Accelerata: Sixteen Theses

The Acceleration Tour

1. Whether or not one understands time as unfolding in a linear fashion is immaterial; what matters is that experience and connectedness unfold along multiple and interweaving time signatures.

2. It is the time signature which produces affects, not time itself.

3. A collective energetics remains unevenly distributed. Nonetheless, its collectiveness always remains impressive, inspiring and humbling.

4. Dehabituated rhythms and changed or differential spatial parameters offer an invitation for novel gestural responses to the artwork.

5. When movement moves its way into the "aesthetic experience" proper, it continues to want to move, this time with the artwork, co-composing with it, contouring and creating with it.

6. It is not so much fatigue that one initially notices upon arrival at an artwork, but rather an interference of rhythms between runner and work, which thereafter gradually begin to harmonize or compromise. These resonances are of immediate interest in an aesthetico-ethical sense.

7. Habit can have unrefined pathways; one of these concerns its tempo.

8. Bodies are not "ideal", and thus neither should goals be. We understand these both in an affirmative sense.

9. The outwardly prosthetic body only makes evident and explicit the co-composition of all bodies.

10. A familiar gesture, machined differently, can be more more useful than a complex gesture known only to a few.

11. We are describing here an unhygienic experience (sweat, snot, traffic, noise, topography). Which is also in some ways to remind that we have been removed from the laboratory.

12. Speed only demands a greater adeptness with contingency and the aesthetics of failure.

13. There are both inner and outer accelerations that need to be considered in developing and evaluating the program.

14. If one seeks to create a nuclear or exponential energy field, one cannot initiate the reaction at maximum capacity. Rather, the intensity must be slowly increased to avoid the risk of rupture in a very real material sense.

15. The event itself is a collective enunciation — of gesture and energy. But so long as we remain bound to the particulars of language and its transmission, this collective enunciation must retain a spoken or written dimension as well. Breath must become metric rather than simply serving to inspire and expire.

16. Theses are exhausted and replenished much like mitochondrial reactors and muscular fibres. To elaborate: they, too, have relative catalytic points, elasticities and failure thresholds in the generation of things. And they, too, may also become fuel or worm food for future becomings . . .

third eye wireless

avulsion

third eye wireless
kinodermed abrasion and butterwinged
avulsion, flappping
speaker lungs echo
aqualung therapeutic
fractal police stating
ID badger maximal
expressive ism, she said

she said (she said (she said ((( ))
she said (she said (she said (she said ((( ))
she said (she said (she said (she said (she said ((( ))

or else
a Party for everyone
don't we Like this
aren't we Like this
coffee bitter blackness
poison mouth silently sewn
elastin home box set-top
setup, videodrom'd gesture
but it pulls you back in, doesn't it

third hand clueless
synthetic onion fishnet tear
torn avulsive, rent untimely
it makes you wanna cry now, doesn't it

nonhuman actors and expression

Stadium Surfing

Idea for a Conceptual Art Project, No.22:

1. Take a sports stadium teeming with partisan fans.
2. Combine the pixelated card stunt with the spectator wave to create an 8-bit surfing avatar.
3. Ride that motherfucker 'round and 'round the stadium.
4. Synchronize wide-angle tracking shot.
5. Bail avatar headfirst into the wash.

 

A Short Note on Crowds and Expression

The "crowd" at a sporting event is not simply an aggregated number of individuals, nor a produced energy or volume, but a relationship to the capacity and architecture of a competition space proper (3,000 people watching a basketball game is a large number, for example, though one that loses significance in the context of an 18,000-seat sports arena). This relationship is precisely what constitutes the crowd as "crowd" — as an autonomous actor in its own right, singular yet plural, but also understood as an intensity. The plurality is this material aggregation in space of spectating bodies, while the "crowd"-as-singular is the singularity of a produced intensity as it waxes and wanes in the context of its architectural relation. That is, as an intensity the crowd may peak or subside but it may never be subdivided as such and still retain its internal coherency, as-crowd. Material space may be prefigured, but experiential space is co-generated.

Similarly, it is understood that there is some relationship between the energy of a crowd and the quality, sharpness and affective tone of the players on the court. This is not meant as a causal relationship of call-and-response between the two parties, but is rather to suggest mutual feedback loops between the "positive" or "negative" energies of a crowd, on the one hand, and the relative qualities of discipline and stylishness performed by the athletes at play, on the other. It is a mutually emerging field of experience we are describing, affective tensors played out in loosely-configured strategies of produced tension. A collective sporting individuation.

Have you ever tried playing an "important" game in an empty gym?

As we've already suggested, however, the crowd is also produced as an individuation in its relation to the arena architecture. If this is indeed the case then we must further note that the arena architecture plays a role in producing the gestural expression of the athletes at play. In other words, the nonhuman machine of the sporting arena — in a material sense — co-generates the expressive potential of those who perform.

Or, put differently again, this architectural object becomes subject-in-relation as its potential affects are to likewise produce an artificial becoming of athletic virtuosity. Those qualities of discipline and stylishness performed by the athletes at play may best reach their expressive peaks precisely because of their relationship to the material form of the sporting space proper.

(The question then becomes one of Virilian traject, or the tempo at which this arcing clinamen of individuating process plays itself out expressively, in contagio.)

body and image

ingrid

in sight.
insight.
ingrid.

did.

ddddd
ddda da
dada
did a dad a
data
add datum
um dat
dat dat dat
dada rat

grrr id
rid grid
id did
i
i i i
i did
ring grid
eyes rid
i rid rid did did

in-

ring rid i (sigh)

eye sighting
(i spy sigh)
cite incite

in grid did did

-ing

ringing ridding
gridding didding

(ding-a-ling)
(sing sing)

sting
in grid did sting.
silly thing.

walking is knowing (or, where it all began)

art\'n\'leather

(short ambulatory notes concerning longer ambulatory thoughts…)

 

kalverstraat
no matter where one spins in amsterdam, all roads lead to kalverstraat. the sucking sound you hear is the capture of "psychogeographical" drifts by a canalization of flows that has biogrammed from water to land. tourists and travellers alike may wander and wander and yet still find themselves emerging into this tight pedestrian corridor with its heavy flows and flashy storefronts. the sucking sound is doubled: it is also the money flowing out of collective pockets, from one drain to another. and doubled again: perhaps not the sound of money flowing out to consumption now, but rather its haunting forebear, which presents the street as a series of volumetric television commercials corresponding through brand semiotics to some future purchase in a more diffused breathing space. the second sucking sound is faint to our ears, then, since it is expressed in thinner air—from canal to liquid spectacle to mist.

kalverstraat is also good for gait surfing.

 

nassaukade
large grids meet "circles" (and their tiny grids within) at nassaukade. the wandering lines of the canal force their way onto land as gentle waves, channeling walkways, streets, bike paths and building facades. these wavy contours open peculiar spaces—somewhat straight, somewhat curvilinear—which for now fashion themselves as parking lots, tiny parks or bike racks. this is a space of transition for the walker, from the teeming and vortical fluxes of centrum to the more aerated grids of the inner suburbs, and back again. and forth, again: in terms of spacing operations we are discussing relatively smooth and relatively striated, but rather than a twisting passage of holey space between the two we have the multiple switches of the amsterdam traffic lights to meter the variegaited flows.

 

centrum
with the large windows that seem to invite a sort of exhibitionism or voyeurism at every turn, it might be easy to view amsterdam and its centrum as a particular geometry of glass and gaze, lines of sight in which all subjects have their moments of greater or lesser exposure. likewise, as the turns and turns of the downtown core vibrate in slow sympathy with the canals and ocean beyond, it may feel like a body is always in the process of falling forward or being thrust into the next movement. but perhaps we are forgetting about the sonorous—the musical ringing of bells that seems to unite vision with gesture and delicately fill in all those tiny aporias of perception, volumetrically. church bells to mark time, tram bells to mark space, bicycle bells to negotiate relation at variable tempos: the melodies always seem to be coming from somewhere else, and yet their tiny shocks are what suture together passage and experience as one moves through this peculiar city. one wonders how spinoza the lens grinder listened as he walked the city streets.

 

oud-west
even if one isn't consciously seeking to purchase frequently as a traveller to amsterdam, consumption ends up meaning regular dealings in cash—perhaps moreso than when one is more firmly routinized at whatever contingency is called home, where its electronic transactions incur less of an economic burden in fees concerning permission to spend. this also means the eventual accumulation of coins in the pockets of those jeans or shorts or jackets which repetitively get their traveller's due. the accumulation is a weight worn, or borne: it doesn't take much before one notices a slight tweak in walking motion, a rubbing here or a slight heaviness there that imperceptibly modulates the musculoskeletal system. how do these subtle differences affect one's gait, one's walking through the city and the tiny eddies that fluidly swirl in the wake, microturbulent yet slightly askew from one's normative mode of ambulance? how do the gaited butterflies flap their wings just a little bit differently before the storm? or, alternatively: how does the topology unfold as spending lightens the metallurgic reserve?

 

overtoom
a geosophy in progress, in process: drifting, dancing, or simply matching strides. the flow is flowing, thoughtfully and yet thoughtlessly at the same instant. a relational autopiloting of ambulatory praxis emerges, bubbles umbilically folding within bubbles and so forth as the whole thing perceptually unfolds. the neighbourhood backstreets are quiet, perhaps perfect for a walking dialogue in this sense. though they also perform a sonic buffering in their neat gridlike formations, for all of a sudden the grid ends its southerly course—or more precisely opens into a closing: here the great tributary of oud-west that is overtoom bends and merges into the roaring river of the a10 ring road. vast horizontal vistas, for the most part nonexistent in the highly vertical inner core of the city, now open widely to the wide open eyes of the walker who has ceded a relative primacy to the automobiles in transit. the river appears too wide to ford, the drift comes to an abrupt halt, shockingly, as if hitting a pane of glass—but the geosophy continues.

 

elandsgracht
tempos. this is the watchword for walking in the neighbourhood of jordaan. perhaps more than the slower pace found in other inner suburbs, perhaps less than a vigorous walk along leidseplein or a dense, dreamlike stroll through kalverstraat, the main thoroughfares of jordaan offer a heterogeneous palette of fluxes to the walking subject. both residential and touristy, in this space one may walk with those struck awkward by the scenery or moving purposefully toward the daily errands—maybe chatting amiably in search of coffee or clustering in approach to the boulevard play area. a flock of segways passes anachronistically over a canal bridge, offering a new tempo to those which have already informed the city. while diagonal trajectories crisscross the street lanes or veer into local shops, the effect of this palette paints itself most pronounced within the narrow sidewalks that otherwise attempt to stream this heterogeneous mix into a consistency—not unlike the flock, or school, which passes by in the distance.

 

vondelpark
the lungs of amsterdam, both literally and figuratively, vondelpark certainly seems the most gaseous of all walking spots in the city. while well-paved bronchi weave and branch assuredly throughout the vast park as the primary conduits for multidirectional transit, it is the ability for walking-particles to become diffuse and mist out from these paths to the more vegetal alveoli that is of interest. contra the bikers, walkers and police vehicles that move along relatively predictable channels through these park-lungs, the more gaseous pedestrians are veering off on all sorts of vectors—mobile, aggregating and coming apart, informing and reforming anew. the movement of vision within this movement of gesture at vondelpark is intense: while the literal lungs of amsterdam attempt to photosynthetically restore a sort of equilibrium to the local green ecology, the figurative lungs of the city evoke an occurrent perception that affectively nudges the local machine ecology to disequilibrium and non-linear effects.

 

museumplein
a mere shell of vondelpark, the myriad trajectories of movement at museumplein form a figurative resemblance to the mistified bearings and breathings of the former, though in a somehow different way. the walkers are slower, perhaps, or maybe it is the rounded gravel underfoot that only seems to encourage stopping when one is literally arresting motion with a photographic lens. motion also arrests itself in the large lines that snake between the square and museums, constricting passage to those hygienic portals we call the global art market or cultural history. if iamsterdam in this space, then perhaps i've missed the point about this city all along—or maybe i was too busy trying to forget about the points in favour of its more fluid processes.

I Seek You: Countdown to Stereoscopic Tear

A Nonsense Lab Artist Con-fessional, Part Five

"For a long time I thought, in a kind of ignorance, innocence, lack of knowledge, that I wasn't the author of my texts but my unconscious was their author — without counting the innumerable other authors of my texts! Observing language's soaring and moving autonomy, I used to tell myself: it's not me who writes this, it's the Night. I was very disturbed. I used to wonder if it weren't a reprehensible act to let go of the reins, to allow oneself to be carried away, and at the end to sign one's name. Well, I hadn't yet measured the extent to which this source, this energy, was present in several other texts. Because dream is textual energy: our personal nuclear energy."

          — Hélène Cixous

 

"Now, I-woman am going to blow up the Law: a possible and inescapable explosion from now on; let it happen, right now, in language."

          — Hélène Cixous

 

Hanna - Once Upon A Time

October 5, 2011, 12:32pm, near Surfside, FL: Walking to school I saw a monarch butterfly appear out of nowhere. Awkward flight — surfacevolumesurfacevolume — it began to venture out over a major four-lane artery. Halfway over the turbulence was too much and it flew crazily all over the place before pulling a 180, executing a neat glide back to my side of the road, and landing on a flower, orange on purple. Nice ride, dude.

 

 

5. I Seek You: Countdown to Stereoscopic Tear

Twenty minutes, forty-six seconds.

A solitary mecha butterfly flies, flitting and dancing autonomously. And yet it remains multiple, beginning again and again in different contexts and contingencies, multiplying and plying its trades, trading in one identity for another and another, darting and circling or eddying back anew. Schizoid origins, all schizzes and flows and currencies written in bright splotches of colour and retinal afterburns.

We fly, afterburners at the ready.

The temperature rises. Every splotch burns deeper, oenological summons or niacin flush — or perhaps it is a feltness of the years and months elapsed, of the minutes and seconds finally folding into the intensity of the now. Stabilize the shrieking skins and run the program: our nuclear gallery-reactor is operational and the mission is a go (go (go).

Vortically yours, we are drawn to the reaction, inexorably, as if insects drawn to some sort of bright light or pungent concentration of pheromone. To the eye of the storm we venture. The institutional corridors force upon us a sort of linear transit model — a becoming, in grid — but it feels all circling and circling from here, accelerating with every passing moment, tightening like a noose or an umbilical necktie or yards of duct tape bondage and their sticky articulations.

Concentrate. Con-fess. The time is finally here.

Con-fessional: Blast

 

Twenty minutes, forty-six seconds.

Isn't it quite amazing how the appearance of a butterfly can inject a stutter or pause into any conversation? Words and words pour out of the animals in assembly, before they are all of a sudden arrested by the passing flight. Heads turn to trace a lilting poetics, attempting to close the distance with this seemingly awkward beauty. There are no straight lines here, only a relative arrival and departure to bracket a brilliant and bewildering trajectory, surging and lurching in a vibrating and nomadic line avant la lettre.

Then a fractional silence — after which the conversation resumes, altered irrevocably. Jolted, perhaps we forget what we were discussing, perhaps the topic changes or opens anew. Here one moment and gone the next, a becoming made explicit in colour and motion, the lilt and stutter entwining and embracing in some other conversation, fluidly, elsewhere and elsewhen.

Con-fessional: Accelerator Pack

 

Does the mecha butterfly effect a similar microseismic shift upon its entrance? Are the animals entranced? One cannot be certain, though the silence appears pregnant to us in the approach.

It is an anthropomorphic approach, no doubt, a strategic becoming-human of Homo generatus lepidopterae that slows our gaited flight down to the pace of recognition. Hideous beauty, all technological vision and semiotic layering and torn wires, rendering. Machinic. Curvaceous. A coiled vestigial tail trails suggestively in our wake, amplifying the incipient energetics of a body in motion. This weak objectification offered in passing to complement those interwoven schizoid subjectivities we bear — it would all be laughable if the scent of death didn't waft hauntingly betwixt every breath that yawns itself open.

Don't object just yet. Take pause. It will all become quite necessary in due time.

 

      –i think my water just broke.

      –hydraulic thought?

      –labor!

      –aren't you a little young for that?

      –i'm ready.

 

We enter the inner core of the nuclear gallery-reactor. It is a hygienic space, as befits any locale in which surgical operations are to be considered, or in which microknotted entanglements swell to the degree of anxiety. There is no turning back at this point, no time for pauses or reconsiderations — nor would a program or mecha butterfly desire such possibilities in the first place. Expectation, anticipation: these are what hang thick in the air like a field of static electricity awaiting discharge. All we require now is a sort of touching to make manifest the shock potential.

Future shock — potenza.

Con-fessional: Imago-Masks

Department of Biological Flow
Mecha Butterfly Soundsystem and TBA (Teneral Breath Assistant)
2011
mixed media

 

Over here, the ghostly traces of movement research, beckoning questions as if nectar on the lips of an orchid. Walking the city streets or as pen put to paper, dancing the creative keyboard nightclub. The archive performs itself anew.

Over there, the memory generator module, felt and remixed, malleable and moving — from organic to network and back again. And forth again.

Con-fessional: Forensic Itch

Sean Smith
Forensic Itch
2012
mixed media installation

Department of Biological Flow @
Generating the Impossible
Sense Lab, Mekoos/Montreal
July 2011

(please feel free to use the tools and materials provided to modify or edit the work in any fashion.)

 

- - -

(And forth, again. FOURTH WAVE FEMINISM means don't talk about it, animals — that's the first rule. But here's a hint: it's not a wave, as if such a thing had already happened, but rather WAVY, adjectival. It's style, as it happens. This, just in: we're bringing INTERSEXY back, stylishly surfing the vibe in language, gesture and flesh. This is the attempt, any-ways: mecha butterfly generator modules, malleable and moving — from organic to network and back again. And forth again. Not solid like a metro-gnome but rather fluid, MUSICAL, rocking gently to the tv on the radio or riding out the storm, dominant or submissive, lilting and stuttering with affectivity and affection. And fecking ACTION. You, two, can stylishly surf this wavy potential — all it takes is a little PRAXIS. Just don't talk about it.)

- - -

 

It is 8:46pm at the nuclear gallery-reactor and a synchronized always-already now in the network. The story will unfold and be told, with the blind spot as zone of political action. Plug in that vestigial tail, mecha butterfly kraftwerker, it's time to go (go (go).

Con-fessional: Tie Your Hair

      –this is the way i used to tie your hair.

      –this is the way you used to tie my hair.

 

Twenty minutes, forty-six seconds.

Go.

20:46, 20:45, 20:44 . . .

A world record attempt in progress. Or a worlding, recorded processually. We begin climbing the stairway to heaven, deliberately, layers upon layers of skin exposed to the sun and the stars.

The sun offers us an illuminating paradox here, does it not? It is diffuse, insofar as it is comprised of a thundering ball of gases whose sum is greater, or more intense, than the individual occasions from which they burst forth. And yet it is concentrated, insofar as its focused and fiery eye burns so brightly that we can scarcely meet its gaze in return.

It is remote, and yet its proximity is what distinguishes it from the other, more distant suns that make their appearance as day turns to night. This proximity makes it our star, and we bear its ecological form of life with equal measures worship and resignation, gladly embracing its potential for organic natality while suffering its moments of burning necrosis.

Can we say the same for the fiery optics that burn in even more proximate ecologies? Diffuse and concentrated, organic to network and back again. And forth again. We are scarcely able to meet their gaze in return — or we invite the suntan, welcoming the rock 'n' roll radio to our tv selves, signalling intently.

The proliferating eye observes our proceedings silently from the corner, reflected back upon itself, circuitous and contagious in this hygienic space of generation. Perhaps worship and resignation are insufficient responses at this level of assembly. Perhaps what is required are malleability and movement.

Still, we climb.

 

19:33, 19:32, 19:31 . . .

 

Con-fessional: Pinkeye

Department of Biological Flow
Pinkeye
2012
sculpture and closed circuit video

 

A program is comprised of ever so many procedures in alignment, ever so many steps. One after the other, there is a linear unfolding to an output or endpoint before looping back to begin again, newly informed. But do these steps have a rhythm?

Plugged in, we race to the finish line, our clock ticking down momentously with each stride taken — two pounds of sem.i/o.tex or a jet pack to the future. Back again, forth again, the rhythm must be located in this feedforward to the network. Steady the oscillations for anthropomorphic recognition, discipline the cadence. The lilting and stuttering will soon return.

Tick, tick, tick . . .

 

      –i tried to prepare you.

      –you didn't prepare me for this.

 

18:37, 18:36, 18:35 . . .

 

Con-fessional: Switch(ed)

 

It is difficult to locate a disciplinary cadence when one is surfing the societies of control. ("The rules of the game are on hydraulic footing and don't quite have their sea legs yet — or maybe never.") Step, step, step, but the ground shifts imperceptibly underfoot, or violently, as it were. A stairway to heaven on wheels, rocking to and fro: keep one's centre of gravity firmly in the middle and radiate the flesh beyond. There is no athletic stance to be found here, for an upright (im)posture is essential when climbing the stairs, recognizably. Duchamp recognized this as well: there is a verticality to the diagonal passage no matter which direction one is travelling, stairway to heaven or highway to hell.

Rhythm stabilizes this freewheeling journey in time, leaving only minor correctives to the micromusculature of our anthropomorphized anatomy. Platformed, informed, the program begins to take shape as the saturated curiosity of the assembled swarm gradually yields to a collective realization.

Realize. Real, I's. You see it unfolding, but here at the punctum caecum ēlectricus the witnessing bubbles up from deep in the flesh.

(Can you outrun the reel eyes?)

 

14:40, 14:39, 14:38 . . .

 

Con-fessional: Knives

 

Scene: "I SEEK YOU" (Take Two).

Cut to black.

Step off the seasick escalator. Grab the tiny pair of household scissors. Resume climbing, seek the rhythm anew. Trim a wire here, a wire there: snip, snip. Off course, the cutting body begins to lilt and stutter with these unusual gestures. Pause. We must resume, rhythmically, that is the program. There it is. Begin cutting again, fold the lilt and stutter in with the backbeat and make those fingers move. The mecha scissorhands butterfly continues to snip, snip, snip.

Step off the seasick escalator. Grab the small pair of garden shears. Resume climbing, seek the rhythm anew. (oops, that wave almost got us!) The Armourlite power cable is choking, coiled around the body like a slim anaconda, constricting breath. Still stepping, the snipping yields to snapping, a cracking knuckle of a cut that begins to relieve the pressure. And then another, whose recoil this time attempts to throw the rhythmical body askew. Or a lilt now back on track, shedding the metallic anaconda as if an old snakeskin, revealing another layer underneath. Breathing easier now. Breathing more heavily.

Step off the seasick escalator. Grab the barbecue knife with the nine-inch blade. (9 inches!) Long and slender, its tip splits in two as if the tongue of some flattened reptile forged from stainless steel. Resume climbing, seek the rhythm anew. Don't cut orthogonally into the body; turn the blade sideways and probe with the forked tongue between layers, flickering, before slicing away from the curves on a sharpened-edge stroke. Caress, then cut, but do so quickly: time is running out. Carve away the mecha butterfly exponential accelerator pack, savage smooth the kinoderm layer. Tear them by hand, scatter lenses and corneas and optic nerves all over the floor. I risk irises, and vitreous humours ooze forth into the assembly.

Step off, bitches.

Step off the seasick escalator. Grab the Japanese band saw and feel its flimsy tone. Resume climbing, seek the rhythm anew. Paper thin, it appears harmless enough to the naked eye — after all, what danger could paper possibly pose? That is, until one's gaze traces to the affective edge. Dozens of teeth line each side, razor sharp: one imagines a piranha dentata in hand, steamrolled and ready for action. See? Saw. We must turn orthogonal now, but the platform keeps shifting with every stride of leg or of wing. Assume a fuzzy vector as we ambulate: pull, don't push and bow the device. (oops, that slice went a little too deep!) Hack away edgewise at the duct tape articulations, hack away at the insulating mirror layer, hack away at the vestigial tail and its archival pre-tensions. Lilt and stutter with this awkward technique: flash a toothy smile and quickly cut to black.

 

      –where were you when i needed you? you knew what was at stake.

 

5:03, 5:02, 5:01 . . .

 

Con-fessional: I\'ve Been Here Before

Sean Smith and Cara Spooner
A Movement Topology from "2D" to "3D" Space
process workshop
November 17, 2011

 

Step off the seasick escalator. Grab the forked knife once again. Though the cut to black layer has been torn open in many places, it clings to us still, wrapping silence around us with a thick darkened film. We pull and pull at the stretchy material and fluid ambulates everywhere from our grip. A crimson motor oil drips from the generator, but the reaction is nearly critical and the machine need only hold fast for a few more seconds to reach the world record.

Wings swing wildly, the lilting is flailing, furiously railing, and still we bipedal the backbitten rhythm. Swivel body, swing knife, to black skin stretched taut. Sharp edge bounces back off of surface intension, harmless, elastic, our effort for naught. Swing again and again, there's no time left for thought . . .

 

0:22, 0:21, 0:20 . . .

 

Step to the stomp to the rhythm to the moment, everywhere . . .
Scrapplets of programming lie scattered, here and there . . .

 

0:10, 0:09, 0:08 . . .

 

Panting and sweating, becoming-human no doubt . . .
Caught in the gaze, we seek a way out . . .

 

0:03, 0:02, 0:01 . . .

 

Ones and zeroes: once again, perhaps finally, we return to lines and circles. Yes or no, on or off, tests and switches proliferate — the irreducible binary coding that seeks to envelop us all.

 

      –running out of time.

      –Running into Time!! ^_^

 

Department of Biological Flow
ICQ (Inverted Cubofuturist Query)
2012
performance
(youtube video - 27:02)

(please feel free to take a piece of the performance home with you.)

 

 

0:00, 0:00, 0:00 . . .

 

The silence is deafening . . .

 

0:00, 0:00, 0:00 . . .

 

"Each 'plateau' is an orchestration of crashing bricks extracted from a variety of disciplinary edifices. They carry traces of their former emplacement, which give them a spin defining the arc of their vector. The vectors are meant to converge at a volatile juncture, but one that is sustained, as an open equilibrium of moving parts each with its own trajectory. The word 'plateau' comes from an essay by Gregory Bateson on Balinese culture, in which he found a libidinal economy quite different from the West's orgasmic orientation. In Deleuze and Guattari, a plateau is reached when circumstances combine to bring an activity to a pitch of intensity that is not automatically dissipated in a climax. The heightening of energies is sustained long enough to leave a kind of afterimage of its dynamism that can be reactivated or injected into other activities, creating a fabric of intensive states between which any number of connecting routes could exist." (Brian Massumi)

 

0:00, 0:00, 0:00 . . .

 

Cut to static (in motion) . . .

 

0:00, 0:00, 0:00 . . .

 

NOISE.

 

Con-fessional: Intense Zero

 

Zero.

A pregnant 0:00, to be certain — ("there are always two, even when you perceive one, connected) — analog, ripe and bursting at the stitches with intens–

 

the show opens, a tiny slitscan portal to 2046 appears in the distance.