dis-patch:phoenixskyharbornospace.usa.xx.xx.2007
[waiting for flight 73 to Seattle]
xx.x.xxxx
He has insomnia, which is a sign of.
Every instinct is interrupted by another signal. Freedom is a ratio of signal to noise.
The words must point beyond themselves or they are.
Here, we are in competition with the billboard ads, and the graffiti artists who deface them.
[pause]
Initiates nervous habit of shaking foot. Palms are sweaty. “But why don’t you just talk to me and tell me?” Looks out window. “Just say it, whatever it is.”
Fantasy: The process of transformation occurs in one of those 80s movie montage sequences of trying on various outfits and hair styles before the big date/event, helped out by the best friend who is really the True Love waiting in the wings, while some shitty rock song plays over everything. Then, as the song fades out and the characters’ voices and background, ambient sounds creep back in, we find that I have transformed from alienated neurotic to enlightened Buddha in about four and a half minutes.
xx.x.xxxx
Math, science, hoax
The Artist and the Mathematician
"They did a real number on you and now you’re going to have to unlearn all that math if you ever hope to amount to anything."
-____________ transmitted through the apparatus of a hoax.
-Hoax as apparatus for transmission of key __________ and ___________.
-Official and unofficial channels.
-This entire system, way of life, way of knowing, as a massive, elaborate hoax.
-COINTELPRO; Psy Ops: Manufacture hoaxes.
-Blind as a verb.
-A life balancing on the fine line between fraud and hoax.
-Who will I pretend to be? Who will I impersonate?
-"You create a persona and you impersonate it, as if the persona were some other, real person who already existed. You are just a kind of shadow of that individual. You do not perform a persona—you perform an impersonation of a persona that you create. Then you multiply this—create multiple personas, and impersonate them all."
What is the distinction here? What is the ontological shift involved? What is gained from this space/gap/distance?
-The moment when you shift from fraud to hoax.
-Don’t theorize about it—do it. This is part of the problem with __________________ (and ______________)—the work is brilliant, but it is too self-conscious and winking, too much pomo hoax. A hoax must be convincing, must not reveal itself through its own devices.
xx.21.xx07
Composed of a ticking. After Gage Cesar Chávez dips down and then it’s a long climb to the 710, I hear my breath in my ears, my heart in my ears as I pedal, another part of me is on the sidewalk watching me bike past only the sidewalk is at Story and King, Tropicana Shopping Center, my mom standing in line at the old WIC office there. Another moment, the opposite corner: My dad selling drugs in the Tropicana parking lot.
And I remember a girl named Amérika, really, I’m not being literary. That was really her name, and it was spelled with a K, and everybody just called her Erika. She had long, black hair and she always wore these boots left over from the early 80s. Her boyfriend was a jerk, and she lived here by Story and King, those one apartments, you know, behind what’s now Rancho Mi Pueblo Market. We went to high school together around the corner at Overfelt. She wore his ring on a chain around her neck, but I didn’t care I took her to McDonald’s for lunch anyway but that was as far as it went anyway. She left to Santa Cruz; I went to L.A.
This space is an invocation of the ghosts that live inside me. A ghost filled with ghosts.
I have been here half my life now, but it is the wrong half, maybe.
<>
Is it true that every act of writing is imperialist?
You cannot escape this function.
That which is said, sung, whispered, shouted. That which is forgotten. That which is transferred when skin meets skin.
The knowledge that we will destroy each other.
The awareness that we are too damaged, beyond repair, unequipped to address our desires in a way that doesn’t leave us broken.
There will always be this gap between what I say and what I say. Your voice breaks over insecurities and something rattles in your lungs. You invoke scenarios to provoke a response, but it’s only survival, clinging to something, there is comfort in this destruction. At least it’s familiar. At least you’re not alone.
I was thinking that maybe we could reach some kind of.
I could understand if.
No, I don’t understand. I just feel that.
8.x.2007
He was not following a direct line but the ones who believed in it were found at the edges and underneath, on 9th Street 9 p.m., and it was empty and quiet, there were smells, exhaust, factories, somewhere approaching Alameda and then a yard full of dogs barking, german shepherds pushing up against a chain link fence their voices echoing on the street no one else around, no cars, no trucks at this moment. He was passing on his bicycle at night dressed all in black and the dogs noted his presence and started to bark and he was thinking that he would come back another night and record this sound, dogs all around with the echoing on either side. He was not experiencing. There was no experiencing, only mediation.
We were friends once. We participated in the simultaneous construction, cataloguing, and desecration of an extensive archive. Do you remember those days? Me neither.
There were interruptions. There was someone on the roof shouting out, holding a broken bottle to his own brother’s chest. They were in our veins.
He used archaic language to seduce her. All language is seduction. All seduction is archaic. We want to drown our tongues in one another, archaically.
My tongue carries traces of all the words it has erased and all the seduction it has defaced.
“How do you say ‘What the fuck’?” she says. “Say it. You can always tell somebody who grew up in the barrio by how they say that. Guys, anyway.”
What the fuck?
The fuck?
What?
Fuck the what?
xx.4.07
"In the 1980s the hatred trickled down. Power consolidated and reconfigured in preparation for the next phase of domination. Contrary to popular perception, the 1960s and Vietnam were actually massive successes for the right, for conservatives, for the new world order of fascist rule. In retrospect, we can see this now. This was the moment that provided the murderers with the opportunity they needed to update their schemata while the 60s generation was busy finding ways to sell themselves and us out while lulled by their 'victory'. In the gap, Power redesigned its blue prints, tested out new digitalized theories. Experiment gave way to social policy, military intervention, free trade, media domination. I remember the first broadcast of MTV. I did not really see it, but I have a clear memory of seeing it. This is what I mean, this is how they took control. I can picture vividly the first moment of broadcast, the astronaut on the moon, the MTV flag, the first video. Probably I saw this moment in re-broadcast, years later, but even then it was somehow familiar—I remembered it as an original moment that I had experienced. I would have been about nine years old. I remember my dad was in prison.
I remember my dad was in prison and I remember siding with the Soviet Union in the big hockey match between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. I don’t remember who won. I don’t remember when the Berlin Wall fell—by then, the 80s had won.
I was thinking about the 1980s and I was thinking that my life has been a succession of unoriginal moments, each experience already mediated and replicated long before it occurs. The mediation precedes the event and afterward/before I wander in the exponential haze of a digital amnesia. I rely on others to reconstruct for me what I’ve said, what I’ve done, seen. Is it live, or is it memory? Do you remember anymore what you see? Is it dark and grainy, black and white footage, a high-angle shot? Video game screens? Reality TV?
Generation X-d out eyes. Digitized. Flattened affect. Two-dimensional lives. Each moment no more/less than the next/last. Trickling down in bits and pieces through sieves that filter flesh from fluid, experience from mediation. Disassembled binary code, flat panel screens, a sea of numbers re-programmed at will.
The moment when the real take began. Trickle down gutting. Digitize the real. Is it live or is it? Empty the psychiatric wards, consolidate media control. Flood the streets with nihilism and despair and insanity, crack communities wide open, tear down the walls to absolute ruthlessness and total control. Eliminate the barriers. We are witnesses to this moment as it continues to unfold as our childhoods unfold into adulthood into somnambulism into death. We are participants. We are complicit. Open up a gaping vacuum—Lights. Camera. Action. We all rush in. We all fold.
xx.x.xxxx
He has insomnia, which is a sign of.
Every instinct is interrupted by another signal. Freedom is a ratio of signal to noise.
The words must point beyond themselves or they are.
Here, we are in competition with the billboard ads, and the graffiti artists who deface them.
[pause]
Initiates nervous habit of shaking foot. Palms are sweaty. “But why don’t you just talk to me and tell me?” Looks out window. “Just say it, whatever it is.”
Fantasy: The process of transformation occurs in one of those 80s movie montage sequences of trying on various outfits and hair styles before the big date/event, helped out by the best friend who is really the True Love waiting in the wings, while some shitty rock song plays over everything. Then, as the song fades out and the characters’ voices and background, ambient sounds creep back in, we find that I have transformed from alienated neurotic to enlightened Buddha in about four and a half minutes.
xx.x.xxxx
Math, science, hoax
The Artist and the Mathematician
"They did a real number on you and now you’re going to have to unlearn all that math if you ever hope to amount to anything."
-____________ transmitted through the apparatus of a hoax.
-Hoax as apparatus for transmission of key __________ and ___________.
-Official and unofficial channels.
-This entire system, way of life, way of knowing, as a massive, elaborate hoax.
-COINTELPRO; Psy Ops: Manufacture hoaxes.
-Blind as a verb.
-A life balancing on the fine line between fraud and hoax.
-Who will I pretend to be? Who will I impersonate?
-"You create a persona and you impersonate it, as if the persona were some other, real person who already existed. You are just a kind of shadow of that individual. You do not perform a persona—you perform an impersonation of a persona that you create. Then you multiply this—create multiple personas, and impersonate them all."
What is the distinction here? What is the ontological shift involved? What is gained from this space/gap/distance?
-The moment when you shift from fraud to hoax.
-Don’t theorize about it—do it. This is part of the problem with __________________ (and ______________)—the work is brilliant, but it is too self-conscious and winking, too much pomo hoax. A hoax must be convincing, must not reveal itself through its own devices.
xx.21.xx07
Composed of a ticking. After Gage Cesar Chávez dips down and then it’s a long climb to the 710, I hear my breath in my ears, my heart in my ears as I pedal, another part of me is on the sidewalk watching me bike past only the sidewalk is at Story and King, Tropicana Shopping Center, my mom standing in line at the old WIC office there. Another moment, the opposite corner: My dad selling drugs in the Tropicana parking lot.
And I remember a girl named Amérika, really, I’m not being literary. That was really her name, and it was spelled with a K, and everybody just called her Erika. She had long, black hair and she always wore these boots left over from the early 80s. Her boyfriend was a jerk, and she lived here by Story and King, those one apartments, you know, behind what’s now Rancho Mi Pueblo Market. We went to high school together around the corner at Overfelt. She wore his ring on a chain around her neck, but I didn’t care I took her to McDonald’s for lunch anyway but that was as far as it went anyway. She left to Santa Cruz; I went to L.A.
This space is an invocation of the ghosts that live inside me. A ghost filled with ghosts.
I have been here half my life now, but it is the wrong half, maybe.
<
Is it true that every act of writing is imperialist?
You cannot escape this function.
That which is said, sung, whispered, shouted. That which is forgotten. That which is transferred when skin meets skin.
The knowledge that we will destroy each other.
The awareness that we are too damaged, beyond repair, unequipped to address our desires in a way that doesn’t leave us broken.
There will always be this gap between what I say and what I say. Your voice breaks over insecurities and something rattles in your lungs. You invoke scenarios to provoke a response, but it’s only survival, clinging to something, there is comfort in this destruction. At least it’s familiar. At least you’re not alone.
I was thinking that maybe we could reach some kind of.
I could understand if.
No, I don’t understand. I just feel that.
8.x.2007
He was not following a direct line but the ones who believed in it were found at the edges and underneath, on 9th Street 9 p.m., and it was empty and quiet, there were smells, exhaust, factories, somewhere approaching Alameda and then a yard full of dogs barking, german shepherds pushing up against a chain link fence their voices echoing on the street no one else around, no cars, no trucks at this moment. He was passing on his bicycle at night dressed all in black and the dogs noted his presence and started to bark and he was thinking that he would come back another night and record this sound, dogs all around with the echoing on either side. He was not experiencing. There was no experiencing, only mediation.
We were friends once. We participated in the simultaneous construction, cataloguing, and desecration of an extensive archive. Do you remember those days? Me neither.
There were interruptions. There was someone on the roof shouting out, holding a broken bottle to his own brother’s chest. They were in our veins.
He used archaic language to seduce her. All language is seduction. All seduction is archaic. We want to drown our tongues in one another, archaically.
My tongue carries traces of all the words it has erased and all the seduction it has defaced.
“How do you say ‘What the fuck’?” she says. “Say it. You can always tell somebody who grew up in the barrio by how they say that. Guys, anyway.”
What the fuck?
The fuck?
What?
Fuck the what?
xx.4.07
"In the 1980s the hatred trickled down. Power consolidated and reconfigured in preparation for the next phase of domination. Contrary to popular perception, the 1960s and Vietnam were actually massive successes for the right, for conservatives, for the new world order of fascist rule. In retrospect, we can see this now. This was the moment that provided the murderers with the opportunity they needed to update their schemata while the 60s generation was busy finding ways to sell themselves and us out while lulled by their 'victory'. In the gap, Power redesigned its blue prints, tested out new digitalized theories. Experiment gave way to social policy, military intervention, free trade, media domination. I remember the first broadcast of MTV. I did not really see it, but I have a clear memory of seeing it. This is what I mean, this is how they took control. I can picture vividly the first moment of broadcast, the astronaut on the moon, the MTV flag, the first video. Probably I saw this moment in re-broadcast, years later, but even then it was somehow familiar—I remembered it as an original moment that I had experienced. I would have been about nine years old. I remember my dad was in prison.
I remember my dad was in prison and I remember siding with the Soviet Union in the big hockey match between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. I don’t remember who won. I don’t remember when the Berlin Wall fell—by then, the 80s had won.
I was thinking about the 1980s and I was thinking that my life has been a succession of unoriginal moments, each experience already mediated and replicated long before it occurs. The mediation precedes the event and afterward/before I wander in the exponential haze of a digital amnesia. I rely on others to reconstruct for me what I’ve said, what I’ve done, seen. Is it live, or is it memory? Do you remember anymore what you see? Is it dark and grainy, black and white footage, a high-angle shot? Video game screens? Reality TV?
Generation X-d out eyes. Digitized. Flattened affect. Two-dimensional lives. Each moment no more/less than the next/last. Trickling down in bits and pieces through sieves that filter flesh from fluid, experience from mediation. Disassembled binary code, flat panel screens, a sea of numbers re-programmed at will.
The moment when the real take began. Trickle down gutting. Digitize the real. Is it live or is it? Empty the psychiatric wards, consolidate media control. Flood the streets with nihilism and despair and insanity, crack communities wide open, tear down the walls to absolute ruthlessness and total control. Eliminate the barriers. We are witnesses to this moment as it continues to unfold as our childhoods unfold into adulthood into somnambulism into death. We are participants. We are complicit. Open up a gaping vacuum—Lights. Camera. Action. We all rush in. We all fold.
posted by kualyque at 12:54
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