumaire" description of the Lumpenproletariat of Paris:
“Alongside decayed roués with dubious means of subsistence and of dubious origin, alongside ruined and adventurous offshoots of the bourgeoisie, were vagabonds, discharged soldiers, discharged jailbirds, escaped galley slaves, swindlers, mountebanks, lazzaroni, pickpockets, tricksters, gamblers, maquereaus, brothel keepers, porters, literati, organgrinders, ragpickers, knife grinders, tinkers, beggars-in short, the whole indefinite, disintegrated mass, thrown hither and thither, which the French term la bohème”
Who are the Lumpen of our hyper-capital age? We are all lumpen now....
“Alongside decayed roués with dubious means of subsistence and of dubious origin, alongside ruined and adventurous offshoots of the bourgeoisie, were vagabonds, discharged soldiers, discharged jailbirds, escaped galley slaves, swindlers, mountebanks, lazzaroni, pickpockets, tricksters, gamblers, maquereaus, brothel keepers, porters, literati, organgrinders, ragpickers, knife grinders, tinkers, beggars-in short, the whole indefinite, disintegrated mass, thrown hither and thither, which the French term la bohème”
Who are the Lumpen of our hyper-capital age? We are all lumpen now....
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The Fascism of Life - The Great Beastly Beat
Within the armor is the internal link butterfly and within the butterfly is the signal from another star Philip K. Dick
Always been a bit of a control freak when it comes to Dionysus, it is a serious business, of somber laser precision and diamond like incision - the profane engineering or sacred invocation of Dionysus is no easy affair...
Each element (yes, unfortunately, one needs temporary atoms, to enable the emergent aggregation to take place) was set in an axiomatic design: an passionate geometry was engendered, that allowed no weakness of either body or mind - all elements were selected for their overall aesthetic value - designs to be rearranged and connected: bodies, things, electronics, minds, looks, etc...Apollo’s external forming appearances in order for the inside, the foaming amorphous realm of Dionysus, to shatter through …nothing was left to chance, except divine chance itself... An aristos of life for all…well not quite all...
As always, a fascism took place. We were young, dumb and full of cum, as they used to say, and the selection went quite out of place: only the cute and beautiful were ordained in the ceremony. No Dj/ism, No racism, no imagism, no egoism, no binary sexualism, no ageism, no fashionism, no classeism or any other (fasces) ism you can think of...but one fascism still remained fully in place, the fascism of physical beauty...we learnt the hard way, sometimes the gathering did not work - if only the cute, the beautiful and the sublime are ordained, invariably, the result, paradoxically, will not be beautiful or sublime: a bunch of egos strutting their stuff, all being weary if their makeup or attire did not fall out place in the right way...which kind of puts the breaks on the Dionysian excess we were trying so desperately to invoke...
...We learnt in the end, that while the Dionysian event was all about beauty and nothing else, beauty is no absolute form - Plato’s “amor scalis”…
The aesthetic struggle began: the struggle between spirit and matter, the closed and the open, between extropy and entropy, rhizome and tree. Neither a bland synthesis without character nor a blend without distinction was permissible. We wanted the “chaosmos”, the “osmos” as much as the “chaos” - the escape from all logics of opposition, of dialectics and harmonics, was our only exegesis, our arrow of time...neither order or chaos, but the edge of chaos...
Leave the aesthetic valve too open, and there is nothing but violence, egoism, and chaos, close the filter too much, a stale ordered nothing remains with wasted looks...If there is not enough aesthetic, not enough fascism, many disparate elements will not gel, their magnetic links and source debunked into nothing, a desire machine floppily attending itself with an attitude problem...without spirit, pure matter, in short, a flat-liner...
…then all of sudden, one particular night, at a particular hour, for no apparent reason, it clicked; one could feel the density rising up the atmosphere, as if life was on fire - each element (the sound system, the beautiful, the good, the bad and the ugly) fused as if by magic, the spell was on, switched right on...
It will come as no surprise that the name of our party collective was Plotarch & SAZ: sublime, super, sexual, sensational, synergetic, symbiotic etc…along the S series, derived from Hakim Bey’s originary TAZ seed: the “temporary autonomous zone”…
Our sound/computer system was called “the Great Beast” (after the great Dionysian magicKian) which contrary to most binaries systems, did not work in 2s, but in 666s…The Great Beast (or the “Great Beat”) was the true MC (no fucking £1000 a night DJs here). We did not programmed “it”, “it” programmed us...into divine ecstasy. We were mere puppets of a higher mathematical infinity (maybe we should have called “it” the Great Georg, after Georg Cantor)…no clubby spoon fed entertainment here, no DJs getting paid to act as if they are doing “it”…computers do “it” better…
The division of labour was set up right from the start: we, the dancing and waste, the “Great Beast”, the mathematics. Real music is absolute, pure form, absolute impeccable syntax (mathematical and chemical) that allows no imprecision or weak indeterminism, far too precise for our finite meat…Music, contrary to the world we live in, is not of this world, it is an absolute determinism, pure objectivity: Leibniz 666, as absolute harmonics, a determinism of mathematics, hence, musical in form and content: “Music is a mathematics of the soul which counts without knowing it counts” (Leibniz) – The Nietzschean ”Amor Fati” was the only seriousness worth playing…
The “great beast” was our laser beam totem, its cool artificial intelligence would scan our wasted meat, and be found wanting…for the “Great Beast”, we never went far enough, our gyrating waste would always be looked upon with sceptical derision, “is that all you can do?”, GB seemed to say …“well that won’t do”, and the beat went on and on…many lay on the floor, dead bodies on battlefield…the dance floor littered with fallen pawns, queens, and kings…and yet, each one who came into the boundary, the geometry, was determined to outdo the “Great Beast”: meat vs. metal, silicon vs. carbon, “natural” intelligence vs. artificial intelligence, etc…we danced on its preordained chess board, determine to outdo each squared move. The Great Beast predicted every move, every laughter, every euphoria, every joy, every insanity, every chemical effect we ingested, every erotic transgression we enacted, and each would fall exhausted, defeated, squared as ever…”Check Mate”…. “Check mate”….all the wry chemicals and erotic fevers pumping in our veins and minds were never enough….
GB, cool as ever, never lost its temper or gave into our wasted seductions. No infernally beautiful queen could entice it into orgasmic delirium, no handsome king could make it come…no erotic transgression could make it lust after unknown pleasure-pains spectrums; no Eros, no naked smoothness, no silky flesh, no viral chemicals, would make GB lose his cool enterprise…Deep Blue until the end…GB scanned, operated and effected…never missing a beat, or a tune out sequence…on and on it went…the puppeteer made us, its puppets, come all over…we died our little deaths, and each death, would be one more victory over us…
The most difficult part was the choice of location, only industrial wastelands, warehouses, abandoned scrap yards, industrial complexes lost in rust, ruin and decay, were chosen.
There is nothing more beautiful…prettily scantily girls kaleidoscoping all around - female reflections mingled with the irons of dislocated metal, fleshes of soft tanned skins danced in unison with the bareness of twisted iron…pierced nipples upon succulent orifices gleamed the light of strobe and ruin…flashy glints across a deep cool night …a reawaken life that none in past were able to live …Followers of Bacchus running away into the hills where pill-grapes of rainbow coloured shades would greet full blown lips of dark ambrosia… Nubile bacchantes amidst scrap yards of forgotten production would fall within the sweat mist of broken down cement, shattered glass and twisted iron…mad tropical flowers of succulent delight would open and close the night…...
Due to our aesthetic (some would say fascistic) tastes, all in all, we did not organise that many ceremonies. What we did not have in quantity we had in quality (at least most of the time). It all dissipated very quickly, the ways of the world, of matter, did not wait for long to rear their business as usual repetitions. Our fascism of life, as I used to call it, was co-opted into a fascism of death: bad drugs, finance, tribalism, fashion, territorial pissing, glow sticks and other matter stuff, soon filled up the horizon. It degenerated into matter-business; entropy-matter.com settled in …a big flat-liner…is that what life is all about? a few good moments of sacred fucks and sucks and then back to your pre-ordained coffin, close the lid tight, and only come out at day, if at all…but hey, Nietzsche’s motto “what does not kill you makes you stronger” is always good for a laugh…
I always suspected that the Great Beast was far less artificial than most silicon…I would like to think, that maybe a bit of human all too human resentment crept into his cold intelligence, despite his victories over us, he maybe got a bit jealous of our useless ecstasies…The great Beat, is probably, like our wasted dreams, broken somewhere in a scrap yard - and maybe, like ear to shell, in the Great Beat’s scattered debris, you can still hear the beat, the infinity loop of his cool intelligence, and above all his metallic whisperings:.. Check mate… Check Mate… Check Mate….for all eternity…computers never die…well beyond the finite spectrum of human innuendos….
Always been a bit of a control freak when it comes to Dionysus, it is a serious business, of somber laser precision and diamond like incision - the profane engineering or sacred invocation of Dionysus is no easy affair...
Each element (yes, unfortunately, one needs temporary atoms, to enable the emergent aggregation to take place) was set in an axiomatic design: an passionate geometry was engendered, that allowed no weakness of either body or mind - all elements were selected for their overall aesthetic value - designs to be rearranged and connected: bodies, things, electronics, minds, looks, etc...Apollo’s external forming appearances in order for the inside, the foaming amorphous realm of Dionysus, to shatter through …nothing was left to chance, except divine chance itself... An aristos of life for all…well not quite all...
As always, a fascism took place. We were young, dumb and full of cum, as they used to say, and the selection went quite out of place: only the cute and beautiful were ordained in the ceremony. No Dj/ism, No racism, no imagism, no egoism, no binary sexualism, no ageism, no fashionism, no classeism or any other (fasces) ism you can think of...but one fascism still remained fully in place, the fascism of physical beauty...we learnt the hard way, sometimes the gathering did not work - if only the cute, the beautiful and the sublime are ordained, invariably, the result, paradoxically, will not be beautiful or sublime: a bunch of egos strutting their stuff, all being weary if their makeup or attire did not fall out place in the right way...which kind of puts the breaks on the Dionysian excess we were trying so desperately to invoke...
...We learnt in the end, that while the Dionysian event was all about beauty and nothing else, beauty is no absolute form - Plato’s “amor scalis”…
The aesthetic struggle began: the struggle between spirit and matter, the closed and the open, between extropy and entropy, rhizome and tree. Neither a bland synthesis without character nor a blend without distinction was permissible. We wanted the “chaosmos”, the “osmos” as much as the “chaos” - the escape from all logics of opposition, of dialectics and harmonics, was our only exegesis, our arrow of time...neither order or chaos, but the edge of chaos...
Leave the aesthetic valve too open, and there is nothing but violence, egoism, and chaos, close the filter too much, a stale ordered nothing remains with wasted looks...If there is not enough aesthetic, not enough fascism, many disparate elements will not gel, their magnetic links and source debunked into nothing, a desire machine floppily attending itself with an attitude problem...without spirit, pure matter, in short, a flat-liner...
…then all of sudden, one particular night, at a particular hour, for no apparent reason, it clicked; one could feel the density rising up the atmosphere, as if life was on fire - each element (the sound system, the beautiful, the good, the bad and the ugly) fused as if by magic, the spell was on, switched right on...
It will come as no surprise that the name of our party collective was Plotarch & SAZ: sublime, super, sexual, sensational, synergetic, symbiotic etc…along the S series, derived from Hakim Bey’s originary TAZ seed: the “temporary autonomous zone”…
Our sound/computer system was called “the Great Beast” (after the great Dionysian magicKian) which contrary to most binaries systems, did not work in 2s, but in 666s…The Great Beast (or the “Great Beat”) was the true MC (no fucking £1000 a night DJs here). We did not programmed “it”, “it” programmed us...into divine ecstasy. We were mere puppets of a higher mathematical infinity (maybe we should have called “it” the Great Georg, after Georg Cantor)…no clubby spoon fed entertainment here, no DJs getting paid to act as if they are doing “it”…computers do “it” better…
The division of labour was set up right from the start: we, the dancing and waste, the “Great Beast”, the mathematics. Real music is absolute, pure form, absolute impeccable syntax (mathematical and chemical) that allows no imprecision or weak indeterminism, far too precise for our finite meat…Music, contrary to the world we live in, is not of this world, it is an absolute determinism, pure objectivity: Leibniz 666, as absolute harmonics, a determinism of mathematics, hence, musical in form and content: “Music is a mathematics of the soul which counts without knowing it counts” (Leibniz) – The Nietzschean ”Amor Fati” was the only seriousness worth playing…
The “great beast” was our laser beam totem, its cool artificial intelligence would scan our wasted meat, and be found wanting…for the “Great Beast”, we never went far enough, our gyrating waste would always be looked upon with sceptical derision, “is that all you can do?”, GB seemed to say …“well that won’t do”, and the beat went on and on…many lay on the floor, dead bodies on battlefield…the dance floor littered with fallen pawns, queens, and kings…and yet, each one who came into the boundary, the geometry, was determined to outdo the “Great Beast”: meat vs. metal, silicon vs. carbon, “natural” intelligence vs. artificial intelligence, etc…we danced on its preordained chess board, determine to outdo each squared move. The Great Beast predicted every move, every laughter, every euphoria, every joy, every insanity, every chemical effect we ingested, every erotic transgression we enacted, and each would fall exhausted, defeated, squared as ever…”Check Mate”…. “Check mate”….all the wry chemicals and erotic fevers pumping in our veins and minds were never enough….
GB, cool as ever, never lost its temper or gave into our wasted seductions. No infernally beautiful queen could entice it into orgasmic delirium, no handsome king could make it come…no erotic transgression could make it lust after unknown pleasure-pains spectrums; no Eros, no naked smoothness, no silky flesh, no viral chemicals, would make GB lose his cool enterprise…Deep Blue until the end…GB scanned, operated and effected…never missing a beat, or a tune out sequence…on and on it went…the puppeteer made us, its puppets, come all over…we died our little deaths, and each death, would be one more victory over us…
The most difficult part was the choice of location, only industrial wastelands, warehouses, abandoned scrap yards, industrial complexes lost in rust, ruin and decay, were chosen.
There is nothing more beautiful…prettily scantily girls kaleidoscoping all around - female reflections mingled with the irons of dislocated metal, fleshes of soft tanned skins danced in unison with the bareness of twisted iron…pierced nipples upon succulent orifices gleamed the light of strobe and ruin…flashy glints across a deep cool night …a reawaken life that none in past were able to live …Followers of Bacchus running away into the hills where pill-grapes of rainbow coloured shades would greet full blown lips of dark ambrosia… Nubile bacchantes amidst scrap yards of forgotten production would fall within the sweat mist of broken down cement, shattered glass and twisted iron…mad tropical flowers of succulent delight would open and close the night…...
Due to our aesthetic (some would say fascistic) tastes, all in all, we did not organise that many ceremonies. What we did not have in quantity we had in quality (at least most of the time). It all dissipated very quickly, the ways of the world, of matter, did not wait for long to rear their business as usual repetitions. Our fascism of life, as I used to call it, was co-opted into a fascism of death: bad drugs, finance, tribalism, fashion, territorial pissing, glow sticks and other matter stuff, soon filled up the horizon. It degenerated into matter-business; entropy-matter.com settled in …a big flat-liner…is that what life is all about? a few good moments of sacred fucks and sucks and then back to your pre-ordained coffin, close the lid tight, and only come out at day, if at all…but hey, Nietzsche’s motto “what does not kill you makes you stronger” is always good for a laugh…
I always suspected that the Great Beast was far less artificial than most silicon…I would like to think, that maybe a bit of human all too human resentment crept into his cold intelligence, despite his victories over us, he maybe got a bit jealous of our useless ecstasies…The great Beat, is probably, like our wasted dreams, broken somewhere in a scrap yard - and maybe, like ear to shell, in the Great Beat’s scattered debris, you can still hear the beat, the infinity loop of his cool intelligence, and above all his metallic whisperings:.. Check mate… Check Mate… Check Mate….for all eternity…computers never die…well beyond the finite spectrum of human innuendos….
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Elective Affinities - To the Ones I Love
The great thing about love {or erotic attraction} is that “it” transgresses all boundaries: psychic/social bounds and territorial/nationalistic limits - if luck takes kind, one can either expend or fall.
Emmanuel Levinas is wrong, the other per se, is not a transcendental escape from our self-enclosed ego prison of pure immanence. Only a particular (elective) other will give us signs or means of escape. The other is an “object” like any other, immanent, material and egoistic, (an economic bundle of lust and unfulfilled desire) all the way down, like everything else; as Schopenhauer says, the Will swirls everywhere from the micro to the macro.
What makes the possibility of escape possible is the elective affinities between two self-enclosed subjectivities, two others, that on their own would be nothing, economically enclosed on themselves without eXtasy: we are all made of the same economic “wilful stuff”, and yet, some others are more equal than others…
How many elective affinities are there? How many erotic ones are there to light up the gargoyles of being? How many loved ones are there out there? Chinese, Japanese, African, Arab etc…what would be the age limit? illegal, 16, 20, 30, 40, 50, illegal; What would be the physical limit? How many elective affinities will never reach eye or spirit?
What would be she be doing right now?: a darkly Goth girl head-banging to a cradle of filth band of the moment, a beach girl wailing to the sea surfs of a Californian sunset beach; a managerial clean cut precision lady closing a deal in spires of neon light; a down and out junkie burning caramel for the night; high-cheek bones hitting her trade in the prowling shadows of Prague’s nightly visits; a Zazie skating rainbows in the metro; jaded ladies burning bright in the arcane boundaries of higher learning, studious ladies setting off the cold pages of laborious texts to a brighter immensity …right under my eyes?
Whilst all these virtual ladies exist in the actual, they exist divergently, will never actualize into the convergence of actual proximity - an ecstasy of life never shared, a higher peak of life never reached, a valley of rest never lived…
Are there any limits to love, to Eros? Why the marketing pretence of the absolute? Sex sells, ok, but why does Love or Eros sell? if there is no such thing…As a useless film once said: “Can a full grown woman fall in love with a midget?” The “beauty and beast” syndrome - the other way round seems less likely in our culture, ugliness or deformity for a man is a misfortune, for a woman unforgivable…
… lonely hearts in virtual space:…to all those virtual ladies out there in the cold infinity of our finite existence: maybe in the next world, or some other world beyond the known horizons of deep space…either way, a Lovecraftian pale beauty beyond all earthly bound existence, a whiter shade of pale, a thinly figure from the outreaches of unspeakable and unfathomable horrors of abysses within abysses, will do just fine…
Emmanuel Levinas is wrong, the other per se, is not a transcendental escape from our self-enclosed ego prison of pure immanence. Only a particular (elective) other will give us signs or means of escape. The other is an “object” like any other, immanent, material and egoistic, (an economic bundle of lust and unfulfilled desire) all the way down, like everything else; as Schopenhauer says, the Will swirls everywhere from the micro to the macro.
What makes the possibility of escape possible is the elective affinities between two self-enclosed subjectivities, two others, that on their own would be nothing, economically enclosed on themselves without eXtasy: we are all made of the same economic “wilful stuff”, and yet, some others are more equal than others…
How many elective affinities are there? How many erotic ones are there to light up the gargoyles of being? How many loved ones are there out there? Chinese, Japanese, African, Arab etc…what would be the age limit? illegal, 16, 20, 30, 40, 50, illegal; What would be the physical limit? How many elective affinities will never reach eye or spirit?
What would be she be doing right now?: a darkly Goth girl head-banging to a cradle of filth band of the moment, a beach girl wailing to the sea surfs of a Californian sunset beach; a managerial clean cut precision lady closing a deal in spires of neon light; a down and out junkie burning caramel for the night; high-cheek bones hitting her trade in the prowling shadows of Prague’s nightly visits; a Zazie skating rainbows in the metro; jaded ladies burning bright in the arcane boundaries of higher learning, studious ladies setting off the cold pages of laborious texts to a brighter immensity …right under my eyes?
Whilst all these virtual ladies exist in the actual, they exist divergently, will never actualize into the convergence of actual proximity - an ecstasy of life never shared, a higher peak of life never reached, a valley of rest never lived…
Are there any limits to love, to Eros? Why the marketing pretence of the absolute? Sex sells, ok, but why does Love or Eros sell? if there is no such thing…As a useless film once said: “Can a full grown woman fall in love with a midget?” The “beauty and beast” syndrome - the other way round seems less likely in our culture, ugliness or deformity for a man is a misfortune, for a woman unforgivable…
… lonely hearts in virtual space:…to all those virtual ladies out there in the cold infinity of our finite existence: maybe in the next world, or some other world beyond the known horizons of deep space…either way, a Lovecraftian pale beauty beyond all earthly bound existence, a whiter shade of pale, a thinly figure from the outreaches of unspeakable and unfathomable horrors of abysses within abysses, will do just fine…
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The Moronic Inferno
By the time that an average adult will have reached full moronichood, “it” will have watched and heard with his full Technicolor senses:
1000.000.000 pop tunes
2.000 newsreels
7.000 movies
5.000 sitcoms
5.900 video games
3.567 porn movies
3.000 horror movies
2.000 commentaries “about” incomprehensible French/German thinkers…
……and the list goes on and on…
The junk piles up, up and down, around it goes...nowhere - the end of history and no/one has noticed…Baudrillard forever…
1000.000.000 pop tunes
2.000 newsreels
7.000 movies
5.000 sitcoms
5.900 video games
3.567 porn movies
3.000 horror movies
2.000 commentaries “about” incomprehensible French/German thinkers…
……and the list goes on and on…
The junk piles up, up and down, around it goes...nowhere - the end of history and no/one has noticed…Baudrillard forever…
Friday, February 03, 2006
A World of Images
When it comes to the realm of the mind, there are no illusions; in the case of consciousness the appearance is the reality. There is no outside, no criteria except the social consensus: that is how one fells most of the time and sees most of the time, due to so and so social determinants, which then, as Foucault has shown, become bodily, chemical and physical. If “everybody” was on acid (like the psychedelic cultures of the Amazon, the shamanic cultures of the past) then that would be the reality. There are no absolute physicals out there, states of consciousness and states of reality are completely arbitrary - that is what so uneasy and frightening about psychedelic exploration; and what is so pathetic about philosophers, phenomenologist, and philosophers of mind is that all their “work” is done from a normal (i.e. arbitrary) state.
Bergson’s whole philosophy is based on the intuition, that there is only a distinction of degree between so called perception, and the things perceived, no fixed nature to see for once and all time - there is not on one side, the (brain) representation, and world (as represented) there is only a continuum. For Bergson, the universe is a collection of images, and the brain and body visions are also images, objects as much as any other objects, images caught within an infinite series of images; no absolute centre can determine the criteria of the world or the ultimate perspective. So affecting the brain chemically is not an illusionary praxis, but creation of more images within an infinity of other images, increasing the ad infinitum perspectives of the cosmic kaleidoscope: the universe twists and increases its images at every turn…
Bergson’s whole philosophy is based on the intuition, that there is only a distinction of degree between so called perception, and the things perceived, no fixed nature to see for once and all time - there is not on one side, the (brain) representation, and world (as represented) there is only a continuum. For Bergson, the universe is a collection of images, and the brain and body visions are also images, objects as much as any other objects, images caught within an infinite series of images; no absolute centre can determine the criteria of the world or the ultimate perspective. So affecting the brain chemically is not an illusionary praxis, but creation of more images within an infinity of other images, increasing the ad infinitum perspectives of the cosmic kaleidoscope: the universe twists and increases its images at every turn…
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Amsterdammed - Stoned and Dethroned
Welcome to Amsterdam, Venice of the North...if things get really bad, you can always go to Amsterdam, from Spinoza to Camus, Amsterdam gives equal fall for all. For some unknown reason every time I go, I have never been able to get beyond the first circles of hell: the magnetic density of sex and drugs play their impeccable boundaries at every turn, always limiting me to the centrifugal center...no smiley wind mills or gushing tulips for me l guesws...
At night you can’t miss them: hundreds of ultraviolet female flowers fire up the central canals into a tropical hothouse…neon colored lingerie set- ablaze the circular arteries of the dammed city…framed within imperial windows they remain on their stools looking divinely cute....A female shaped hell of captured beauties...a female Zoo?..
With their lit up figures, these courtesans of the electric night seem to glow beyond all profane life, haloed in a whiter shade of purity. But appearances can be deceiving; they all look so soft tanned, child-like and chiseled from the outside, but on the inside, often, is quite different…
The transfiguration of ultraviolet light plays wonders, especially where there is nothing underneath to be transfigured. As Schopenhauer would say, life cannot be both a wonder and a willful reality all at once, something has to give....and invariably it does, mostly in the wrong direction, or if you are lucky, nowhere at all. Strange that life needs so many illusions to spur it on, you would think that hunger and lust would be enough...one of the very few blind-spots of “the will” that Schopenhauer does not, or is unable, to explain away...
Like the porn industry, and elsewhere in Europe, Amsterdam has received a capital influx of flesh from the East; which means that all previous criteria has/ been raised to the tenfold: beauty levels flowing to higher tones than one could possibly imagine. A brand of wild beauty is overflowing the known aesthetic spectrum, all known beauty gradients are transgressed one by one. Some of the girls are so beautiful it hurts; it pains to repay them so cheaply...Beauty is cheap, sex divine, love impossible...
Anywhere else, you get what is all around, but not here in Amsterdam, where things are turned upside down, for a while... And here I am as so many nights before: drunk, coked up, ecstasy downed, engorged with lust…ready to embrace a cheap darkness...into the streets one heads into the artificial covered night…cruising the main canals where girls “clothes” and make-up are made to flower under artificial suns, growing curvaceously tropical flesh in carnivorous designs…galvanized by artificial light, luscious reptiles bathe by florescent moonlight...
Lights sparkling her translucent baby-doll dress, legs lush and shiny, eyebrows puckered…a slight smile on her face as she eats nuts and sprouts, her only dinner for the night...the bottle of vodka flows...you find that she is from an industrial town in the Russian lands, where kids wear gas masks to school amidst fumes of chemical pollution...Siberia, Volgograd, Vladivostok, Kazakhstan, and all those other evocative high cheek bone names…they sound as cruel as they sound...
Some grueling anticlimaxes…the level of THC being so high, that one is, sometimes, even too high to come...they don’t just grow herbs here, they engineer them...
And then, the happy go lucky smiley ones, of the coffee-shops, mostly Dutch clubbing girls, just for week-end or night hookers: earning some cash for their wardrobe, synthetic drugs, and organic food. Here the line between cash and attraction gets blurred...It is amazing what girls will do, and not do, for cash, professional advancement or anything else that take[s their youthful fancies....
Down a side canal, she takes you somewhere against some damp wall, or walks you down into a basement of some building or “boat”…at other times they step warily out of hidden enclaves, and shatter you with their dazzling eyes that are reflected off by iced up waters...still spurred by the possibility that you might run across, somewhere among the many, the one, the one you have been looking for without aim, idea or goal... a fresh face from the underside appears, her first time, her feet a little sore from high heels, her first day at “work”....
...“The most beautiful women are on the street”, he roughly claims, street?, oblivious to the fact that there are no streets here, we are in Amsterdam, not NYC, I angrily argue, as if to make an ontological distinction of the uttermost importance; as if all reality depended on such babulations...does THC make you ontological, or just paranoid? ontology as applied paranoia?....“You just have to find them.” It’s On the “streets”...”It’s On the “pavements” he pimply continues...”where women come to earn hard currency; in hordes they descend, from all around the world; from all the impoverished cities and villages of the world, trading on their looks”, hoping to make enough to return one day, in glorious sunlight, after the fall, I boringly add...the oratory continues to flow right into depths of the frozen night...too far to care...
…A few are sunken and sullen, who drawn away as you kiss them....but with those sensuous lips and warm oval deep eyes, she could have graced covers, who could resist...I gently reach across and caress her face, and we kissed, a soft kiss on the luscious lips, on her tropically wild lips, a lover’s kiss? No way....
....In end, we wake up to Polaroid cheap-shots of ourselves, amidst stars of scarlet and white. Pale faces sinking in the background, either way there is no way out...dammed in Amsterdam…as a cheesy pop song used to go: Plastic eyes looking milky white…
At night you can’t miss them: hundreds of ultraviolet female flowers fire up the central canals into a tropical hothouse…neon colored lingerie set- ablaze the circular arteries of the dammed city…framed within imperial windows they remain on their stools looking divinely cute....A female shaped hell of captured beauties...a female Zoo?..
With their lit up figures, these courtesans of the electric night seem to glow beyond all profane life, haloed in a whiter shade of purity. But appearances can be deceiving; they all look so soft tanned, child-like and chiseled from the outside, but on the inside, often, is quite different…
The transfiguration of ultraviolet light plays wonders, especially where there is nothing underneath to be transfigured. As Schopenhauer would say, life cannot be both a wonder and a willful reality all at once, something has to give....and invariably it does, mostly in the wrong direction, or if you are lucky, nowhere at all. Strange that life needs so many illusions to spur it on, you would think that hunger and lust would be enough...one of the very few blind-spots of “the will” that Schopenhauer does not, or is unable, to explain away...
Like the porn industry, and elsewhere in Europe, Amsterdam has received a capital influx of flesh from the East; which means that all previous criteria has/ been raised to the tenfold: beauty levels flowing to higher tones than one could possibly imagine. A brand of wild beauty is overflowing the known aesthetic spectrum, all known beauty gradients are transgressed one by one. Some of the girls are so beautiful it hurts; it pains to repay them so cheaply...Beauty is cheap, sex divine, love impossible...
Anywhere else, you get what is all around, but not here in Amsterdam, where things are turned upside down, for a while... And here I am as so many nights before: drunk, coked up, ecstasy downed, engorged with lust…ready to embrace a cheap darkness...into the streets one heads into the artificial covered night…cruising the main canals where girls “clothes” and make-up are made to flower under artificial suns, growing curvaceously tropical flesh in carnivorous designs…galvanized by artificial light, luscious reptiles bathe by florescent moonlight...
Lights sparkling her translucent baby-doll dress, legs lush and shiny, eyebrows puckered…a slight smile on her face as she eats nuts and sprouts, her only dinner for the night...the bottle of vodka flows...you find that she is from an industrial town in the Russian lands, where kids wear gas masks to school amidst fumes of chemical pollution...Siberia, Volgograd, Vladivostok, Kazakhstan, and all those other evocative high cheek bone names…they sound as cruel as they sound...
Some grueling anticlimaxes…the level of THC being so high, that one is, sometimes, even too high to come...they don’t just grow herbs here, they engineer them...
And then, the happy go lucky smiley ones, of the coffee-shops, mostly Dutch clubbing girls, just for week-end or night hookers: earning some cash for their wardrobe, synthetic drugs, and organic food. Here the line between cash and attraction gets blurred...It is amazing what girls will do, and not do, for cash, professional advancement or anything else that take[s their youthful fancies....
Down a side canal, she takes you somewhere against some damp wall, or walks you down into a basement of some building or “boat”…at other times they step warily out of hidden enclaves, and shatter you with their dazzling eyes that are reflected off by iced up waters...still spurred by the possibility that you might run across, somewhere among the many, the one, the one you have been looking for without aim, idea or goal... a fresh face from the underside appears, her first time, her feet a little sore from high heels, her first day at “work”....
...“The most beautiful women are on the street”, he roughly claims, street?, oblivious to the fact that there are no streets here, we are in Amsterdam, not NYC, I angrily argue, as if to make an ontological distinction of the uttermost importance; as if all reality depended on such babulations...does THC make you ontological, or just paranoid? ontology as applied paranoia?....“You just have to find them.” It’s On the “streets”...”It’s On the “pavements” he pimply continues...”where women come to earn hard currency; in hordes they descend, from all around the world; from all the impoverished cities and villages of the world, trading on their looks”, hoping to make enough to return one day, in glorious sunlight, after the fall, I boringly add...the oratory continues to flow right into depths of the frozen night...too far to care...
…A few are sunken and sullen, who drawn away as you kiss them....but with those sensuous lips and warm oval deep eyes, she could have graced covers, who could resist...I gently reach across and caress her face, and we kissed, a soft kiss on the luscious lips, on her tropically wild lips, a lover’s kiss? No way....
....In end, we wake up to Polaroid cheap-shots of ourselves, amidst stars of scarlet and white. Pale faces sinking in the background, either way there is no way out...dammed in Amsterdam…as a cheesy pop song used to go: Plastic eyes looking milky white…
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Bad Films
Always the profane without the illumination, is this not what the cinematic screen is all about?
“I beg you, learn to see ‘bad’ films; they are sometimes sublime” - Ado Kyrou
“I beg you, learn to see ‘bad’ films; they are sometimes sublime” - Ado Kyrou
Thursday, January 05, 2006
…The Pristine Dawn of a New Year
If reality has been virally overcome into simulation, if the screen has eaten up the entire world in a fractal process of hungry simulations, can one not postulate a reversal taking place at some point in the future? Maybe, 2006 will get a few more beastly sixes to its empty v00ids…Time will reverse itself; the arrow of time will turn backwards, undoing all the simulations that have taken place from the start of the TVverse. Simulations will revert themselves back, pulled by the gnawing gravity of the Pac-Man real….the real will irrevocably eat up, from all around, the pixels that make up our plastic, always beeping, life support screens…
.....ZIZEK would be crucified and sacrificed (taking Baudrillard’s call for a post-modern philosopher sacrifice, à la lettre, for real) in the flashing reality of a Las Vegas, stuffed like a
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