30.6.10
29.6.10
Parables
If we wept once as angels
Now we utter unbroken parables as gods
Such a state of being holds out an apple,
Rosy red, lips ripe for the tasting;
Someone will bite and say unspeakable things.
Eve, have you seen my serpent?
If we uttered parables once as gods
Now we dance undesired as demons
Something caught at the eye will burrow in,
Despairing like love wishing it could fly free.
Who do you think you are to teach?
Tonight we have a thousand ways to die.
If we danced once as demons
Now we dig deep as mortals
Because Eve has seen the serpent
And Adam forgot himself amongst the vines,
So we all wear masks to pretend we are alive.
At least we can almost remember our births
If we are mere mortals
Why is it that we can create and destroy
Now we utter unbroken parables as gods
Such a state of being holds out an apple,
Rosy red, lips ripe for the tasting;
Someone will bite and say unspeakable things.
Eve, have you seen my serpent?
If we uttered parables once as gods
Now we dance undesired as demons
Something caught at the eye will burrow in,
Despairing like love wishing it could fly free.
Who do you think you are to teach?
Tonight we have a thousand ways to die.
If we danced once as demons
Now we dig deep as mortals
Because Eve has seen the serpent
And Adam forgot himself amongst the vines,
So we all wear masks to pretend we are alive.
At least we can almost remember our births
If we are mere mortals
Why is it that we can create and destroy
28.6.10
27.6.10
26.6.10
25.6.10
Rage against the Big Brother (or The Big Market)
Translation : "All becomes misty when we aren't able to translate our rage"
This post is dedicated to each one opressed by this invention called "crisis". A satanic tool of domination by the New Capitalism.
24.6.10
23.6.10
22.6.10
...
Judas Cradle...uphold my gossamer faith and the fragile spines of those who have gone before me.
21.6.10
..
the unreasonable weight of knowing pushed Ogress Dolores past the point of travesty until wielding parasols of unknown provenance became the sickly comfort that would project her closer to the company of coffin flies.
20.6.10
2016:The four gates of Peace and Wisdom
2016:And arrived The Day of the Move. That day Markets United closed forever the Four Gates of Wisdom and Peace:
Health
Education
Work
Democracy
And arrived the day that one only man had all the money of the world. Bored in your room he decided to kill himself. Here I hide this message on a bottle for future generations."
Health
Education
Work
Democracy
And arrived the day that one only man had all the money of the world. Bored in your room he decided to kill himself. Here I hide this message on a bottle for future generations."
19.6.10
Kludge
In Our Messy, Reptilian Brains, by Sharon Begley, MSNBC - April 9, 2007 http://www.newsweek.com/id/35728
"Let others rhapsodize about the elegant design and astounding complexity of the human brain‹the most complicated, most sophisticated entity in the known universe, as they say. David Linden, a professor of neuroscience at Johns Hopkins University, doesn't see it that way. To him, the brain is a "cobbled-together mess." Impressive in function, sure. But in its design the brain is "quirky, inefficient and bizarre ... a weird agglomeration of ad hoc solutions that have accumulated throughout millions of years of evolutionary history," he argues in his new book, "The Accidental Mind," from Harvard University Press. More than another salvo in the battle over whether biological structures are the products of supernatural design or biological evolution (though Linden has no doubt it's the latter), research on our brain's primitive foundation is cracking such puzzles as why we cannot tickle ourselves, why we are driven to spin narratives even in our dreams and why reptilian traits persist in our gray matter. Just as the mouse brain is a lizard brain "with some extra stuff thrown on top," Linden writes, the human brain is essentially a mouse brain with extra toppings. That's how we wound up with two vision systems. In amphibians, signals from the eye are processed in a region called the midbrain, which, for instance, guides a frog's tongue to insects in midair and enables us to duck as an errant fastball bears down on us. Our kludgy brain retains this primitive visual structure even though most signals from the eye are processed in the visual cortex, a newer addition. If the latter is damaged, patients typically say they cannot see a thing. Yet if asked to reach for an object, many of them can grab it on the first try. And if asked to judge the emotional expression on a face, they get it right more often than chance would predict‹especially if that expression is anger. They're not lying about being unable to see. In such "blindsight," people who have lost what most of us think of as vision are seeing with the amphibian visual system. But because the midbrain is not connected to higher cognitive regions, they have no conscious awareness of an object's location or a face's expression. Consciously, the world looks inky black. But unconsciously, signals from the midbrain are merrily zipping along to the amygdala (which assesses emotion) and the motor cortex (which makes the arm reach out). Primitive brains control movement with the cerebellum. Tucked in the back of the brain, this structure also predicts what a movement will feel like, and sends inhibitory signals to the somatosensory cortex, which processes the sense of touch, telling it not to pay attention to expected sensations (such as the feeling of clothes against your skin or the earth beneath your soles). This is why you can't tickle yourself: the reptilian cerebellum has kept the sensation from registering in the feeling part of the brain. Failing to register feelings caused by your own movements claims another victim: your sense of how hard you are hitting someone. Hence, "but Mom, he hit me harder!" Neurons have hardly changed from those of prehistoric jellyfish. "Slow, leaky, unreliable," as Linden calls them, they tend to drop the ball: at connections between neurons, signals have a 70 percent chance of sputtering out. To make sure enough signals do get through, the brain needs to be massively interconnected, its 100 billion neurons forming an estimated 500 trillion synapses. This interconnectedness is far too great for our paltry 23,000 or so genes to specify. The developing brain therefore finishes its wiring out in the world (if they didn't, a baby's head wouldn't fit through the birth canal). Sensory feedback and experiences choreograph the dance of neurons during our long childhood, which is just another name for the period when the brain matures. With modern parts atop old ones, the brain is like an iPod built around an eight-track cassette player. One reptilian legacy is that as our eyes sweep across the field of view, they make tiny jumps. At the points between where the eyes alight, what reaches the brain is blurry, so the visual cortex sees the neural equivalent of jump cuts. The brain nevertheless creates a coherent perception out of them, filling in the gaps of the jerky feed. What you see is continuous, smooth. But as often happens with kludges, the old components make their presence felt in newer systems, in this case taking a system that worked well in vision and enlisting it higher-order cognition. Determined to construct a seamless story from jumpy input, for instance, patients with amnesia will, when asked what they did yesterday, construct a story out of memory scraps. It isn't only amnesiacs whose brains confabulate. There is no good reason why dreams, which consolidate memories, should take a narrative form. If they're filing away memories, we should just experience memory fragments as each is processed. The cortex's narrative drive, however, doesn't turn off during sleep. Like an iPod turning on that cassette player, the fill-in-the-gaps that works so well for jumpy eye movements takes the raw material of memory and weaves it into a coherent, if bizarre, story. The reptilian brain lives on."
18.6.10
fiver day
An artery, a carrier of disease runs in coils about my spine. A mouth gaping, broken and barely legal, its rotted teeth planted into my arm head first. Enamel roots grow black and reach out. Black flexible spikes, tendrils, sensory organs touching up nubile and firing back synoptic pulses that mutilate books and dry costumes. With warts, with forelocks, with romantic rape. Her seven forehead pores as big as blackened thumb nails spread evenly across her brow, lap at his fuck sweat. She pushed under, ploughing with fingers the soil. Paroxysms. Jerking high heels crucify feet. Separation of bones. An archaeologist seems confused, investigates a day old burial. A barely green. A hardly ripe occupant of the death orchard, the graveyard, the stone garden, the filing cabinet. Punched card rots in compost. Programs the earth here, to create something freed of flesh, thought and history.
Freed of aircraft wings and the tyres of racing cars. Flash, lean, tanned. Legs straddle the monocoque. Fingers caress aerodynamic openings and orifices of haute design. Shiny, smooth, slick veneers and supercharged sexualities. This cockfruit laps at the tarmac, tongues it, slices the air and prepares reconstituted death powder enabled with water, tasteful hair, jutting chins, pussy jizz and Hitler moustaches. Totalitarian barrier narratives crashed into, politely reconfigured. Nothing changed. Gelatin tears. Fibre glass fibre. Five implications a day.
Freed of aircraft wings and the tyres of racing cars. Flash, lean, tanned. Legs straddle the monocoque. Fingers caress aerodynamic openings and orifices of haute design. Shiny, smooth, slick veneers and supercharged sexualities. This cockfruit laps at the tarmac, tongues it, slices the air and prepares reconstituted death powder enabled with water, tasteful hair, jutting chins, pussy jizz and Hitler moustaches. Totalitarian barrier narratives crashed into, politely reconfigured. Nothing changed. Gelatin tears. Fibre glass fibre. Five implications a day.
17.6.10
XB
This is my flashing fist.
This my burning heart.
The winter winds chafe the permanent.
The lattice fractures with sunlight.
Despite the hours spent,
Alone with keyboard and pen,
I will divine the principle.
I will risk the rejection
Of wordsmiths and lover,
Of silence in a crowd.
16.6.10
Ink, Watercolor, Pastel, and Papaw's Pocket Knife
" . . . analysis is paralysis." ~ J. Krishnamurti
~
15.6.10
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Is discharge Dada? No, it is not. Influenced by and with a similar attitude to, but not Dada..
Is discharge Fluxus?
No, it is not.
Influenced by and with a similar attitude to, but not Fluxus.
Is discharge art for intellectuals? No, discharge is for anyone and everyone who appreciates creativity in all its myriad forms. Be it static visual, audio or moving image; the written word or the deconstructed, non-linear form. The spoken word and noise.
All creativity is the springboard for discharge. It highjack’s a multitude of genres and disciplines and transposes them onto the internet. discharge is electronically transmitted art, be it via blog, myspace or whatever format possible, it can also be produced and seen in classic formats.
The discharge Chapbook. The discharge Building by Parts book. discharge has no rules. All contributors to discharge are responsible adults. discharge has no leaders although it has an elected body of rotating editors who oversee rather than dictate the flow of the group.
The aim of discharge is to profile creative people and to do away with the pretension of the art world.
Everyday people creating art everyday to an exceptional quality.
Art by barrow boys and girls.
discharge is international.
