[anon/experimental,

issue

#001

may-june

2021]

ST

RTT

EEE

m

waa

-Aoo

twa

olls16998V

ynodinA

yd

tnowe

tnise

#000001

[J.

Lacan]

So

I

for

one

am

all

for

Saint

John

and

his

“In

the

beginning

was

the

Word,”

but

this

beginning

was

completely

enigmatic.

What

this

means

is:

Things

only

begin

for

this

repugnant

creature

of

the

flesh

that

we

still

call

the

everyday

man,

things

only.

begin

for

him,

I

mean

the

drama

only

begins

when

the

Word

gets

into

the

swim,

when

the

Word

becomes,

as

religion

(the true

religion)

says,

Incarnate.

It’s

only

after

the

Word

is

made

flesh

that

things

start

to

really

take

a

turn

for

the

worse.

Man

no

longer

looks

fike

a

dog

wagging

its

tail

or

a

courageous

masturbating

monkey.

He

doesn’t

resemble

anything

anymore.

The

Word

devastates

him.

-

J.

Lacan,

Press

Conference

in

Rome,

29"

October

1974

#000002

[anon]

“We're

going

to

win

so

much.

You’re

going

to

get

tired

of

winning.

You're

going

to

say,

‘Please

Mr.

President,

|

have

a

headache.

Please,

don’t

win

so

much.

This

is

getting

terrible.’

And

I’m

going

to

say, ‘No,

we

have

to

make

America

great

again.’

You're

gonna

say,

‘Please.’

i

said,

‘Nope,

nope.

We’re

gonna

keep

winning.”

7

#000003

[Gavin

Le

Ber]

9/2/89

scottjackson

said:

Sitting

here

with

my

google

finance,

gmail

and

google

video

tabs open

whilst

using

google

crome

i

think

back

to my

day

today

and

here

is

some

things

on

how

u

made

my

life

better.

1.)

i

google

searched

ridiculas

and

you

told

me

how

to

spell

it

correctly

2.)

Whilst

at

work

I

have

google

crome

permanently

open

and

use

it

as

much

time

as

possible,

at

my

company

IT

will

only

support

IE6...and

the

less

said

about

that

the

better.

3.)

i

google

dry

cleaners

in

my

area

and

found

thier

addresses

4.)

used

google

maps

to

find

the dry

cleaners

and

then

decided

i

didnt

like

the

look

of

it

and

googled/mapped

another

one.

5S.)

..didnt

crash

once

thought

out

the

day.

Even

with

multiple

tabs

open

searching

&

displaying

large

ammounts

of

economic

data.

6.)

Allowed

my

girlfriend

who

currently

lives

in

another

state

to

say

hi

to me

and

wish

me

luck

with

my

day

via

gmail

chat.

A

lovley

random

surprise

as

she

usually

struggels

to

contact

me

as

there

is

a

'no

phones’

policy

in

her

workplace.

7.)

you

have

interested

me,

my

house

mate

jail

broke

his

iphone

whilst

at

work

today

and

im

looking

forward

too

seeing

what

google

voice

is

like

and

having

a

play

with

it.

(I

work

for the

biggest

telecom

company

in

my

county)

Feel

free

to

do

one

of

two

things,

A.)

an

admin

comes

across

this

post

and

deletes

it,

as

its

not

"technically'

a

quiestion.

In

this

event

a

sweet

fairy

pixie

will

die

a

slow

death..

or

B.)...

pass

this

little

note

gets

passed

accross

one

just

ONE

google

employees

desk.

and

they

smile.

knowing

they

are

making

the

world

a

better

place

>)

I

know

that

you

care...(and

will

wb)

#000004

[anon]

People

used

to

have

sex

with

themselves.

First

you

have

the

revelation

of

wanting

to

have

sex

with

someone

else,

for

your

pleasure.

Then

the

second

revelation

-

to

have

sex

with

someone

else,

to

punish

yourself

or

distract

you,

a

kind

of

pathological

self-negation.

And

hopefully,

the

revelation

of

having

sex

with

someone

to

express

your

love

for

them.

A

lot

of

people

liked

to

have

sex

in

the

mirror:

Christian

Bale,

“American

Psycho”

style.

He

fucked

others

in

order

to

fuck

himself,

a

form

of

self-worship.

But

|

don’t

think

people

do

that

much

anymore.

They

masturbate

quietly

and

placidly

in

their

bed

or

on

their

couch

and

then

get

cleaned

up,

put

their

phone

or

laptop

aside

-

briefly

-

and

take

a

nap

or

eat

something.

They

just

want

the

tic

of

pleasure

to

go

away

for

a

while.

Hunting

the

titillation

is

a

nice

ten-minute

mind

exercise.

Who

cares

if

you’re

unemployed,

or

out

of

shape,

or

a

loser

while

you’re

looking

for

that

perfectly

abstracted

climax?

A

bunch

of

fat

little

hairless

mice

stroking

themselves

furiously

for

a

brief

thrashing

orgasm,

then

the

repose

of

pure

emptiness.

I

know

a

girl

that

buys

something

on

Amazon

whenever

she

orgasms

alone.

It’s

her

compulsion.

I

think

it

adds

a

material

tether

to

the

feeling

of

just

aimlessly,

unbearably,

drifting

away.

Now,

many

young

men

and

women

sense

that

their

libido

is

a

distraction

from

the

more

important

work

of

buying

things

and

eating

things,

an

urge

that

needs

to

be

assuaged

immediately

and

in

ultimate

privacy

and

comfort.

How

foul.

How

disgusting

and

weak.

How

plastic-wrapped

and

air-conditioned

of

an

impulse.

#000005

[anon]

Sometimes

a

guy

is

better

than

a

girl

because

he’s

different

than

a

girl,

so

he

can

grab

you

and

make

you

feel

like

a

girl.

Which

is

nice

because

it’s

hard

to

be

a

boy

and

it’s

sexy

to

bend

over

and

have

someone

do the

work

for

once.

Why

not?

#000006

[anon]

For

the

longest

time

he

thought

himself

a

fool.

He

thought

himself

a

fool

because

he

felt

himself

a

fool

and

he

thought

those

who

are

not

fools

would

not

think

themselves

a

fool.

So

he

walked

foolishly

in

the

empty

street

under

the

streetlights

and

felt

himself

a

fool.

He

had

made

the

proposal

earlier

that

evening.

He

did

not

know

if

it

worked.

He

never

knew

if

anything

worked,

he

thought,

and

that

is

what

made

him

a

fool.

Sometimes

when

he

thought

it

did

not

work

it

had

worked

and

sometimes

when

he

was

sure

it

was

fine

it

was

not

fine

and

he

never

knew

why.

He

sat

on

a

bench

and

looked

at

the

street

lights.

He

thought

of

the

wonderful

things

that

would

happen

if

she

said

yes

and

he

thought

very

far

and

very

wide

and

felt

very

happy

that

far

away

from

where

he

was

now.

Then

he

felt

he

should

not

think

this

far

because

thinking

it

through

might

not

make

it

happen.

So

he

thought

about

her

not

saying

yes

and

it

filled

him

with

dread.

He

sat

in

the

dread

looking

at

the

streetlights

on

the

bench

near

the

entrance

of

the

park.

She

would

not

say

yes.

It

did

not

work,

he

thought,

that

was

the

way

it

was

and

I

should

not

think

it

worked.

That

maybe

would

make

it

happen.

He

did

not

want

to

think

any

further,

thinking

would

only

make

it

more

painful

or

drain

the

goodness

out

of

it.

She

would

not

say

yes

if

she

knew

I

was

thinking

this

much

of

it,

he

thought.

She

would

say

yes

if

I

did

not

think

of

it

and

I

was

thinking

of

something

else.

She

would

say

yes

if

I

was

blissfully

ignorant

of

the

fact

I

even

asked

and

I

had

forgotten

about

it

and

I

had

other

things

to

do.

I

would

have

gone

back

home

instead

of

walking

the

streets

thinking

about

it.

That

is

the

man

she

would

say

yes

to.

I

would

not

say

yes

to

this,

he

thought,

because

I

do

not

want

to

be

this.

I

want

to

live

blissfully

and

not

think

about

being

a

fool.

He

was

walking

through

the

park

now

looking

but

not

really

looking

at

the

man-made

streams

under

the

bridge

lights

above

and

thinking

about

not

thinking.

He

had

never

really

thought

about

not

thinking

and

the

only

times

he

was

not

thinking

was

when

he

did

not

notice

and

when

he

noticed

he

was

not

thinking

he

began

to

think

again.

The

man

who

she

would

say

yes

to

would

not

be

thinking

about

it,

he

thought,

and

the

man

would

be

asleep

already.

The

man

had

work

in

the

morning

and

his

thoughts

were

only

on

the

work.

The

man

lived

in

a

wide

valley

with

his

house

near

the

top

of

the

base

above

where

the

sea

stops

and

from

his

window

he

could

see

the

whole

valley

green

and

blue

and

brown

at

the

top

and

blue

above

the

brown

very

bright

and

very

clear.

The

green

would

sway

in

the

wind

and

the

blue

would

gently

roll

in

and

out

while

the

man

looked

out

the

window.

The

man

had

been

working

and

was

now

tired.

And

when

the

man

was

tired

he

was

not

thinking,

he

thought,

and

he

only

felt.

The

man

did

not

feel

himself

a

fool

and

the

man

did

not

wander

with

no

destination.

The

man

only

felt

and

he

knew

in

his

heart

without

thinking

he

was

in

the

right

place,

he

thought.

She

would

say

yes

to

that

man.

He

was

walking

now

under

the

trees

in

the

small

side

street

under

the

tops

where

the

sun

would

have been

on

the

ground

through

the

space

in

between

the

leaves

but

as

now

it

was

dark

you

could

not

see

the

leaves

above.

He

walked

only

towards

the

He

came

under

the

light

and

felt

tired.

Not

tired

of

walking,

he

could

walk

very

far

if

it

was

on

steady

ground,

but

of

thinking.

He

did

not

think

anymore,

and

walked

in

the

dark

from

a

street

light

to

a

street

light,

looking

but

not

looking

and

just

walking.

He

would

not

think

of

the

proposal

because

it

would

do

nothing. He

walked

over

another

small

bridge

with

the

fence

on

its

side

too

low

to

hold

and

past

the

bridge

he

walked

towards

the

other

exit

of

the

park.

If

he

took

a

left

at

the

exit

he

would

walk

home

but

he

went

forward

through

the

streets

and

past

the

other

houses

and

he

was

in

no

hurry.

He

did

not

have

work

in

the

morning

and

he

did

not

have

work

the

He had

no

work

at

all.

He

knew

without

thinking

if

he

went

back

home

he

would

think

about

it

and

he did

not

want

to

think about

it.

He

wanted

to

walk.

The

houses

were

all

small

and

different

and

no

lights

were

on

at

that

time

and

all

the

cars

were

in

the

driveways

and

he

could

feel

them

all

inside

sleeping

blissfully

and

in

place

and

knowing

what

they

were

doing

in

the

morning.

He

walked

further

and

into

another

street

and

there

he

felt

the

shame.

He

did

not

call

upon

it

by

thinking.

It

came

on

its

own.

It

came

hard

and

he

felt

it

through

him

all

and

he

wanted

to

run

now

instead

of

walking

but

he

was

too

ashamed

to

run.

The

man

she

would

say yes

to

would

not

run

too,

but

for

other

reasons.

His

reason

was

not the

man's

reason,

he

finally

thought

again.

He

did

not

run

from

it

because

he

did

not

care.

It

was

just

shame.

He

had

felt

the

shame

and

the

shame

would

go

away

in

the

morning.

The

man

in

the

valley

with

his

house

on

the

top

of

the

hill

overlooking

the

sea

would

not

have

felt

the

shame

to

begin

with.

He

began

to

not

care

about

the

proposal

and

finally

he

felt

himself

going

home.

The

he

did

not

look

at

the

answer.

He

did

not

know

if

there

was

an

answer

but

he

did not

look

anyway.

He

only

thought

of

the

man

and

he

knew

if

he

looked

at

the

answer

he

would

not

think

of

the

man

any

more.

He

tried

to

think

how

the

man

lived

and

what

the

man

would

think

or

not

think

of

and

he

tried

to

think

like

the

man.

He

thought

of

the

way

he

had

gotten

his

house

on

the

hill

of

the

valley.

He

lay

in

bed

thinking

of

the

man

and looking

up

past

the

ceiling.

He

had

nowhere

to

go

so

he

lay

and

thought.

The

man

bought

his

house

with

his

money

he

worked

for,

he

thought.

He

did

not

build

it,

that

would

be

too

much,

but

he

bought

it.

He

had

been

saving

for

a

long

time

and

he

had been

very

blissful

when

he

bought

it.

The

bliss

was

still

there

and

he

felt

it

while

herding

his

sheep

in

the

early

mornings

when

the

sun

was

low

and

the

shadows

long.

He

had

bought

it

and

now

there

was

nothing

else.

He

was

in

his

place

and

he

knew

where

his

place

was.

He

had

always

known

this

was

his

place

and

getting

to

it

was

as

good

as

he

thought

it

was.

That

was

what

the

man

thought

of,

he

thought,

the

man

thought

of

buying

the

house

when

he

did

not

yet

have

it

and

when

he

had

it

he

was

free

of

thought.

He

did

not

think

and

he

only

felt.

The

man

felt

and

the

man

acted

and

the

man

sat

in

his

house

in

the

evenings

before

he

slept

watching

the

sunset

when

the sea

came

into

the

valley

not

thinking,

he

thought.

He

laid

in

his

bed

for

a

long

time

thinking

about

the

man

and

how

the

man

felt

and

tried

feeling

like

the

man.

He

felt

good

feeling

like

the

man

but

always

something

would

break

it

from

him.

There

was

always

something

that

was

unfit

with

feeling

like

the

man.

When

it

broke

he

would

put

it

back

again.

And

it

was

stronger

each

time

but

harder

to

put

back

together.

The

man

never

thought

of

his

surroundings.

He

did

not

care

for

the

surroundings

beyond

his

homestead

and

his

sheep

and

his

crops.

He

did

not

care

at

all.

The

surroundings

did

not

affect

him.

The

man

would

move

through

them

unchanged.

He

finally

looked

at

the

message.

She

had

said

yes.

He

forgot

about

the

man

until

the

he

made

a

proposal

to

a

different

lady.

#000007

[Kamara]

1.

He

picks

up

hunnies

on

high-rise

ledges

little

death

in

lieu

of

the

Real

Deal

momentary

softer

swandives

"They

fuck

like

there's

no

tomorrow"

morning

coffee

&

obits

photo

attached

preferred

Mostly,

they

stay

silent

or

speak

in

small

moans

eyes

dull

or

dark

None

sleep over,

some

cuddle,

whisper

"bye"

on

the

way

out.

#000008

[Gavin

Le

Ber]

2/19/12

pk36

said:

Google,

i

am

waiting

for the

day

when

people

will

type

in

Google

search

bar,

"How

to

Meet

God"..

M

sure

the

way

you

leading

the

world

&

working

seriously

hard,

one

day

u'll

find

these

answer

too..

Good

Luck

Google..

God

Speed..

Love

You

More

than

my

Gf..

#000009

fanon]

-

You

are

living

in

a

legendary

myth

from

the

year

29,000

B.C.

-

You

are

living

in

a

fantasy

story

from

the

year

1,000

A.D.

-

You

are

living

in

a

science

fiction

story

from

the

year 3,000

A.D.

-

You

are

living

in a

legendary

myth

from

the

year

20,000

A.D.

#000010

[Zombee

tv]

River’s

Edge

(1986)

-

a

review

Scored

by

the

music

of

Slayer

and

Proto-Grunge,

Pacific

North-

West

weirdo's

The

Wipers,

River's

Edge

was one

of

the

first

narrative

films

to

ask the

now-totally

ridiculous

question,

"wait,

are

teens

not

naive

yet

potential

filled

patriots

eager

to

participate

in

the

American

dream,

but

instead

extremely

alienated

and

depressed

freaks?"

The

answer

to

that

question

may

get

lost

amongst

the

existential

monologues

of

characters

who

are,

throughout

the

film,

literally

and

figuratively

in

transit,

but

its

most

sophisticated

answer

can

be

found

in

the

character

of

Feck

(Dennis

Hopper).

"We

stopped

a

war,

man,"

says

the

aging

hippy

biker,

paranoid

and

agoraphobic

from

a

lifetime

of

expanding

his

mind

and

fighting

The

Man.

The

kids,

their

parents

divorced,

are

forced

to

ask

themselves

how

invested

they

really

want

to

be

in

trying

to

improve

the

world

around

them.

Does

it

matter

that

John

(Daniel

Roebuck)

strangled

his

girlfriend

for

"talking

shit"?

He's

already

basically

an

alcoholic

anyway.

What

did

she

miss

out

on?

A

life

of

working

three

jobs

while

raising

the

children

he'd

pumped

into

her

and

then

abandoned?

Does

Layne's

(Crispin

Glover)

immediate

reaction

of

loyalty

to

a

teenage

murderer

demand

a

correction

from

his

other

friends?

Loyalty

to

a

group

of

fellow

outsiders

is

all

Layne

has.

Sure,

his

expectation

of

this

same

loyalty

in

return

turns

the

act

of

driving

around

in

his

pseudo-hot-rodded

VW

Beetle

while

brainstorming

plans

for

shuttling

John

to

Canada

into

a

sort

of

soft

fascism,

but

is

saying

something

to

him

worth

the

psychotic

episode

it

might

provoke?

Jamie's

already

dead.

If

you

talk

to

the

cops,

if

you

betray

John

and

Layne,

Lord

knows

what

could

happen.

You

might

end

up

mentally

cracked,

screaming

at

the

moon

and

pawing

at

a

blow-up

doll.

Maybe

it's

better

to

just

go

have

sex

in

the

park.

But

then

who's

gonna

watch-out

for

your

little

brother?

You

hit

him

earlier.

Can

you

live

with

yourself

knowing

you

bullied

him

while

trying

to

covered

up

a

murder?

Back

in

the

real

world,

it's

May

1987.

You

have

a

job

on

Wall

Street.

Or

maybe

you

sell

Porsches,

or

ceil-phones

the

size

of

basketball

sneakers.

Maybe

you

sell

basketball

sneakers.

There's

real

money

in

that

now,

This

Michael

Jordan

guy

seems

like

he's

gonna

be

a

pretty

big

deal.

You

voted

for

Reagan

AGAIN

because

he's

gonna

keep

your

taxes

low

by

not

wasting

money

on

silly

frills

like

environmental

protection

and insane

asylums.

Who

cares

if

he's

75

and

used

to

fall

off

horses

for

a

living;

he's

sharp

as

a

tack.

In

the

suburbs,

on

the

streets

of

the

inner

cities,

in

the

places

where

your

condo

complex

is

not,

children

are

acting

like

Camus'

Meursault.

But

for

you,

it's

morning

in

America.

And

sure,

maybe

things

will

seem

different

someday.

Maybe

this

September

the

president

will

give

a

speech

to

the

UN

where

he

waxes

philosophical

about

the

possibility

of

an

alien

invasion.

Maybe

-

twenty

eight

days

later

-

the

Dow

Jones

will

fall

more

in

a

single

day

than

it

has

in

its

entire

history.

Maybe

then

you'll

come

up

from

your

cocaine

plate

long

enough

to

see

that

the

system

in

which

you're thriving

doesn't

offer

a

lot

of

hope

to

future

,

generations.

But

neither

of

those

things

have

happened

just

yet.

Today,

you're

headed

for

the

office.

You

drive

past

an

art-house

theater

where

a

bunch

of

kids

from

broken

homes

are

seeing,

River's

Edge.

They're

the

target

audience.

Hopefully

they

get

it.

Maybe

not.

Maybe

they're

thinking

"Here

we

are

now;

entertain

us.”

Maybe

it's

worse.

Their

Mothers

died

today.

Or

maybe

yesterday,

they

don't

know.

#000011

[Gavin

Le

Ber]

8/30/16

Holy

Sae

said:

Dear

google,

If

you

were

a

girl,

I

would

marry

you

:).

Thanks

for

everything

you

offer,

Your

true

love

#000012

[anon]

She

showed

up

and

he

was

in

boxer

shorts

and

she

didn’t

think

about

it

at

the

time,

but

twenty

years

later

she

would

look

back

and

remember

because

she

drove

by

the

Ralphs

they

used

to

go

to,

so

he

was

on

the

brain

for

five

seconds

of

her

now-too-busy-days,

and

she

remembered

when

he

opened

the

door

on

a

“second

date”

with

boxers

on

and

no

shirt

and

she

hadn’t

noticed,

she’d

thought

it

was

normal.

He’d

thought

it

was

normal

too

because

his

sisters

used

to

see

him

like

that

and

she

guessed

she

had

kind

of

taken

their

place

for

him.

They

dated

for

two

months

before

he

cheated

on

her,

but

now,

so

many

years

later,

all

she

could

think

about

was

how

she

hadn’t

cared

that

he

had

opened

the

door

with

boxers

on.

#000013

[anon]

[Cut-up

Capitalism

and

Desire:

The

Psychic

Cost

of

Free

Markets,

McGowan,

T.

2016]

repeatedly

adjusting

one's

batting

gloves

(as

many

baseball

players

do)

may

in

fact

be

a

wholly

sexual

act.

REPRESSION

and

DESIRE

=

POWER

and

BODIES

sustaining

subjects

in

a

constant

state

Edge

of

Having

a

dissatisfaction

we

don't

recognise

as

such

—

and

thus

.

constantly

made

explicit,

cling

feverishly

to

the

image

Repeatedly

adjusting

one’s

batting

gloves.

SYMPTOMS

a

widespread

investment

in

.

Astrology.

>Astrology

infects

the

social

order.

Promise

/

Tropics

/

Electronics.

the

popularity

of

astrology

columns.

_

Consumption

=

A

BETTER

FUTURE

a

discursive

regime

of

sexuality

that

forces

sex

to

speak

that

forces

bodies

to

become

Sexualised

acts

as

a

barrier

to

the

flow

of

bodies

and

pleasures.

like

eco-friendly

cars

at

the

neighbourhood

dealership

Sex

toys

in

a

Shopping

mail

are

the

secret

of

capitalism’s

integration

of

critique.

the

countercultural

revolution

of

the

1960s;

.

ihe

relative

success

of

the

sexual

revolution;

the

effect

of

the

failure

of

political

revolution:

quieting

the

dream.

,

Astrology

Columns

in

Newspapers.

.

surplus

repression

infects

/

widespread

/

feverish

/

neurosis

/

of

one-dimensional

equals.

#000014

fanon]

I

can’t

remember

where

I

stayed

before

I

moved

into

the

motel.

They

were

winter

months.

I

was

somewhere

on

Albert,

one

of

those

post-war

houses,

smoking

all

day,

up

for

weeks

at

a

time.

One

of

the

men

there

always

wanted

to

do

trust

falls

with

me.

He

said

things

about

how

he

talked

to

God

through

women,

too.

Plastic

lawn

chairs

littered

the

yard

like

bleached

bones.

I

remember

one

night

I

went

up

to

the

pool

bar.

Ian

was

there

and

we

smoked

together,

out

behind

the

fabric

shop.

The

torch

lit

his

broken

face

up

from

below

like

a

campfire

story.

Later

we

were

in

his

bed

and

he

kept

pulling

away

to

look

me

up

and

down

and

smile

approvingly,

nodding

at

me.

His

teeth

were

like

gravestones.

It

made

me

sick,

and

I

watched

the

windows

illuminate

and

then

darken

with

passing

cars

and

wished

I

was

in

someone’s

passenger

seat

heading

out

of

town.

I

was

bored

all

the

way

into

my

bones.

Then

there

are

a

few

months

I’m not

so

sure

about,

like

I

said.

If

1

took

a

walk

up

Albert

I’d

probably

know

right

away

which

house

I’d

been

at.

When

I

ran

out

of

money,

or

whatever

else

brought

me

down

the

hill,

I

ended

up

at

Skyline,

living

for

free

as

the

proctor,

waking

up

whenever

someone

called

to

check

in

after

midnight.

I

spent

the

spring

sleeping

all

day

and

night.

I

kept

the

TV

going

with

the

volume

on

the

lowest

setting

all

the

time.

I

woke

up

to

images

I

didn’t

understand:

a

close

up

of

a

man’s

hands

holding

a

glossy

fish,

supercuts

of

cake

decoration,

sobbing

women

with

black

eyes

and

stiff

lips.

I

spent

a

lot

of

time

fantasizing

about

this

man

I’d

been

with

a

few

years

ago,

a

man

with

no

sense

of

smell.

I

had

my

own

place

at

the

time

and

we'd

stayed

in

for

a

full

week.

He

would

take

clothes

out

of

his

bag

and

ask

me

to

smell

them,

to

see

if

they

needed

washing.

They

always

did.

’'d

wash

the

clothing

in

the

sink

while

he

leaned

back

and

watched

me.

I

loved

him

for

the

way

he

watched

me.

His

lips

were

so

well

shaped

I

wanted

to

take

them

into

my

mouth

and

suck

on

them.

When

the

weather

warmed

and

the

humidity

soaked

into

the

motel

sheets,

I

developed

an

appetite.

I

took

a

few

shifts

working

the

front

desk

of

the

motel

and

I

sat

in

the

back

room

eating

apples

and

berries

until

I

felt

sick.

I

ate

egg

rolls

from

the

chinese

place

while

I

flipped

through

tourism

pamphlets

with

fingers

dripping

in

plum

sauce.

My

routine

was

like

this:

I

#000015

[Kamara]

would

sleep

until

noon,

then

masturbate

and

bathe.

I

rubbed

these

scented

oils

onto

my

body,

and

then

I

would

examine

myself

in

the

mirror.

I

had

gained

enough

weight

that

I

looked

soft,

with

blurred

edges.

I

liked

myself

that

way.

I

went

for

slow

walks

up

and

down

the

block

with

my

thighs

rubbing

against

each

other.

I

stared

at

men

on

the

street

while

rivulets

of

sweat

ran

down

my

neck.

I

wondered

what

it

would

be

like

to

hole up

with

one

of

them

and

lose

the

whole

winter

again.

I

liked

to

imagine

that

I

would

stay

sober

this

time,

while

the

man

smoked.

He

wouldn’t

leave

the

house.

I’d

explain

what

went

on

in

the

world

outside.

At

night

we’d

go

to

the

laundromat

together

and

he'd

see

that

everything

I’d

said

was

true.

In

mid-July

the

heat

peaked,

and

the

air

was

so

humid

it

was

like

living

in

the

thickness

of

a

dream.

Sound

doesn’t

carry

in

heat

like

that.

My

body

felt

pleasantly

swollen.

One

afternoon

I

saw

a

group

of

four

construction

workers

unpack

their

bags

and

folding

chairs

from

a

truck

and

make

their

way

into

rooms

11

and

12.

They

pressed

their

chairs

up

against

the

building,

trying

to

hide

in

the

small

slit

of

shade

offered

by

the

roof’s

overhang.

Heatwaves

rose

off

the

parking

lot,

obscuring

my

view

of

their

faces.

I

thought

that

one

of

them

was

staring

right

back

at

me,

with

his

tanned

face

and

blue

eyes.

That

afternoon

I

turned

off

the

air

conditioner

and

I

took

to

the

bed

on

all

fours,

thinking

of

the

construction

worker.

That’s

how

the

summer

has

passed:

with

my

hips

swinging

slowly

over

the

dusty

sidewalk,

stomach

bloated

from

the

fruit.

I

don’t

fear

the

season’s

passing.

Let

the

men

try

to

find

a

place

to

live

where

I’m not

swelling

to

fill

the

cracks.

5.

I

get

by

on

benefit

of

the

doubt

he

skates

on

technicalities

a

marriage

made

in

small

claims

court

contract

romance

anything

to

stay

slippery

#000016

[Cain

Hillier]

Come

Corso

Why

upper-middle

eshays

are

sinister

cultural

colonisers

The

idea

of

this

article

came

to

me

last

weekend

when

some

mates

and

I

were

stomaching

a

20

pack

of

Bond

Street

Blues

in

Mona

Vale

Park.

It's

a

well-groomed

patch

of

grass

flanked

on

each

side

by

the

council

building,

the

library

and

the

pub.

We

entertained

ourselves

playing

Eshay

bingo;

come

collect

your

meat

tray

if

you

catch

this

column.

i.

A

group

of

esh

lads

fighting.

2,

Each

group's

casus

belli

being

that

the

other

side

is/is

mates

with

a

pedophile.

Sys

A

well-meaning

friend

being

the

immovable

object

to

Napoleon

Nautica’s

unstoppable

force.

4.

Girls

in

champion

jumpers

and

sweatpants

hanging

out

further

back.

|

5.

Other

girls

in

Fila

tank

tops

right

in

the thick

of

things.

6.

Once

the

dust

has settled,

they

all

bum

darts

off

you.

Despite

the

Daily

Telegraph's

warnings

of

"wannabe

child

gangsters",

your

odds

of

being

mugged

in

the

affluent

suburbs

where

this

play

takes

place

are

rather

slim.

The

North

Shore

is

the

territory

of

the

upper-middle

esh,

the

Peshay.

The

likely

lads

bought

their

Ralph

Lauren

fair

and

square

from

their job

at

Dad's

real

estate

agency;

they

probably

have

more

bedrooms

than

you

too.

Unlike

Eshays

from

Croydon

housing

estates,

whose

loot

is

loot

and

uncle's

in

rey

the

Peshay’'s

uncle

is

likely

the

prosecutor

that

put

them

there.

,

Eshays

originated

as

a

housos

subculture

in

Greater

Western

Sydney,

peaking

in

the

2000s,

Whilst

characterised

by

Murdoch

rags

:

exclusively

for

their

hypermasculinity

and

proclivity

for

sportswear

and

crime

in

equal

measures,

the

culture

of

pig-Latin,

gutter

rap

and

gabber

was

a

distinctly

Australian

tradition

of

delinquency..The

eshays

were

far

removed

from

mainstream

culture.

Moreover,

they

imported

the

sportswear

aesthetic

from

UK

terracewear,

where

football

casuals

wore

designer

clothing

such

as

Stone

Island

and

Burberry

to

appear

higher

class

to

ground

security

at

Enfield,

Highbury

and

Stamford

Bridge.

However,

the

last

half-decade

has

seen

the

rise

of

the

peshay.

Peshays

adopted

esh

culture

not

by

crossing

the

latte

line

(the

geographical

boundary

separating

upper

and

lower

class

Sydney)

but

through

cyberspace.

Peshays

learnt

the

spectacle

of

being

an

esh

from

social

media,

without

the

immigrant

background,

classist

subversion

of

high

fashion

or

rag-to-riches

story.

Peshay

speech

is

coherent

mainly

as

a

consequence

of

their

private

or

well-funded

public

education.

Moreover,

their

tastes

are

primarily

trap,

streetwear,

and

to

a

lesser

extent,

grime.

Rather

than

forming

a

subculture,

Peshays

are

as

infatuated

with

the

hip-hop

opulence

cultural

zeitgeist

as

anyone

else.

It

has

been

suggested

that

hip-hop

opulence

serves

to

elevate

not

just

a

single

performer

but

an

entire

underclass

as

well,

but

these

white

teenagers

are

already

economically

secure.

The

lower

class

unknowingly

consents

to

acceptance

into

the

cultural

hegemony,

seeing

‘one

of

your

own!

make

it,

in

exchange

for

approving

an

economic

system

that

sees

your

benefits

cut

and

subjects

you

to

regular

drug

testing.

In

contrast,

Peshays

pick

up

the

faux

opulent,

depressive

hedonia,

all-gold-everything

‘lifestyle’

of

both

contemporary

hip

hop

and

00's

eshays

without

the

structural

inequality

that

the

aesthetic

is

reacting

against.

Peshays

are

abhorrent

because

the

world

was

at

their

feet

the

moment

they

popped

out

at

Westmead

hospital.

Despite

being

raised

among

Avalon's

artisanal

bakeries

and

yoga

studios,

they

insist

they're

a

product

of

their

environment.

Their

sportswear

aesthetic

may

be

similar,

but

Eshays

and

Peshays

don't

mix.

Ultimately,

the

Peshays

will

shave

their

mullets,

ditch

the

TN’s

and

relocate

from

Cremorne

Maccas

to

offices

in

North

Sydney.

Their

hands,

smudged

with

old

stick-and-pokes,

now

on

the

wheels

of

production.

I'm

afraid

the

only

lessons

they

learned

were

hypermasculinity,

consumption,

and

how

to

chug

a

stubbie.

Only

one

of

these

is

of

any

use.

#000017

[Gavin

Le

Ber]

7/27/12

aavery1996

said:

I

totally

agree...

google

will

take

over

the

world

one

day,

one

very

happy

day

hopefully

in

the

near

future

#000018

[Ekko

Ahti]

Week

Sunday

Thursday

hedonism’s

latest

binge

what

happens

it

happened

at

the

table

happens

haplessly

so

ill-conceived

but

what

a

taste

|

clogged

and

sick

what

pleasure

to

me,

so

ill-conceived

Monday

different

things

will

be

different

today

the

same

things

are

swallowed

but

still

nothing

was

fulfilled

today

Tuesday

empty

bottles

tangled

guts

insoluble

Wednesday

I

sense

a

bubble

done

in

the

kitchen?

stomach

rumbles

quit

you

say?

I’m

already

you're

not

already

been

three

days

can't

just

pop

whenever

so

behave

as

ways

proliferate

every

spurt

displacing

volume

every

urge

erasing

time

Friday

might

be

thin

like

this

for

now

mirrors

stretch

the

hours

out

myself

so

suddenly

solute

might

crack

open

some

circumference

Saturday

planned

to

keep

going

but

I’ve

been

good

the

table

again

who

said

I

would

growing

again

almost

a

stream

and

so

again

so

ill-conceived

again

to

me,

so

well

again

ah

fuck

it

Sunday

hedonism’s

latest

binge

it

happened

at

FJELLANGER

WIDERG@E

AS

INGENI@R-

OG

ARKITEKTFIRMA

Fotogrammetrisk

konstruksjon.

1971

N.G.0.s

héyder

og

koordinatsystem

exit

process

001:

DESIRE

#000019

[Scott

Raunce]

SHOOTING.

POOL

You’ve

probably

read

my

work.

You

do

not

know

my

name.

I

borrow

someone

else’s

name

every

time

|

write,

or

|

write

without

a

name

at

all.

Freelance

work

is

how

I

pay

the

bills.

I

have

written

more

copy

and

inane

company

blog

posts

than

I

can

count.

I

once

controlled

multiple

Twitter

accounts,

taking

on

different

brand

handles

and

posting

content.

Sometimes

these

got

engagement;

sometimes

they

flopped.

I

pitch

under

so

many

different

names

that

the

threat

of

failure

is

no

longer

a

deterrent.

While

you

may

have

read

this

portion

of

my

work,

tinged

by

the

vulgar

profit

incentive,

I’m

most

proud

of

the

writing

I

do on

the side.

I

find

famous

or

highly

cited

articles

and

book

chapters

that

are

stuck

behind

paywalls

or

blocked

by

institutional

access.

I

read

through

secondary

literature

and

get the

general

gist

of

the

hidden

piece.

Then

I

write

my

own

version

and

release

it

online

as

a

PDF.

I

receive

no

material

compensation

for

this

work.

I

can

point

to

a

prominent

one

I’ve

written

if

you

do not

believe

me.

Esquire

keeps

its

most

famous

article,

“Frank

Sinatra

Has

a

Cold,”

behind

lock

and

key.

If

you

search

online

for

Gay

Telese’s

original

to

avoid

becoming

an

Esquire

subscriber,

you'll

be

swamped

by

copies

of

a

different

version:

mine.

If

you

were

to

compare

Telese

to

my

version,

you

would

find

an

almost

identical

style

and

similar

facts

and

recounted

events,

but

the

words

would

all

be

different.

My

modest

hobby

has

changed

the

way

I

read.

Now,

whenever

I

read

an

article

or

a

piece

or

a

blurb,

I

see

only

form.

Earlier today,

I

read

a

short

article

about

something

geopolitical.

I

skimmed

the

title,

checked

the

author,

and

then

I

measured

the

length

of

each

sentence

and

paragraph

and

noted

the

size

of

the

scrollbar.

I

felt

that

the

prose

was

pretty

standard

and

stayed

in

the

lane

of

the

publication’s

house

style—the

real

important

stuff.

But

I

frowned

when

this

author,

usually

thoughtful,

started

a

paragraph

with

a

sentence

that

needed

a

trim.

He

used

one

clause

too

many.

As

I

read,

I

ticked

the

boxes

in

my

head

and

checked

off

internalized

rules.

I

forgot

any

story,

central

argument,

or

surprising

insight,

and

I

retained

only

scaffolding

and

buttresses.

All

of

this

is

invaluable

for

my

work.

I

have

made

hundreds

of

my

imitations.

I

have

posed

as

biologists,

genre

and

literary

fiction

authors,

multiple

mathematicians,

and

Michel

Foucault.

Some

days,

I

will

come

across

a

sentence

cited

by

a

supposedly

reputable

source

and

find

that

it

is

one

of

mine.

These

encounters

make

me

smile

and

I

am

glad

that

my

work

has

been

recognized.

It

is

not

the

deception

that

thrills

me.

I

am

no

Alan

Sokal,

giggling

as

he

pokes

holes

in

poststructuralism.

(Well,

this

is

not

completely

true.

I

Aave been

Alan

Sokal

and

I

wrote

my

own

version

of

“A

Physicist

Experiments

With

Cultural

Studies”

that

has

been

cited

once

or

twice.)

Instead,

|

think

I

like

to

be

seen,

even

though

the

other—usually

a

careless

researcher

or

journalist—does

not

see

me.

I

do

not

really

know

why

I’m

writing

this.

Maybe

I

want

someone

to

read

this

and

know.

I

am

so

alone.

I

only leave

my

apartment

to

get

groceries

and

the

only

real

people

I

interact

with

are

cashiers

and

the

putrid

masses

who

ride

the

bus.

Years

ago,

my

ID

card

fell

into

a

storm

drain

and

I

have

not

bothered

to

get

a

new

one.

At

least

this

keeps

me

away

from

liquor.

I

have

friends

online,

but

I

only

recognize

them

by

their

avatars

or

profile

pictures

and,

for

most,

|

have

never

seen

their

faces

or

heard

their

voices.

We

usually

correspond

by

email,

instant

messengers,

or

text,

but

I

have

also

talked

with

some

over

voice

chats

or

video

calls.

As

the

latter

become

more

popular,

I

have

started

to

think

about

my

stutter

and

shave

more

regularly.

This

is

an

improvement,

since

I

typed

almost

a

decade

of

my

prior

communication

in

silence.

E

have

a

hazy

memory

of

one

of

my

friends,

a

user

named

Jon832.

We

played

video

games

together,

but

this

was

more

of an

excuse

to

have

a

conversation.

Jon832

told

me

that

he

worked

construction

and

was

divorced

after

he

married

young.

He

believed

in

God,

but

I

do

not,

and

we

learned

to

avoid

any

religious

talk.

Sometimes

he

would

drink

or

get

high,

and

his

gameplay

would

falter,

but

our

conversations

got

better.

He had

a

softer

voice

than

you

would

think.

The

last

thing

he

told

me

is

that

he

had

accidentally

shot

his

foot

and

that

he

would

not

be

online

for

a

while

as

he

was

in

recovery.

I

never

heard

from

my

friend

ever

again.

This

is

not

unusual.

They

simply

disappear.

Occasionally,

I

find

a

once-abandoned

username

crop

up

somewhere

else,

on

some

comment

section

or

blog

or

article.

Sometimes

it’s

the

same

person;

other

times,

when

the

username

is

more

common,

it’s

just

coincidence.

(I

have

found

many

Jon832s.)

Very

rarely,

|

come

across

prose

or

language

that

tickles

the

memory

of

another

loose

from

the

#000020

[Gavin

endless

feed.

It’s

comforting

to

find

these

people

again,

other

wayward

ships

sailing

aimlessly

too.

I

bet

they

would

like

to

know

that

someone

remembers.

I

would

like

to

wave

to

the

faceless

from

the

deck

of

my

own

little

dinghy.

1

do

not

want

for

much;

perhaps

I

have

no

wants

at

all.

Well,

actually,

this

is

wrong.

I

have

already

said

that

I

crave

empty

recognition,

and,

perhaps

more

importantly,

I

like

to

play

pool.

My

apartment

is

in

a

small

Southwestern

city

the

name

of

which

you

would

not

know.

The

rent

is

cheap,

and

I

saved

my

meager

freelancing

money

to

buy

a

pool

table.

I

play

solo

eightball

every

day.

I

used

to

play

virtual

pool

on

my

laptop,

but

for

these

last

few

years

I

have

owned

a

real

table.

You

would

think

that

if

you

play

pool

every

day,

you

would

get

better

at

it.

While

this

may

be

true

of

some

things,

such

as,

in

my

case,

writing,

this

is

not

the

case

for

shooting

pool.

I

think

a

good

writer

is

one

who

can

imitate

others,

one

who

can

completely

disappear

like

a

chameleon

into

the

task

at

hand.

This

kind

of

imitation

is

quite

easy

and

the

more

you

do

it,

the

better

you

get.

But

learning

to

play

pool

requires

effort

and

conscious

attempts

at

improvement.

|

muster

neither.

Each

day,

when

I

begin—with

what

I

have

recently

learned

is

termed

a

“break

shot’’—I

do

not

know

where

the

balls

will

go.

Every

time

I

sink

a

stripe

or

solid,

the

cue’s

ricochet

surprises

me.

Each

shot

and

new

position

is

unexpected,

and

I

have

to

work

with

what

I’ve

got.

I

am

accurate,

but

I

can’t

quite

think

a

shot

ahead.

Still,

I

find

pool

very

relaxing—the

cue

smooth

in

my

hand,

the

sound

of

a

hit’s

sharp

clack,

the

way

the

blue

two

ball

glides

over

the

felt.

I

fall

into

an

easy

trance

and

my

mind

is

pleasantly

blank.

When

I

shoot

pool,

alone

in

my

apartment,

I

am

totally

empty.

I

forget

that

I

have

forgotten

my

own

name.

Le

Ber]

8/22/13

arun

dhawan

said:

I

love

You

Google

-

I

do

not

know

Why

-

There

is

something

-

Which

I

can

not

explain

-

I

will

keep

on

Loving

You

up

-

to

my

last

breath

-

but

one

request

-

Please

do

not

disclose

my

identity

to

world

-

People

will

laugh

at

my

madness.

3/20/14

I

LOVE

GOOGLE

said:

i

love

google

too.

I

have

it

on

ali day

on.

My

mum

prefers

yahoo,but

i

will

always

love

you

google.

good

job!

#000021

[{twitter.com/prayerclothes]

[I]

am

in

need

of

a

way—

this

sure,

holy

spirit

in

it’s

name

must

be

built,

brick

by

brick,

through

our

own

toil

&

the

weeping

&

gnashing

of

soft

teeth.

#000022

[Ekko

Ahti]

Slouching

Towards...

And

under

the

saturnine

trees,

we

—

Let’s

forget

that.

Or

at

least

forget

enough

to

laminate

our

skin,

and

illustrate

our

sight

in

vibrant

-

No.

Let’s

forgo

the

back

and

forth.

It’s

tedious.

Tonight,

the

wind

is

ravenous

for

love,

or

at

least

an

aura

of

someone’s

lucidity.

We

hear

it

swarming

through

our

trees,

like

-

Like

a

lamentation,

let’s

form

a

tremulous

space

for

ourselves

to

spiral

and

foam

in,

away

from

all

these

limpid

markings

on

the

skin

of

falling

daylight.

Let’s

siphon

off

the

last

of

life’s

marvellous

liquids.

And

after

eons

spent

together

in

darkness,

we'll

have

forgotten

the

cravings

of

wind,

the

garrulous

rainfall,

the

solemn

arias

of

trees

-

And

having

forgone

our

separate

ways,

we'll

slide

along

in

a

single

skin

towards

the

fiery

warmth

of

sight

-

And

under

the

saturnine

trees,

we'll...

#000023

[Pearl]

There’s

a

party

tonight,

and

I’m

going.

It’s

July

first

and

it

feels

like

my

birthday

somehow.

I’m

pretty

and

brilliant

and

the

world

is

so

wide.

I’m

so

stoned.

I'm

on

a

dirty

beach

and

the

grey

green

blue

brown

water

keeps

going

on

forever.

“I

wish,”

I

say,

then

stop.

me,

Amy

turns

her

white

head.

“What?”

“I

wish

it

could

last

forever,”

I

say.

Amy

buries

herself

further

in

the

sand.

“Me

too.”

I

take

a

handful

of

sand

and

let

it

run

through

my

fingers.

I

take

my

joint

from

Amy

and

take

a

long

weak

drag.

I

cough.

“Forever

and

ever.”

“You're

stoned,”

Amy

says.

“Yeah,”

I

say.

“Yeah,

I

am.”

I’m

stoned

and

I’m

happy.

She

pulls

her

knees

into

her

chest

and

sits

up.

“We

should

go

get

ready.

The

sky

is

going

dark.”

“T

love

to

watch

the

sky

get

dark,”

I

say.

She

hugs

me.

“I

know.”

I

sit

in

the

passenger

seat,

prop

my

feet

on

the

dashboard

and

paint

my

toenails

baby

pink

as

Amy

drives.

I

sing

along

to

the

radio.

She’s

too

stoned

to

drive

but

she’s

driving.

His

house

is

a

ruin

of

bricks

and

concrete.

The

house

is

trashed,

beer

bottles

and

water

balloons

and

cigarette

butts

planted

in

the

lawn

like

flowers.

Amy

slams

the

car

door

and

I

tumble

out

like

a

weed.

There’s

maybe

twenty

of

us

here,

a

lot

of

teenagers.

Some

of

them

smile

me,

and

I

smile

back,

lopsided.

I

hate

my

smile.

I

get

drunk.

My

favorite

drink

is

easy,

pure

harsh

vodka

with

salt

and

water.

Feels

like

getting

drunk

with

your

head

shoved

underwater.

But

I'll

drink

lemonade

too,

Pil

drink

beer.

There’s

a

song

playing,

soft

and

fuzzy

behind

the

speakers

and

Amy

and

I

dance

to

it.

Twisting,

dipping

like

the

ballet.

Laughing

until

I

feel

like

I’m

going

to

choke.

Drink

to

dancing,

drink

to

getting

drunk,

drink

to

being

a

good

little

girl.

Dance

to

drinking,

dance

to

getting

drunk.

He

isn’t

dancing.

He’s

slumped

against

the

wall,

sitting

like

a

paper

chain

angel.

I

want

him

so

badly

it

hurts.

I

sit

down

him

with

my

legs

crossed.

I

can

feel

the

sweetness

of

my

sunburn.

My

hair

is

still

wet

and

salty

from

swimming,

my

mouth

feels

raw.

I

feel

him

me.

I

can

almost

hear

his

little

calloused

heart

beating.

I

reach

up

and

I

touch

his

hair.

He’s

silent,

but

softens

and

he

rolls

into

me.

Touching,

touching.

My

fat

heart

feels

so

at

home

in

his

bony

shoulders.

I

let

him

rest

there.

I

guess

I

fall

asleep

because

when

I

wake

up

it’s

morning

and

he’s

gone.

I

lean

over

out

the

side

and

throw

up.

Baby

pink

and

yellow.

Amy

drives

us

home

at

the

end

of

the

night.

She’s

too

drunk

to

drive

but

she’s

driving.

We

go

to

the

beach

and

we

go

swimming.

The

sky

is

dark

and

we

float

on

our

backs

and

watch

it

catch

between

shades

of

blue.

“Tm

so

unhappy,”

|

say.

“You’re

drunk,”

Amy

says.

“Maybe,”

I

say.

?’'m

drunk

and

I’m

unhappy.

“You're

so

drunk.”

“Look

at

the

sky,”

I

say.

“T

know.”

The

sky

is

blue.

it

stretches

out

forever. forever,

forever.

Maybe

I

do

too.

Like

a

dream.

#000024

[Ouchie]

Odi

et

Amo

Quare

id

faciam

fortasse

requiris.

Nescio,

sed

fieri

sentio

et

excrucior.

I

hate

and

I

love.

Why

I

do

this,

perhaps

you

ask.

I

know

not,

but

I

feel

it

happening

and

I

am

tortured.

(Catullus

85,

to

Lesbia)

He’s

tearing

me

apart.

I

feel

myself

bursting

at

the

seams.

A

stitch

pops.

I

rend

my

clothes

in

anguish because

I

don’t

know what

else

to

do.

(Ouchie

107,

to

Ben

Shapiro)

#000025

[twitter.com/prayerclothes]

HyYMnus

Should

all

acquaintance

with

the

holy

notion

VERSUS

How

many

iterations

of

a

thumb

on

glass

be

forgot

&

never

brought

to

mind

—an

auld

longing,

sign

of

every

time

after

time,

knowing

ne’er

which

way

the

real

issue

has

given

us

the

slip

thru

crack’d

bowl

&

ridge

of

eye.

#000026

[Gavin

Le

Ber]

9/12/12

jesolopineta

said:

dear

google,

I

love

women,

but

I

don't

feel

could

wipe

the

sleep

from

eternity’s

eye?

Where

are

the

scrolls

heading?

Where

is

the

mirror

today?

It

has

left

the

clear

water

&

[I]

have

seen

tt

afield

&

its

heftin

the

palm

of

some

great

kind

&

looking

upon

it

did

ease

me

&

cool

me

c&

ceased

the

pain

of

my

useless

&

pointless

knowledge.

sexual

attraction

for you.

it

must

be

that

you

are

a

man

then.

for

you

I

feel

AWE,

RESPECT

and

GRATITUDE.

ah,

yes,

GOOGLE

EARTH,

YOUR

SISTER!!!!

I

just

love

her,

she

appeared

forever,

from

venice,

is

the

most

beautiful

thing

that

on

the

internet.

I

will

love

her

mate.

I

WILL

LOVE

HER

FOREVER.

europe.

11/10/15

s/Karen

Beaman

said:

Dear

Google

please

get

so

smart

so

I

don't

have

to

think

about

doing

anything

because

I

know

you

will

always

be

there

to

back

me

up.

Love

you

fam.

K

ever

#000027

{anon]

Leaching

through

the

Lens

We

communicate

because

we

want

to.

This

simple

fact

is

easy

to

forget.

Communication

is

like

beer

which,

in

the

words

of

Homer

Simpson,

is

both

the

cause

and

solution

to

all

the

world’s

problems.

Communication

is

also

like

love.

If

we

break

down

the

affects

of

love,

we

get

a

combination

of

memeing

and

magnetism,

desire

and

fear.

Memeing:

By

your

very

symbolic

exchange,

you

become

like

that

with

which

you

communicate.

Magnetism:

Communication

occurs

between

parties

that

recognize

a

kind

of

likeness

and

a

kind

of

difference

and

are

thereby

attracted

to

one

another.

There

is

a

seeking

of

bringing

structural

difference

into

equilibrium

via

symbolic

exchange

(memeing).

Desire:

There’s

something

beyond

the

simple

magnetism,

something

more

complex,

which

drives

us.

Maybe

desire

is

a

bit

like

magnetism

plus

network

effects.

Or

maybe

we

have

to

leave

reductive

explanations

behind

and

just

take

it

at

face-value.

Why

must

we

experience

that

simulacrum

of

magnetism

“as

desire”?

This

is

an

open

question.

I

can

only

say

that

it

is

self-evident

that

desire

is

its

own

unique

entity

and

a

feature

of

love.

Thus, while

I

can

affirm

that

we

communicate

“because

we

desire

to,”

I

also

can

admit

that

I’m

not

sure

what

that

simple

sentence

means.

Fear:

Fear

is

the

apparent

concomitant

of

desire.

It

is

the

fear

of

the

frustration

of

love.

Again,

any

attempted

reductionism

only

gets

us

so

far.

The

content

of

fear

takes

on

a

life

of

its

own,

which

may

or

may

not

be

reducible

to

the

other

forces.

Love

is

the

elevation

of

the

mysterious/emotional

features

of

an

inherently

mysterious

process:

the

what,

how,

and

why

of

communication.

On

the

one

hand,

it’s

easy

to

forget

that

there

is

a

piece

of

attraction

that

is

purely

magnetic

and

memetic,

that

is

pre-biological,

that

is

pre-desirous.

On

the

other

hand,

it

is

easy

to

forget

that

we

communicate

because

we

desire

to.

This

is

not

to

take

something

away

from

love,

but

to

highlight

the

“loving”

nature

of

all

communication.

We

experience

symbolic

exchange

as

far

more

than

simple

inputs

and outputs.

The

rich/textured

nature

of

experience

should

not

be

ignored.

It

is

precisely

the

content

of

life.

So

communication

is

symbolic

exchange,

a

symbol

being

an

abstraction

plus

other

stuff.

The

kernel

of

the

symbol

is

the

abstraction.

Whatever

is

abstracted

is

reduced

to

something

containing

less

information,

but

it

is

a

useful

reduction.

It’s

a

mapping.

For

example,

a

map

of

the

USA

is

generally

an

abstraction

of

our

current

sociopolitical

system

layered

onto

an

abstraction

of

the

country’s

geography.

The

American

flag

is

another

kind

of

symbol

containing

another

kind

of

abstraction.

But

a

symbol

is

not

just

an

abstraction.

It

comes

with

other

stuff

too.

It

is

an

abstraction

incarnate.

This

is

part

of

what

people

mean

when

they

say

“the

medium

is

the

message.”

The

medium

of

the

symbol

is

just

as

necessary

to

account

for

as

the

explicit/formal

role

of

the

abstraction

itself.

The

“accidental”

medium

of

the

abstraction

itself

pulses

with

a

host

of

potential

meanings.

When

these

potential

meanings

are not

recognized

as

such,

they

are

sometimes

called

noise.

But

then

when

the

noise

itself

starts

interfacing

with other

pieces

of

the

system

in

a

way

we

can

construe

as

causal

or

somehow

significant,

we

shift

our

model

to

attempt

to

account

for

the

newly

recognized

signal.

Even

when

not

consciously

recognized

as

such,

the

signal

lurks

in

the

noise,

just

as

the

noise

lurks

in

the

signal.

Everything

evolves.

An

organism

has

potentials

that

only

emerge

after

other

mutations

and

environmental

forces

bring

them

to

the

fore.

Even

to

the

point

of

developing

complex

mechanisms

ex

nihilo,

as

it

were.

This

is

noise-becoming-function.

Just

as

vestigial

organs

are

like

functions-becoming-noise.

This

process

creates

a

kind

of

continuum

between

what

is

perceived

as

necessary

and

what

is

perceived

as

accidental

in

the

symbol.

Sense

is

protean.

Symbols

are

never

quite

amenable

to

any

one

form

of

reductionism:

biological,

physical,

psychological,

or

otherwise.

Sense-making

precedes

all

these.

In

the

words

of

Levinas,

the

caress

of

love

speaks

prior

to

language.

The

potential

abstractions

implied

by

the

symbol

are

legion.

Structuralists

like

Marcel

Mauss

and

Levi-Strauss

observed

that

all

social

interactions

could

be

understood

in

terms

of

communication.

Marriage,

economic

transactions,

gift-giving,

and

of

course

natural

language

can

all

be

interpreted

as

symbolic

exchange.

But

today,

what

was

only

implicit

to

earlier

modes

of

social

organization

has

become

explicit.

Data

structures,

algorithms,

and

network

topologies

hide

their

existential

significance

in

plain

sight.

The

epithet

“information

technology”

is

misleading.

Symbolic

exchange

contains

information,

not

the

other

way

around.

The

internet

is

for

communication,

not

the

other

way

around.

Undeniably,

so-called

information

technologies

have

not

lived

up

to

expectations.

But

few

seem

to

understand

the

nature

of

the

problem,

or

that

there

is

even

something

to

be

understood.

Often,

the

internet

is

talked

about

in

terms

of

factors

external

to

the

system.

Some

of

these

externalities,

like

the

socioeconomic

context

and

the

pernicious

role

of

advertisers,

are

eminently

relevant.

Others,

like

the

perceived

critical

thinking

capacity

of

the

population,

are

less

so.

But

the

internet,

as

a

system

of

nested

symbolic

systems,

already

implicates

enough

ambiguities

that

it

would

be

worthwhile

to

consider

these

mysteries

on

their

own

terms

before

venturing

further

afield

into,

e.g.,

corporate

greed

or

Russian

hackers.

Insofar

as

information

technologies

attempt

to

reduce

a

symbol

to

an

abstraction,

there

is

a

proportional

reduction

in

the

human

possibilities

of

such

communication.

To

be

human

is

to

create

and

play

and

love

and

think.

It

is

the

host

of

latent

possibilities

in

the

symbol

that give

it

content,

depth,

texture,

worth,

what-have-you.

An

abstraction

without

content

is

worthless

to

a

human.

It’s

food

without

flavor

or

sex

without

love.

On

all

levels,

an

impoverished

symbolic

system

reduces

our

ability

to

satisfy

these

basic

existential

needs/directives.

It

was

a

great

breakthrough

for

structuralists

to

observe

that

a

gift

or

a

kiss

is

a

kind

of

symbolic

exchange.

But

these

symbols

and

systems

of

symbols

constitute

so

much

more

than

just

positions

in

a

structure.

Along

these

lines,

the

primary

insight

of

post-structuralism

was

that

symbols

are

not

just

negatively

defined,

but

are

positively

pulsing

with

possible

significances.

A

gift

of

bread

can

be

abstracted

into

its

“position”

within

a

system

of

gift-giving,

but

it

can

also

be

eaten/savored,

can

also

grow

mold,

can

also

be

packed

for

lunch;

it

is

constantly

breaking

out

of

any finitely-defined

boundaries.

A

Facebook

like,

by

contrast,

represents

a

kind

of

mutilation;

a

gesture

of

approval

denuded

of

any

creative

externalities.

There

is

an

implicit

justification

for

such

impoverished

systems,

which

resembles

a

kind

of

hardline

descriptivism

in

linguistics.

Namely,

the

implication

that

these

systems

are

somehow

equivalent.

If

a

hug

is

just

the

sum

of

its

fungible

abstractions,

then

a

social

network

can

give

you

a

hug.

Even

if

this

were

true,

which

it

is

not,

it

would

be

highly

inefficient,

like

saying

there’s

nothing

one

left

turn

can

do

that

three

right

turns

can’t.

A

symbolic

system

like

Facebook

takes up

existential

space

and

chokes

out

other

possible

modes

of

social

organization

and

satisfaction.

As

aggregators

of

human

communication,

they

tend

toward

natural

monopolies.

Facebook’s

image

compression

algorithm

determines

the

resolution

at

which

your

visual

memories

are

stored.

Its

sorting

algorithm

determines

which

of

them

you

see.

In

all

cases,

so

much

is

lost!

From

the

dizzying

complexity

of

life,

both

the

complexities

of

social

reality

and

those

of

our

inner

emotional

existences,

these

systems

struggle

to

admit

more

than

the

grossest

particles

through

its

narrow

aperture.

A

social

media

platform

struggles

with

such

perceptual

experiences

as:

1.

Touching:

caressing,

cuddling,

huddling.

2.

Smelling.

Teaching

one

how

to

smell.

One

experiences

a

kind

of

smell

from

a

thick

description

of

one,

one

can

be

taught

to

smell,

by

a

word

like

silage,

or

a

mindful

breath

of

mountain

air,

or

the

smell

of

a

stranger.

3.

Hearing.

All

the

watery

noises

of

a

Tarkovsky

film.

The

nightmarish

droning

of

David

Lynch’s

bugs.

4.

Seeing.

Social

media

is

manifestly

first

and

foremost

about

seeing,

but

so

are

many

other

media:

painting,

sculpture,

film,

hikes.

When

hiking,

one

sees

great

things,

but

when

surfing

Facebook,

one

only

sees

what

one

already

expected

to

find:

a

spectacle.

When

a

Facebooker

now

hikes,

she

sees

through

the

lens

of

the

algorithms,

her

eye

is

forced

to

approximate

the

terrible

compression

algorithm,

and

that

RGBist

simulacrum

of

the

visible

spectrum,

as

a fitting

caption

percolates

in

her

mind.

Thus,

the

creative

possibilities

of

sight

are

unceremoniously

hacked

out.

We

ourselves

become

impoverished

souls,

not

only

within,

but

via

the

network.

If

an

AI

determines

rank,

then

we

make

our

sentences

congruent

with

the

Al’s

reading

level.

If

we

post

on

Facebook

or

Instagram,

we

take

our

pictures

in

congruence

with

Facebook’s

compressions

algorithms.

Per

the

memeing/magnetic

nature

of

communication,

the

abyss

inevitably

stares

back

into

us.

We

ourselves

become

like

these

impoverished

symbols.

SAD.

The

line

between

volition

and

coercion,

as

with

all

good

systems

of

control,

is

no

longer

relevant.

The

old

“tree

in

a

forest”

problem

again

rears

its

head.

If

you

don’t

post

a

picture

of

what

you

ate,

did

you

really

eat

it,

do

you

even

exist?

Just

as

buying

a

commodity

is

the

prosocial

act

of

capitalism

par

excellence,

documented

consumerism

has

become

the

prosocial

practice

of

the

information

era.

Insofar

as

the

mode

of

social

organization

does

not

allow

for

an

experience

to

be

expressed

or

savored,

that

experience

becomes

insignificant.

As

G.S.

Trow

prophesied:

like

this

or

die.

The

essence

of

internet

technology

is

gustation

and

summary.

That

is,

the

proliferation

of

myriad,

abstracted

desires.

If

we

were

to

map

this

affective

milieu

onto

a

Spinozist

model,

it

would

at

first

seem

that

desire

would predominate.

The

impoverishment

of

these

desires,

however,

points

to

the

predominance

of

a

kind

of

stupefaction:

Spinozist

pain

or

Hindu

famas.

Consider

the

cult

of

critical

acclaim

surrounding

the

internet’s

most

obviously

stupefying

technologies:

its

digital

streaming

services.

As Netflix

struggles

to

scale

to

meet

the

demand

of

hundreds

of

millions

of

cheap

eyes,

even

that

fig

leaf

of

aesthetic

redemption

has

been

stripped

away.

Style

over

substance,

quantity

over

either.

Alongside

the

affective

and

the

aesthetic,

social

media

struggles

with

time.

This

goes

back

to

my

claim

that

it

is

the

“noise”

within

a

symbol-its

apparently

extraneous

content-that

provides

the

substrate

for

change

or

evolution,

for

developing

into

something

new.

The

reduction

of

symbolic

exchange

to

mere

abstractions

produces

a

largely

static

(synchronic)

social

structure,

which

has

no

patience

for

its

nodes

(us

humans)

to

steal

away,

or

remember,

or

gestate,

or

give

birth.

Perhaps

the

signposts

in

one’s

emotional

life

flash

into

and

out

of

immediate

experience

in

a

relatively

short

period

of

time.

Traumas

and

lessons

alike.

Maybe

understanding

a

person

is

not

a

matter

of

summary,

but

of

discovering

and

appreciating

the

unsaid,

of

mining

those

concealed,

catalyzing

experiences

that

turned

a

person

into

a

wreck

or

an

enemy

or

a

stranger

or

a

true

love.

But

social

media

platforms

simply

have

no

time

for

such

concerns.

They

are

ahistorical:

the

existential

role

of

both

memories

and

dreams

(as

matters

of

emotional

interiority)

become

increasingly

irrelevant.

r

We

already

know

that

Facebook’s

algorithms

have

a

kind

of

sinister

phenomenological

awareness,

€.g.,

you

are

worth

more

to

Facebook

supine

than

erect.

In

place

of

such

a

depressing

affect

logic,

and

against

any

calls

for

merely

elevating

joyful

affects,

we

need

technologies

that

explicitly

encourage

a

balanced

affective

or

somatic

mode.

As

symbols

are the

forms

of

life,

the

richness

of

life

that

proceeds

from

the

intermingling

of

joy,

pain,

and

desire

should

be

expressible

via

the

symbolic

system.

Rather

than

merely

elevating

heart

rates

and

creating

a

kind

of

paralysis,

social

networks

should

encourage

calmness,

hope,

sympathy,

conviviality,

etc.

With

the

correct

existential

tools,

we

have

a

better

foundation

to

judge

and

intervene

in

the

externalities

of

the

current

system:

the

determining

roles

played

by

hardware,

data

structures,

governance

structures,

political-economic

exigencies,

etc.

Without

such

a

foundation,

we

lack

the

language

to

even

discuss

the

ills

of

the

current

ecosystem.

The

best

education

for

building

a

good

social

network

can

only

be

the

practice

of

building

a

good

social

network.

The

best

design

principles

for

a

good

social

network

can

only

be

to

ask,

with

clear

eyes

and

heart,

what

a

good

social

network

would

look

like.

Most

importantly,

always,

always

remember

the

golden

rule:

we

communicate

because

we

want

to.

Anasssia

(ial

|

Fania

S91

Sosqiaaey

PULA

34

Tessier

weemeees

©

SSEXITPROCES

PASI

ee

MTeseatte

Maite

SSS)

.[PROCESSEXITPRO

Ua;

rar

as

~AROCESSEXITP

Snir

a

ait

CESSEXI””

)

RUB

ah)

lu.

a

Yee

mao

(L118

i

~

aaa

Sd

|

if

My

\

aL

HST

aOR

iat)

(18

af:

fel

=

evuatea

le

|

tid

#000028

[anon]

Sonnet

of

the

Simurgh

I

watched

you;

thirty

birds

were

watching

me;

Wherein

we

saw

what

you

would

have

me

be:

Just

such

a

piece

of

human

that

you

are,

Who,

ever

since

I

glimpsed

you

from

afar,

Has

seemed

to

harry

me

like

providence,

Engulfing

and

reflecting

all

my

sense

Of

selfhood,

every

feather’s

daft

pretence

To

call

itself

my

own.

But

that’s

alright,

Because

in

truth

the

plumage

suits

you

quite

As

weil,

that

when

you

looked,

no

bird

could

glean

Which

of

us

was

the

séer

and

the

seen,

The

seeker

and

the

sought

-

I’d

have

it

such.

Yd

have

you

have

me

make

of

me

so

much!

Amid

the

flocking

multitude

-

one

touch.

#000029

[anon]

I

have

this

unremarkable

memory

from

several

years

ago.

On

a

bright

scorching

day

in

Brooklyn,

|

exited

the

cinema

after

watching

The

Square,

a

Swedish

film

about

which

I

remember

very

little.

|

approached

a

food

truck

and

ordered

two

tacos.

The

end.

Unremarkable.

Every

time

|

have

sex,

this

memory

plays

through

my

head.

It

doesn’t

turn

me

on.

It

doesn’t

dominate

my

sexual

consciousness.

Yet

every

time,

no

matter

how

enveloped

|

am

in

the

act,

my

recollection

of

this

scene

pops

into

my

mind

and

lingers

for

a

few

seconds.

This

happened

for

the

first

time

about

two

years

ago.

I

thought

of

it

as

random

and

moved

on.

The

I

was

having

sex,

I

remembered

that

I

had

recalled

the

scene

previously,

so

there

the

memory

was

again.

And

the

so

on

and

so

forth)

to

the

point

that

now,

like

muscle

memory,

my

brain

reminds

me,

as

if

it

is

intrinsically

tied

to

the

act.

#000030

IN.

Gaspard]

[about

the

author:

]

“One

cannot

be

liberated

from

him

without

fleeing

from

all

revelations,

visions,

and

supernatural

communications.

God

is

rightly

angered

with

anyone

who

admits

them,

for

he

sees

the

rashness

of

exposing

oneself

to

this

danger,

presumption,

curiosity,

and

pride,

to

the

root

and

foundation

of

vainglory,

to

contempt

for

the

things

of

God.

God

becomes

so

angry

with

these

individuals

that

he

purposely

allows

them

to

go

astray,

experience

delusion,

suffer

spiritual

darkness,

and

abandon

the

established

ways

of

life,

by

delivering

themselves

over

to

their

vanities

and

fancites.”

———St.

John

of

the

X;

Mystical

Doctor

of

the

Church

Divine

spelling

of

the

god

name

written

as

P

F

S;

also

known

by

the

name

“FBI

GANG

INTELLIGENCE”;

aka

“FANJEERA”;

aka

“OL’

SARUM”:

aka

“THE

RIDE”;

the

creator

agency

who

“LAYS

PIPE”

through

me;

aka

The

Endower;

can’t

control

“MY

GIFT”;

&

so

I’m

sentenced

to

be

hung

until

death;

This

corresponds

to

the

tribe of

ISSACHAR;

aka

the

so-called

Mexicans:

which

is

symbolized

by

the

donkey;

which

is

,

“a

STURDY

DONKEY,

resting

between

two

saddle packs;

when

he

sees

how

good

the

countryside

is

and

how

pleasant

the

land:

he

WILL

Bend

his

Shoulder

to

the

Load

and

submit

himself

to

HARD

LABOR”.

Needless

to

say

after

seeing

the

mural

at

the

national

palace

in

D.F.

during

spring

break

‘18

[!)

i

spent

the

weeks

in

a

near

constant

state

of

elation

as

i

began

drawing

up

rough

drafts

of

a

massive

race

war

fresco

to

be

displayed

in

the

central

rotunda

of

the

U.S.

Capitol

1;

eventually

dropping

out

of

school

so

that

i

could

devote

more

time

to

this

project;

serialized

in

the

KINGS

OF

ALGERIA

newsletter

31;

&

when

I

shared

these

plans

along

with

my

proposal

for

a

national

draft

lottery

to

select

US

citizens

for

compulsory

service

in

the

film

industry

'*!i

was

told

to

take

a

few

days

off

work

&

I

never

came

back

after

that;

EDITOR'S

NOTE:

figure

omitted

—

EDITOR'S

NOTE:

figure

omitted

-

newspaper

headline,

‘BORDER

‘Ecstasy

of

Saint

Teresa’

(oil

on

panel,

INDUSTRIAL

ASSOCIATION

RESPONDS

TO

c.

1609-1651),

Gerard

Seghers

HUNT

INSTITUTE

SANTA

TERESA

STUDY’

SANTA

TERESA*

SANTA

TERESA

[devotion

of

ecstacy]

*fthe

Imperial

Klonvokation

caught

wind

of

the

report

we'd

been

working

on

&

gota

hit

piece

published

in

some

dogshit

Las

Cruces

newspaper|

&

later

that

day

when

i

was

at

the

currency

exchange

i

couldn’t

even

count

my

change

without

speaking

my

thoughts

out

loud

so

that

I

could

hear

them

&

think

them

after

I

had

spoken

them;

&

it

was

as

if

my

mind

had

been

turned

inside

out

&

by

the

evening

i

was

feeling

increasingly

agitated

so

I

decided

to

walk

to

my

moms

apartment;&

i

was

so

boring

&

annoying

to

talk

to

that

she

had

to

make

up

some

excuse

about

having

to

get

up

early

for

work

the

&

she

went

to

bed &

left

me

alone

on

the

porch; &

i

went

inside

&

watched

COPS

for

a

little

while &

then

I

decided

to

watch

Koyanisqaatsi;

which

i

have

on

DVD

except

it’s

a

region

2

disc

so

i

had

to

watch

it

on

a

streaming

service

called

tubi:

&

there

were

frequent

&

ill-placed

commercial

breaks

that

ruined

the

film

for

me; &

I

ended

up

in

a

so-called

“catatonic”

state

(George

Orwell—-Homage

to

Catalonia),

aka

“The

Twelfth

Step”;

aka

an

Intellectual

Vision

that

granted

me

direct

access

to

the

so-called

“Godhead”;

&

simultaneously

i

received

an

interior

locution

that

spoke

the

words

“Father

[aka

Mother],

why

have

you

forsaken

me?”;

&

|

saw

my

body

supine &

cross-eyed

&

all

the

channels

of

my

flesh

as

they

got

calcified

with

pneumatic

AIDS-positive

filament;

&

i

recognized

mysclf

as

Jesus

Christ;

aka

the

Most

Charismatic

Showman

of All

Time;

&

if

i

was

el

santo

nifio

in

colonia

anapra’s

pastorela

(PASTORELA

starring

Joaquin

Cosio)

for

three

(3)

years

in

a

row

even

though

I

even

was

a

C-section

“birth”;

&

if

Ruben

Garcia

shook

hands

with

Mother

Teresa

in

1976

is!

&

then

forty

(40)

years

later

we

were

at

a

barbecue

at

ascarate

park

[!

&

i

talked

to

him

about

centering

prayer

&

he

told

me

that

1

should

become

a

standup

comedian;

then

why

aren’t

I

receiving

my

MacArthur

genius

grant

aka

“disability

check”

on

the

Ist

of

every

month

when

I

currently

owe

thousands

of

dollars

to

PACER.gov

who

are

charging

me

10

cents

a

page

for

downloading

federal

court

records

strictly

for

my

own

recreational

use;

&

when

I’ve

spent

at

least

three

months

each

year

for the

past

four

years

suffering

&

in

agony;

“florid”

disgusting

scaphism

garden

[the

deep,

androgynous

one:weird;

aka

divinely

BORING];

and

I’ve

visited

the

Gethsemane

garden

center

on

clark

street

in

Chicago,

IL

with

my

grandmother

&

she

taught

me

how

to

pronounce

it

correctly;

and

I’ve

cast

myself

out

of

it

every

time.

“Thus,

the

spiritual

master

should

try

to

see

to

it

that

his

disciples

are

not

detained

by

the

desire

to

pay

heed

to

supernatural

apprehensions

(which

are

no

more

than

small

particles

of

spirit

and

the

only

thing

the

disciples

will

be

left

with)

,

and

he

should

turn

them

away

from

all

visions

and

locutions

and

teach

them

to

remain

in

freedom

and

the

darkness

of

faith,

in

which

liberty

and

abundance

of

spirit

are

received{...]”

[1]

[redacted}

[2]

[redacted]

{3]

[redacted]

1

[MUAMMAR

AL-QADDAFI:

“Sport

is

either

private,

like

the

praver

which

one

performs

alone

inside

a

closed

room,

or

public,

performed

collectively

in

open

places,

like

the

prayer

which

is

practised

corporately

in

places

of

worship.

The

first

type

of

sport

concerns

the

individuals

them-

selves,

while

the

second

type

ts

of

concern

to

all

people.

It

must

be

practised

by

ail

and

should

not

be

left

to

anyone

else

to

prac-

tise

on

their

behalf.

It

is

unreasonable

for

crowds

to

enter

places

of

worship

just

to

view

a

person

or

a

group

of

people

praying

without

taking

part.

It

is

equally

unreasonable

for

crowds

to

en-

ter

playgrounds

and

arenas

to

watch

a

player

of

a

team

without

participating

themselves.

”}

[5]

{redacted}

#000031

[Peyton

Ellis]

#000032

[Kamara]

7.

Unmasked

fucking

raw

not

paying

my

taxes

driving

uninsured

how

did

Aleister

Crowley

come

up

with

his

name

again?

#000033

[anon]

Face-to-face

interactions

will

be

reserved

for

special,

intimate,

precious,

sacramentalized

events.

Flesh

encounters

will

be

rare

and

thrilling.

In

the

future

each

of

us

will

be

linked

in

thrilling

cyberexchanges

with

many

others

whom

we

may

never

meet

in

person

and

who

do

not

speak

our

phonetic

literal

language.

Most

of

our

important

creations

will

take

place

in

ScreenLand.

Taking

off

our

cyberwear

to

confront

another

with

naked

eyeballs

will

be

a

precious

personal

appearance.

And

the

quality

of

our

"personal

appearances"

will

be

raised

to

a

level

of

mythic

drama.

-

Timothy

Leary,

Chaos

&

CyberCulture,

How

I

Became

an

Amphibian

(1994)

#000034

[dead

rooster]

rs

>>24/11/2020

-

~

7

ff

Poopéd

this

fucker

out

after

a

long

night

of

amphetaminic

satursuperstimulation

stimzzzzzz

track

inspired

by

the

beautiful

gorgeous

things

I

see

sat

behind

my

panopticon/culture

&

discourse

simulacrum

machine

14

hours

a

day

every

single

fucking

day

which

would

FUCKING

RULEEEE

if

mark

zuckerberg

didn't

own

like

half

of

the

fucking

internet

at

this

point

shoutout

to

the

city

if

1

could

permanently

uninstall

every

single

one

of

your

DAWs

I'd

jump

at

that

opportunity,

Do

drugs

you

fucking

washouts

I

mean

cool

drugs

like

acid

meth

DPH

etc

(simultaneously)

not

weed

which

is

lame

and

gay

because

it's

legal.

Shoutout

to

my

bleeding

eyes

for

putting

up

with

atrocious

amounts

of

unfiltered

blue.

light

&

shoutout

to

the

demiurge

for

making

this

shitty

material

realm

possible

keep

it

hyperreal

big

man

"

#000035

[anon]

Spanky

stepped

out

into

the

sunshine

and

looked

around

and

decided

to

go

back

to

bed.

It

was

early

in

the

morning

and

cold

out.

When

he

realized

there

wasn't

anything

to

do

outside

in

the

sun/cold

he

decided

to

go

back

to

bed.

He

decided

to

go

back

to

bed

at

exactly

the

same

moment

that

he

realized

there

wasn't

anything

to

do

outside,

and

when

he

went

back

to

bed

he

had

dreams

about

things

that

made

him

sweat

in

his

sleep.

He

was

drenched

in

sweat

by

noon.

A

woman

danced

for

him

and

took

off

her

top.

Her

face

was

hidden

behind

a

veil.

He

said

“take

off

the

veil.

|

want

to

see

you

smile."

She

took

off

the

veil

and

smiled

at

him

and

he

was

so

happy.

Then

he

looked

down

to

her

nipples

which

were

small

and

hard.

‘I'm

living

the

dream"

he

thought

in

his

sleep.

When

he

looked

back

to

her

face

it

looked

quite

different,

like

Rush

Limbaugh's.

"This

is

a

common

thing

to

happen

to

unmarried

men

of

my

age”

he

told

himself.

.

He

sweated

some

more

and

then

he

woke

up.

When

he

went

outside

the

sun

was

starting

to set.

#000036

[BIG

DOG]

On

The

Bus

Peopie

give

me

looks

on

the

bus.

People

cough

near

me.

They

don’t

sit

me.

At

Work

As

|

dweil

on

this

moment

|

think:

|

made

a

foo!

of

myself.

|

wonder

if

my

co-workers

will

remark

on

it

once

I'm

gone.

|

can

hardly

function

in

society.

Cycling

He

must

think

I’m

such

a

freak.

|

hope

he

doesn't

hate

me.

Probably

best

to

avoid

any

eye

contact

—

Just

look

at

the

ground

to

avoid

looking

foolish.

The

End

This

always

happens.

All

of

them

end

badly.

This

one

like

all

the

others

was

dysfunctional.

|

should

never

be

in

romantic

relationships,

they

always

fail.

Borys

Texted

Me

Borys

texted

me

earlier

today.

|t

said;

“think

we

should

talk

or

something”.

This

freaked

me

the

fuck

out!

Sentiment

This

sentiment

resonated

with

me

as

Borys

has

expressed

such

feelings

before.

|

remember

about

a

month

ago

whilst

!

was

in

Birmingham

with

a

close

friend

(Tom).

Borys

remarked

“I

could

sense

that

you

were

far

away.”

Upon

my

return

he

said

“his

heart

could

sense

my

being

closer.”

At

the

time

|

felt

this

was

corny

(but

admittedly

a

little

cute),

now

it's

perhaps

the

most

poignant

expression

of

love

|

can

imagine.

i

can't

sleep

|

can’t

sleep.

I've

smoked

too

much.

Talked

to

Borys

for

2

hours.

|

really

miss

him.

Keep

rubbing

my

eyes

lol.

Sometimes

|

imagine

he’s

in

bed

with

me.

We

have

conversations.

Emoji

i'm

an

emoji,

not

an

essay.

|

exist

in

the

subliminal,

grey

areas

of

human

interaction.

|

don’t

want

details

or

specificity.

|

don’t

want

analysis

or

investigation.

#000037

[LacanianHedgehog}

IL

N’Y

A

PAS

DE

RAPPORT

SEXUEL

There

is

no

sexual

relationship.

Our

current

conditions

seem

to

be

governed

by

an

apparent

contradiction:

sex

has

never

been

so

talked

about,

so

extolled,

so

encouraged;

and

yet

we're

having

less

of

it

than

ever

before!

At

every

turn

we’re

exhorted

to

try

new

things,

discover

new

sensations,

open

ourselves

up

to

new

possibilities;

and

yet

our

culture

has

never

been

so

paranoid,

so

judgemental,

so

scared

of

the

act

itself.

Stories

of

disaster

dates,

tearful

accusations

and

the

court

of

public

opinion

are

now

a

fixture

of

our

culture,

to

the

extent

that

litigation

now

seems

to

have

replaced

coaching

in

the

realm

of

love.

The

more

the

subject

as

ego

is

instructed

to

‘just

do

it’,

the

more

it

closes

itself

off.

Excursion:

Sticklebacks

In

his

Seminar,

Lacan

mentions

a

then

recent

discovery

by

biologists

concerning

the

mating

habits

of

Sticklebacks.

Biologists,

seeking

to

understand

what

triggered

the

mating

behaviour

of

the

male

and

female

sticklebacks

had

noticed

that

the

male’s

mating

dance

was

initiated

by

the

appearance

of

a

red

diamond

on

the

female’s

back

—

signalling

her

fertility

The

scientists

devised

a

test.

Removing

the

female,

they

instead

placed

a

playing

card

with

a

red

diamond

in

front

of

the

male

stickleback.

The

male

stickleback

behaved

identically

in

response

to

the

simulacrum

as

he

had

to

the

‘real

thing’,

and

proceeded

to

dance.

Returning

to

the

human

kingdom,

Lacan

theorises

that

humans

-

biological

beings

that

we

are

-

are

programmed

with

exactly

the

same

mechanism,

with

a

subtle

difference.

Language

puts

man

at

an

uneasy

distance

from

nature

—

things

cannot

be

taken

at

face

value,

they

appear

to

us

not

as

brute

facts,

but

given

through

language:

changeable,

doubtable,

open

to

question.

The

same

mechanism

for

sexual

attraction

exists

in

man,

but

it

is

upset

by

language,

such

that

there

is

no

one

thing

that

could

be

said

to

trigger

sexual

desire

for

all

men

and

women

in

all

places

and

times.

But

triggered

it

is,

by

the

subject’s

own

fantasy

—

their

specific

response

to

their

loss

of

being

through

language.

For

Lacanians,

the

subject

comes

into

being

through

a

process

of

alienation.

The

child

at

birth

exists

in

a

state

of

almost

immediate

being

—

they

do

not

yet

distinguish

themselves

from

their

surroundings,

all

is

a

whirl

of

sensory

experience.

Language

is

the

first

experience

the

child

has

of

being

alienated

from

this

world.

No

one

chooses

the

language

that

they

must

speak,

and

once

in

language,

nothing

is

ever

fully

immediate

ever

again.

'

https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/

10.1177/2378023121996854

*

The

Seminar

of

Jacque

Lacan,

Book

I,

edited

by

Jacques-Alain

Miller

(1991)

The

second

alienation

comes

through

the

child

separating

from

the

primary

caregiver

through

weaning

(in

the

West

today,

this

is

still

usually

the

biological

mother).

In

separating

from

the

breast,

the

child

is

confronted

with

its

first

physical

alienation.

It

(the

child)

is

not

the

breast.

The

breast

is

an

Other,

an

unknown

element

that

has

its

own

logic

-

one

that

cannot

be

controlled

by

the

child.

If

all

goes

well,

the

child

will

pass

through

this

process

and

become

a

normal

neurotic

subject,

emerging

into

subjectivity

vaguely

dissatisfied

and

with

a

sense

that

he

has

somehow

been

cheated/robbed

of

something.

The

subject

is

‘barred’:

constituted

by

this

fundamental

lack.

Most

neurotics

will

spend

the

rest

of

their

lives

trying

to

get

back

this

missing

‘something’.

This

lack

is

absolutely

fundamental

to

human

sexuality.

Stand

ins

for

the

‘objet

petit

a’

—

the

lost

object

of

desire

~

come

to

arouse

the

subject’s

desire:

they

offer

a

promise

of

the

missing

wholeness

that

he

is

after.

Back

to

the

sticklebacks:

what

does

any

of

this

have

to

do

with

sex?

For

the

stickleback,

the red

diamond

was

the ‘objet

petit

a’

that

triggered

their

desire.

For

man,

red

diamonds

are

everywhere.

It

could

be

a

certain

look

that

triggers

the

desire,

the

colour

of

her

hair,

the

timbre

of

her

voice,

the

way

he

looks

when

he’s

concentrating,

or

the

fact

that

he

reminds

you

just

enough

of

your

father

without

it

being

uncomtortably

obvious.

But

the

objet

petit

a

doesn’t

exist.

It’s

a

fantasy,

a

stand

in;

a

placeholder

you

carry

with

you

to

say

‘something’s

missing’.

And

all

of

these

signs,

these

stand-ins,

that

arouse

your

desire

are

never

quite

it.

Most

neurotics

are,

in

some

sense,

looking

for

their

objet

petit

a.

One

of

the

most

common

ways

to

do

this

is

through

finding

a

(sexual)

partner.

More

specifically,

for

urban

Americans

and

Europeans,

it

increasingly

comes

to

mean

fucking

your

way

through

a

fairly

large

number

of

people

(or

at

least,

being

expected

to)

in

order

to

find

it.

This

isn’t

always

quite

as

fun,

sexy

and

alluring

as

it

might

at

first

seem,

and

rather

a

lot

of

cultural

and

industrial

encouragement

and

cajoling

has

been

put

into

making

sure

people

keep

on

in

this

way.

The

problem

is

that

as

people’s

material

and

social

conditions

continue

to

worsen

(the

long

decline

in

living

standards

from

1970's

onwards)*,

people

cling

more

and

more

desperately

to

their

fantasies,

and

the

whole

thing

begins

to

become

increasingly

overshadowed

with

a

vague

feeling

of

desperation.

Fisher

was

an

astute

observer

of

the

general

depressive

mood

that

underlies

much

of

the

new

millennia’s

hedonism?

é

*

Lacan

referred

to

this

‘something’

as

the

‘objet

petit

a’

—

the

small

object

of

desire.

It

is

not

a

real

object,

but

a

virtual

one

(produced

through

the

effect

of

alienation).

As

it

has

no

material

reality,

neurotics

are

condemned

to

endlessly

search

for

a

something

that

does

not

exist.

*

https://www.ft.com/content/cf2db8a2-d408-1

1e2-8689-00144feab7de

°

https://www.electronicbeats.net/

started-from-the-bottom-mark-fisher-on-drakes-nothing-was-

the-same/

Into

this

psycho-sexual

wasteland

we

throw

men

and

women

desperate

to

salve

the

increasing

degradations

of

work,

and

a

decaying

social

structure.

‘There

Is

No

Sexual

Relationship’

We've

established

that

neurotics

spend

their

life

trying

to

get

back

the

objet

petit

a—

the

‘something’

they

feel

they

have

lost.

To

sketch

an

extremely

simplified

schema,

there

are

two

main

ways

to

do

this:

—

Obsessional

Neurotics

(generally

speaking,

men):

possess

the

object

petit

a—

use

it

to

fill

in

the

gap

in

oneself

—

Hysterical

Neurotics

(generally

speaking,

women):

become

the

objet

petit

a

—

use

it

to

provoke

the

desire

of

the

other®

This

might

on

the

surtace

of

it

suggest

a

happy

fit:

the

obsessive

seeks

to

reduce

someone

to

the

object

cause

of

his

desire,

and

use

them

to

fill

his

lack.

The

hysteric

seeks

to

become

the

object

cause

of

desire

and

use

it

to

provoke

the

desire

of

the

other.

Surely

a

yin/yang

situation

—

the

harmonious

interrelation

of

opposites?

Unfortunately

not.

Lacan’s

dictum

of

‘there

is

no

sexual

relationship’

stands

for

precisely

the

failure

of

this

double

schema

to

happily

work

itself

out.

Certainly

it

may

work

to

start

the

relationship,

but

it

also

is

what

ensures

it

will

never

be

successful’.

The

reason

for

this

is

twofold.

For

the

obsessive,

the

woman

is

always

too

much

—

she

is

always

ultimately

in

excess

of

this

‘thing’

that

she

possesses:

‘nothing

is

more

tragic

than

the

fetishist

who

wants

a

show,

but

has

to

make

do

with

the

whole

woman’.

He

cannot

forever

relate

to

her

only

as

that

which

he

desires,

and

the

minute

he

takes

account

of

her

‘moreness’,

his

desire

for

her

risks

collapsing.

For

the

hysteric,

she

seeks

to

arouse

or

prolong

the

desire

of

the

other,

not

to

satisfy

it.

This

requires

that

the

other

always

be

kept

at

a

minimal

distance,

always

wanting,

but

not

getting.

If

the

other

does

in

fact

enjoy

off

of

her,

it

triggers

a

revulsion/question:

‘is

that

all

J

really

am

to

you?’.

The

hysteric

refuses

to

be

tied

down

to

any

determinate

configuration

of

the

objet

petit

a.

She

must

remain

an

open

question.

In

light

of

the

above,

it

begins

to

become

apparent

how

we

have

gotten

to

such

a

fraught

relationship

between

the

sexes

today.

Entreated

more

than

ever

before

to

hook-up,

to

‘not

take

things

seriously’

and

to

‘live

life

to

the

full

[sic:

consume

experiences/people]’,

this

failure

of

the

sexual

relationship

has

potentially

disastrous

consequences.

When

combined

with

the

contract-ification

of

everyday

life

under

neoliberalism,

is

it

amy

wonder

that

a

significant

portion

of

‘MeToo’

adjacent

claims

and

cancellations

are

6

For

a

detailed

exposition

of

this

dynamic,

see

Bruce

Fink:

A

Clinical

Introduction

to

Lacanian

Psychoanalysis

and

Technique,

Chapter

8.

*

Successful

in

the

‘pagan’

sense:

a

harmonious

interrelation

free

from

conflict

or

struggle.

ultimately

about

unsatisfactory

dates:

men

who

reduced

a

woman

to

an

object

of

their

desire,

who

failed

to

play

the

game

with

sufficient

sophistication;

and

women

who

wanted

to

be

desired,

but

not-Like

tha

Against

this

increasingly

exhausted

cultural

backdrop,

what

could

be

done

to

turn

things

around?

There

is

something

missing

from

all

current

cultural

accounts

of

dating

and

the

relationship

between

the

sexes:

love.

There’s

a

lot

of

confusion

around

love

and

what

it

is,

and

as

it’s

discussed

less

and

less

in

favour

of

sex

and

lawsuits,

it

almost

vanishes

to

the

back

of

the

cultural

unconscious.

Despite

what

Anglo-Saxon

philosophy

and

pop

songs

would

have

you

believe,

‘Love

is

not

a

feeling’

§

So

what

is

it

then?

To

put

it

in

a

Lacanian

vernacular:

love

is

whatever

is

left

over

after

you’ve

had

sex:

‘...4n

se2;

each

individual

is

to

a

large

extent

on

thetr

own...

Naturaily,

the

others

body

has

to

be

mediated,

but

at

the

end

of

the

day,

the

pleasure

will

be

always

your

pleasure.

Sex

separates,

doesn't

unite.

The

fact

you

are

naked

ied

hoccerie

oe

peeseiet

the.

Has

coors

gape

we

fee

arpa:

seth

get

wd

nee

hit

ff

Cd0CHS

ASU

ESE

lie

Outer

is

MLfe

cage,

ene

CHa

Sener

i

epr

CICNMLULLUN,

What

is

real

ts

that

pleasure

takes

you

a

long

way

away,

very

far

from

the

other.

What

ts

real

is

narcissistic,

what

binds

is

emaginary...’9

There

is

no

sexual

relationship.

At

its

core,

sex

remains

always

‘masturbation

with

an

other’

1°

‘In

love,

the

indtvidual

goes

beyond

himself,

beyond

the

narcissistic...

In

love...

the

mediation

of

the

other

is

enough

in

itself.

Such

ts

the

nature

of

the

amorous

encounter:

you

go

to

take

on

the

other,

to

make

him

or

her

exist

with

you,

as

he

or

she

is,’

13

Love

stands

for,

not

a

feeling,

but

a

project:

a

desire

to

see

the

world

not

just

from

your

own

perspective,

but

trom

that

of

an

(single,

mortal,

lacking)

other.

A

decision

that

someone

is

worth

more

than

the

passing

pleasure

they

elicit.

Badiou’s

conception

of

love

here

is

constructivist

—

there

is

no

such

thing

as

a

soulmate

—

the

truth

of

love

is

in

its

construction.

You

could

begin

it

today;

all

you

have

to

do

is

stop

chasing

illusory

pleasure

and

its

correlate,

the

myth

of

‘the

one’.

There

is

no

sexual

relationship

—

but

there

can

be

a

love

relationship.

ee

*

Attributed

to

Wittgenstein.

®

Alain

Badiou,

In

Pratse

of

Love,

p.18

10

Attributed

to

Zizek.

4

Alain

Badiou,

In

Praise

of

Love,

p.19

#000038

[MrDolezal]

GRADUATION

My

work

is

an

exploration

of

geometric

shapes

inspired

by

stone

texture

that

presents

the

issues

in

Taiwan

and

it

uses

led

lights

As

a

human,

|

believe

that

people

have

their

own

unique

personality

traits

that

set

them

apart

from

a

piece

examining

our

culture

and

how

we

strive

to

amplify

a

specific

narrative

which

would

allow

users

to

share

their

concert

experiences

by

posting

photos

This

work

was

inspired

by

the

quote

from

Albert

Einstein

Through

exploring

various

media,

Lie

of

Omission

was

painted

in

May

of

2014

as

part

of

the

shadow

box

presenting

news

articles

of

oil

spills

and

“who's

to

blame”

for

intoxicating

our

world’s

natural

beauty.

Naturally

occurring

objects

are

inherently

beautiful

hung

on

the

shoulders,

and

aligned

in

asymmetrical

ways

on

the

body.

My

geometric

forms

and

shapes

represent

gems

or

Sartre’s

classic,

Being

and

Nothingness,

while

resisting

the

postured

expectations

of

antiquated

engenderment.

Studies

in

Frame

considers

intuitive

connectivity

and

abstraction.

Upon

walking

into

the

gallery,

the

viewer

approaches

the

end

of

the

scroll.

The

first

sixteen

feet

is

more

so

about

recording

my

own

history

as

a

queer

transman

to

highlight

my

experiences

of

growing

the

particular

material

identity

of

kimchi.

The

idea

behind

this

project

was

to

bridge

the

gap

between

digital

and

physical

world.

Mobile

photography

is

a

growing

part

of

This

piece,

an

exploration

of

complex

processes

aims

to

honor

and

give

space

to

everyone's

authentic

self.

Our

bodies

are

strange

vessels.

Through

the

exploration

of

selfhood

and

personal

experience,

my

art

focuses

on

flaws

within

a

view

of

campus.

In

this

work,

|

deconstruct

some

buildings

on

campus

and

beauty

supplies

at

a

local

Goodwill

.

Through

process,

material,

and

design,

my

work

My

work

often

takes

me

to

abandoned

buildings

and

spaces

to

explore

the

imprint

left

behind

by

the

complexity

of

feeling,

the

mystery

of

thought,

and

in

this

case

a

vibrator

motor

Throughout

my

life

|

have

often

felt

trapped

and

held

back

by

my

own

choices

and

myself.

it

is

stil

very

much

a

work

in

progress.

As

/

move

on

from

my

undergraduate

college

education,

I’m

readying

myself

to

set

sail

in

an

exciting

yet

blurry

direction.

Graduation,

2016,

unaltered

fragments

from

blurbs

written

by

graduating

art

majors

in

the

University

of

Oregon’s

undergraduate

class

of

2014,

to

accompany

their

thesis

works

in

the

school’s

spring

show.

ttps://art.uoregon

edu/sites/art2_

uoregon

eduftiies/images/gallerviexh

ibitions/spring-storm

cataiog-sm.pdf

aT

eS

OPEN

from

JULY

30

to

AUGUST

20

2021

OR

ee