How
It Comes To Me: In An Instant Off A Dying Hearth
The Sun is in
the third year, measured by the standards of a human life. It’s 9 o’clock AM
and its playful rays are branchstylingly touching the windows of the houses as
the streets are flowing through the city, celebrating the arrival of another
bright day, saturating the urban forest in abundance of fresh air. As the
morning is unfolding, streams of people are populating the pavements,
presenting the concrete with a variety of sounds: from a muted touch of gum
soles, via a modest remark of the presence of classic leather shoes’ bottom
sides, to the self-righteous, bold signature of a stiletto, determined to
reaffirm its unshakable step.
Unnoticeable in its
undisputable visibility, sunshine is moving freely. Freely towards the place
that unknowingly, yet invitingly, awaits its face to spill the smile over the
curves of the modern architectonic haven of ye knowledge bygone. The newly
refurbished building of the former 25 E half all(E)y
Café Club proudly bears witness to the perseverance of the enduring mind of
fellow-cyber-comrade Bizza(R)e integrated in each and every single droplet of
dried paint, astringent mortar, and bricks firmly attached to one another. With
no visual appearance, the prevalent mind-archive is, strangely enough,
experienced as a pop art appropriation of a renaissance portrait of Bizza(r)E’s
prenatal dream of his own birth.
Numberless are
corridors. Endless the shelves storing the countless occurrences of counterritng
on the infamous Beach. Uncontainable is the force of the persistent jolt of the
wave, boomerang-style bringing the archival materials from the factory walls to
ye cliff immemorial. Like it should always be splashing the steep rocks, it
keeps coming in diverse shapes and modes. Sometimes, it manifests itself in a
colossal golden billow—surfer paradise—that is materialized, albeit in a
transformed form, either in a vast tapestry in the Café Club Museum’s halls, or
in an embroidered table cloth in the huge dining room seating all the 200
participant-DJs in the event taking place on this exceptionally splendid May
day. The event is On How To Phunkie
ReadWriteRemix and is obviously homage to the milestone of steady rocking, cornerstone
of genuine exchange among fellow-cyborg walkers—seminal manual of the same
title, predating and inspiring the birth of A
Panapocalyptic Manifesto (ØØØØ), the
pervading authority among the bunch of the persecuted resisters against the
tyranny of the oppressive mechanisms of anti-unorthodox cutting edge scientific
experimentation.
Master of Ceremony
welcomes the partaker-Djs as they are one by one approaching the entrance and
are stepping into the world of words & thoughts that is for the following
two days to be the battlefield of taking turns in agreeable statements, rough
refutations, brainy visualizations, impassioned rationalizations, poetic
philosophizing, loud rebuking, silent harmonizing, quiet camaraderie, robust
support, streetwise scholarship, and—above all—worshipping the mastery &
power of ¾ broken beat poetics. The welcoming address is of the approximately following order:
MC: Hola,
Sylvan Souls!
First
off, ex-fucking-hale. And then help yourselves to some bakery niceties. And
then, having a good olde puff in the smoking-freeLY designated area, do come
back in. And then following the directions and signs, showing with the
precision of a fucking surgical scalpel the way to the auditorium, do get safely
to the room of your choosing. Treat yourselves to some thought-provoking input
generously outpoured from the minds, mouths, screens, and/or papers of the
panelists. Do not hesitate to express your wonderings, share your suspicions,
utter your inquiries, state disagreements verging on an annoyance, and,
needless to say, do your fucking best to readwriteremix as much as you fucking
can during those two days—and beyond--of the rule of the spirit of zarr(Y)e
Y(e) Grooviologist-cum-Bizz(a)rE-yo-majestic-highness.
DJs: If it is heretical to equate liberation with
creation, let’s immerse our-good-selves in genuine textual sacrilege. If the
flow is a potential anagram of something else, welcome to Silent Spelling Bee. If
architecture equals archeology that predates global epistemology, let’s dig!
Yo!
Day One
Databases
offer choices. One is to acknowledge technological determinism as the only
scenario for Panapcalyptic Celebration of the reversed notion of humility. The
other is to understand the world, humans, and everything else as an opportunity
to exercise unrestrained, unlimited, and inalienable freedom. The former founds
the world, life, and everything else in the certainty of the subjectivity void
of the subject. The latter elevates the subject to the heights ungraspable to
it, thereby destabilizing its capacity to act. Freely.
Scopophilia
is an ancient Greek goddess, foreshadowing the character of Ziggy Frawdd’s
mother in the tragedy entitled Through
& Back In the Looking Stained Glass written in the lacoonian tradition
by the giant of the playwright world, Juicy Face, a.k.a. Stroke of PurpleOrange
Midnight. In the play, the author dramatizes the complexity of the encounter
between a mother and a child at the moment of the child’s swallowing a droplet
of milk generously poured from the mother’s breast. The crux of the narrative
is the child’s gaze, fierce like fuck, persistently fixated on the pupil of the
mother’s eye. The child’s conduct is apparently motivated by the
retrospectively acquired, if not rationalized, need to inflict on the mother’s
heart—via the eye, of course—as much of a sadistic and narcissistic emotion as
she cannot take. She, in turn, stares back in an attempt to dismantle the
superimposed idea of being the object of the child’s kindergarten toy’s desire.
Within the encounter commonly known as looking and being looked at they engage
in an unconscious glorification of the instantaneity annihilating both the past
and the future.
A: We are not robozombies!
Q: Who the fuck are you to tell anyone
who one is!
A: We are not robozombies!
Q: Who the fuck are you to know what a robozombie is!
A: We are not robozombies!
Q: Who the fuck are you to know what is correct!
A: We are not robozombies!
A: We are not robozombies!
Day Two
If I say that
I was born yesterday, it means that it was in the Northern Hemisphere and that
a seal from the cold seas baptized me in ice and, by so doing, gave me the name
which I cannot remember at this very instant, just as I cannot any time somebody offers me a choice to be either
a shark or a whale. Such situations cause a sense of massive uneasiness, not
only because I cannot remember, nor because I cannot choose, but because of the
situation itself. Uneasiness grows into anxiety. Anxiety into disturbance.
Disturbance into panic. And vice versa. I find myself confronted with a demand
to which I cannot respond. Or, I can, if this account of such an experience
counts as a response. Or, the experience itself. It makes me question one of
the most profound assumptions about the human mind and human relationships. The
assumption is of the approximately following content:
I used to know
Uber-philosopher of a non-philosophical provenance. The name is zarr(Y)e Y(e)
grooviologist. That most inquisitive of minds used to claim that the body is
but an echo of its own weight. That makes its physicality nothing but. Its own
inside. Being the fierce look from the other side of the microscopic stained
glass.
If I could
see the specimen from that perspective, I will tell it to everyone. I would
start by saying what I will tell. In circa 10-20 short minutes, I would explain
what the content of my speech is going to be. I would not disclose the actual
vital parts of my address to whoever listens. Yet, I would carefully, neatly,
and precisely delineate the framework of the report about what, in fact, is a
tiny lump of matter, and to my eye appears like a body floating on the surface
of water. Or, an aquarelle painted by a three year old whose eyebrows are
sprinkled with diamonds. I would look more. In order to be sure how to
introduce my communication content. And then…I would just look more. Until I finally remember what my name is.
A: We are not robozombies!
Q: Who the fuck are you to tell anyone
who one is!
A: We are not robozombies!
Q: Who the fuck are you to know what a robozombie is!
A: We are not robozombies!
Q: Who the fuck are you to know what is correct!
A: We are not robozombies!
A: We are not robozombies!
While the
stream consisting of grains of sand is pouring downwards into the bottom
chamber whose boundaries evoke an image of a cup approaching the mouth through
the steamy jungle, thoughts float—upwards. Evaporate and disperse across the
air, playing with disjoined atoms, originally inhabiting a warm nest of a
molecule. Thoughts adopt the wandering atoms. Play with them in spacious
camerae of the vast mansion. The atoms find places in that villa. Places like
smell. Wrapping them in a smoky, aura-like scarf.
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