There was an issue with the rnci. She looked back one last time to see the buttle still pol and decided against ckrl. The man next to the frkl put his arms around his companion and didn’t notice the lidgh. That was the last time they would ever be in the same akdo. The buttle still pol sailed on.
As she walked away she gathered the evidence of rejection like the strings of a noose, too thin to hang by. What could I have done? She couldn’t help but always wonder. How unfortunate that there is the only thing we’ve ever done. Perhaps there is a world where everything exists, but she couldn’t get to it. And she couldn’t help but wonder, if it were useful believing in a uj;Weg where all her imaginings were real, she couldn’t help but wonder, what if I’m not taking every moment seriously, as an opportunity. What if I’m not making the most of the times I’ve been given?
Regret is common in these parts. Someone tried to kiss him somewhere else. Maybe that person succeeded, maybe we even had the same name. of course he did.
I couldn’t tell you what’s so engaging, although we remain deeply absorbed. That’s what anarchy is like. Engagement without cooperation. But how can you cooperate with your competitors? It would be lovely if there were another way to get over you, but that’s the system, even now, I speak in the language of our oppressor. Through and around.
Let me forget. As a strategy, imbued with the confidence of freedom. Let me neither confirm nor de-confirm. But remake. Not react. Create. Systems that last longer than the lives of the people they exist by are necessarily illegitimate. Anarchy is to be politics in politics with others.
What belief must we rescind to facilitate our escape? May we engage without providing an alibi? Tacit consent by participation, validation by concession. If the personal is political, Why fear chaos? This is chaos. What we fear is doubt. A constant state of not knowing. I will vouch for doubt. And preach the validity of the unknown and unknowable that we face when we ponder an alternative as yet to be imagined. Let us leave the system behind. Let us forget.
Xghezbing the allure of tacit consent, her faith lost in the positive ciuyvg of the visual. He was a marketer of hope. But she knew god wasn’t real, and the only reason she couldn’t have him was because he didn’t want her. Was the nature of her gender, class, and ability at the intersection of his. Her personality, tactical approach her desire, her smile could not affect a faceless man. There was nothing she could do. Though, he would encourage her to try.
She didn’t know what to say for some time, then it came. He sensed her stalking him with a new glint in her eye. He felt weary; she sensed it. And so, with a slow and painful, multi-dimensional and trans-vibrational movement, a patient indecisiveness, they talked. Dancing awergvs, awaiting a whole to twirl through. Energy akimbo, and now finally consenting to let another weary soul make a brief approach. and what she asked was. ‘do you want to make out’.
‘no.’ he said. and for a second that was that, then, not as quickly but still, he said, he said, ‘he was afraid they shouldn’t.’ Necessitated by a solid loss, she would have conceded game over, and perhaps he was right, and she never saw him after all because if she had she would have known that they couldn’t have lasted longer than a new moon. Though she preferred the end almost as much as he, with a haughty gaze and impatient inflection she asked ‘have you ever wanted to kiss me.’ he said, even quicker than before, ‘no.’ but then continued to explain why he felt like he shouldn’t. That’s how she heard it: not how she would want.
So she remained still un safely tethered to a space in her mind that contained a hope for them. in her small hands a lingering uncertainty, fastened with a noose. she inspected for signs of feelings, but a fire couldn’t breath in the air of eyrog. And there was no way to ask someone to do something without words if they would have no faith. She inspected his feelings in her hands and knew she would still follow. But how many chances does one really get? How practical to know when you should have known better. Fuck. The phallic is a burden.
It isn’t that I don’t have faith in humanity; it’s that I cannot see them all at once.
The transmission of information is not primarily linguistic. It occurs in the face to face, in the tone and posture. In the act, the performance, the discovery and the reveal. Scarcely, alternatingly perceptible, across time space dimension awareness. Though you may not understand it, you can understand it.
Yes, I know. That is why it is important for me to articulate the personal significance of my own endeavors. Artistic, but conspicuously personal. Art is important, but not more than life. The real work of the artist is the artist, what that person makes exists as evidence of that primary project, are art objects and artifacts inherent.
Now proven, as Neptune moves on Pisces.
How well do you have to know an artist before you may claim a superior understanding of their body of work?
Gesture to the unknown. We cannot eschew the system with the tools of the system, we must invent our own, collectively and individually establish new ways of being and thinking and doing heretofore unthinkable, unheard of, inexpressible.
A sinister force entered in the room. She lay in the imagined arms of her lover. Preferring it perhaps. And she thought of all the things she would wisubn if they met in her dreams that night, if he would see all the moments in which she loved him and she would see all the ways in which he knew. She remembered a friend she had lost, and she began inventing herself over. We mustn’t let sinister forces make us who we are.
Of course we all have different artistic philosophies, but now I am a functionalist. I have generated a large collection of things, art objects and artifacts, a primary objective of my practice. You may tell me how you find them. In any case, I am alive with that queer dissatisfaction, closely aligned with the nature of this reality. Thankfully art, like being, is subjective. Though you may say you do not like my art, you can never say it isn’t art. Perhaps, even, bad art is beneficial. Make bad art. Get back to me.
Is it possible for one person to know more about art than any other? Do you consider critical validation, introduction into circulation and formal academic reception a requirement of art? Must art succeed as commerce to accrue value? Do you privilege certain Art?
At any rate, he remained satisfied with the quality of content, and though he never could remember meeting her. He was sure she had. An etymology is simply the ontological identity of an idea. Belief. Artist. Everyone. Her life had already been lived. She told you guys, he was hardcore. Making as much as possible. So much that, when he died, no one could ever hold it all.
People are good. Trust me. I can see things. And I’ve seen it.
It isn’t the responsibility of the artist to justify their work. But I’d like to ask you to imagine a few alternatives. None of them involve money. The fact that everything we imagine exists, as required by the law of infinity, means we simply haven’t chosen to resist the allure that one day, we too will be rich.
But he knew she was a woman of ill repute, and though they could meet in their dreams awake and asleep, though they could build fantasies of the most fantastic proportion, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she had a motive, ulterior. And now she knew that they were missing a piece of the foundational zugaw, just across the cusp of cancer there was a need that they lacked, and on the other side of his gaze he would hold tightly to the opinion that her complexity was a ruse.
Self consciously interdisciplinary, peripherally focused on expansive intensions, embracing inclusive paradoxes, the absurd, unknowable, unanswerable, inexpressible and shameful. A void of potential.
I make music as performance art. A worthy enterprise, I create sounds with my mouth, using my body and language. Dissonant and shoddy; I listen until my mind has remade the tatters into an evocative operation. I use new technology and old ritual. I evoke states of consciousness, reveal my psychology, conscious(ly) and un. I transmit a totality that supersedes the rational processes, and is yet intelligible to a lizard. Or maybe I just want to be a singer, but I’m scared, so I call it performance art.
Though his gaze was not the most eloquent, his voice was robust and natural. Though his movements were not the most elegant, his posture was sturdy and open. His innocence moved her to tears but his gesture did not. She was startled to think that perhaps the love she claimed to have for him was a claim of ego. Was she to be smoted after all this time? Only death can claim us all. Even as we intend to forget and imagine that our fantasies are real.
She turned down the volume on a sound remarkably similar to that of a kowueg in the throes of vbeqj. Whether unable or unwilling, he seemed intent on forgetting, bent on transmitting these unflattering images. Desperate to make something as simple as death as complicated as love. It was discomforting and distracting, annoying and ridiculous. She knew how he felt about her; how could she not? She simply wasn’t interested. It was neither confusing nor deep. Sometimes you like someone, and they don’t like you. If she were any older he would still be so far away.
Don’t flatter yourself, he said, I’m only obsessed with you. And you are curious, I can tell. No, I’m passive, she said born out of a deep and abiding boredom. The kind of boredom you feel after you’ve tried everything and have nothing left to lose. And so begrudgingly she did keep his company. Marveling at his ability to not notice the pity behind her eyes. And as coincidence after coincidence slipped by, as the voices grew desperate with a deep urge to be heard, she listened. And not one sign indicated that they should make out.
As conversationalists they were practically unmatched, though she suspected there were others who’s foundational zugaws might align more closely with his own, but then what would there be to converse about. Oh, she wasn’t worried. \\
He was only kind when he wasn’t being watched. She acknowledged the charm of the visual, for the aural was dangerously specific, too intimately revealing and prone to mistakes. You could raise a child easier than make a good song. The specific vitality of a sonic palette, a palanquin for the absurd. But she didn’t think the questions were more important than the answers. What’s the value in only doing what you like? If she did as well, then neither the two should meet. Liking something doesn’t make it good, and making something doesn’t mean you’re sincere. Internal logic is the privileged domain of the clock. After all, shouldn’t he know better? Cultural conditioning makes clocks of us all.
??/// Was their conversation adequate?
The format allows for a combination of narratives and references, confessions intimate and not, conscious and sub., even when the performer’s body is not present during the consumption of the aural product, a conditional intuition takes over on the part of the listener, information is linked. A pre-conscious empathetic awareness of the state of being the performer was in, an idea of their posture, intention and front. The suggestive power of the imagination and the willing cooperation of a participant allows the performance artist to explore and document her creativity deeply, meaningfully, to remain engaged with her physical processes, psychic states, ability and desire, intention and expression.
We must speak. The risks are the reasons, and failure is often more illuminating than success. There is no mystification or hiding of the artist behind any pretentions of genius. I am revealed as particularly ordinary, of no exceptional talent, of bloviated complexity and false humility. Most importantly. I make music because I like it. I like to make music. Elements of shame, self consciousness, ego, neediness, weakness, inability, insecurity, disillusionment and a host of other uncomfortable, non positive, experiential emotions and inspirations are also experienced by a listener via affinity and projection, deeply flawed, leaving no escape into wishful thinking, conscious of a totality of meanings and experience that is not all together pleasant. I like that kind of art. It is uncomfortably intimate, disorienting, revealing a core self that is scared, lost, and contradictory.
Positive thinking is a mechanism of control, implicitly enforced by a system that requires there be losers, failures. If you are unable to accomplish your aspirations, it is your own fault, not the inevitable result of a systematic organization of resources and power, a hierarchy described by the empowered, hegemony. It is a relief to decline your invitation to a party you never wanted to be at in the first place. I prefer to smile of my own volition. I tend to confront the realities of inequality with a grim countenance, a face in despair and the tragic disposition I find most authentic to my free and unaffected point of view regarding such matters. I reject the authority of the disciplinarian power structure that has coerced wild entities of infinite variety, of vast and epic potential, into conformity, predictability, and compliance.
To embrace the queer is to embrace the profane and anarchic. Rejecting the desire to be approved of and taken seriously, we permit frivolously and anomalously, a more natural method of coexisting. Our birthright. Early on, the queer body identifies these mechanisms of control as arbitrary based on the constraint of the binary, the antediluvian nature of our social structure and the inflexible conditioning it requires. Disincluded carelessly by a faceless machine, we are the first to resist its cruel strictures, inevitably and by default, our existence proves the invalidity of the concept, and requires us to redefine freedom for ourselves.
We see we will not achieve the success guaranteed by embracing any of the finite number of approved identities available to us, and our liminal existence, indispensably threatening, explains the history of oppression and dehumanization, suppression and irrelevance, marginalization and terror we have faced. Creating space to imagine and enact alternatives is a threat that must be suppressed. But we know that if we are not free then no one is. At the end of the day, we are all queer.
Here are some tropes I find relevant to the singer: originality and triteness, honesty and predictability, the condoned and disturbing, natural and conditioned, creative and habitual, ugly and pretty, effort, mindlessness, intuition, preparation, pretention, expression, humility, grandiosity, the perfection of the internal vision, the gap or failure in the attempt, camp, the plaintive, technique, artifice, experience, repetition, psychology, trauma, locks, blocks and freedom. My voice is a playground of impulses, necessarily limited more by psychology than physiology but necessary as any limit is to creativity, an arena to work with hypotheses about the nature of privacy, self awareness, consciousness, embarrassment, ego, desire, utopia.
In my work the aural is often primary to the visual, the music I produce provides a foundation upon which to enhance the world of my imagining via texts like this, videos and images, or my upcoming lecture tour. I maintain my fidelity to first takes, initial impulses, and ‘mistakes.’ You are able to identify your expectations and experience your frustrations in the context of a performance that cannot be stopped once it has begun. In a word, you are Living. I’m open to changing my mind, but as of yet, I don’t believe I’ve done anything to regret. I may simply have a queer notion of success. I’ve adhered stubbornly to my original artistic principles and impulses, the origin of my point of view exists in the very first videos I made when I self consciously debuted as an artist, the explication of my artistic process and practice has been consistent.
I leave room for the mystical. i have, as of yet, been unable to eliminate all supernatural concepts from my belief system in order that I might live with a clear head and clear sight. i believe in the power of myth, and astrology. i believe in energy, astral bodies, and the reality of dreams. I believe in infinity, in the multiverse, which I believe is just science something I also believe in. i believe that everything happens for a reason, namely our spiritual evolution, which stretches across the infinite universe and infinite lives in infinite incarnations, universes, bodies and experiences. I am lead to believe that everything happens. Anything we’ve ever imagined or dreamed does in fact transpire, with a sense of inevitability as familiar as your own. i believe in synchronicity. not mistakes or coincidences. I believe in paradox, determinism and free will. I believe in the magic of a confident attempt even as you carry the surest knowledge that you will fail.
i would like to speak before you today with a clear head, unbiased, trustworthy in my absolute materialism, and though I think that i can live without the comfort of faith, I remain resolute in my own and so am unable to verify for you the usefulness of living in a world with no pretension or obligation.
here’s why I began, I wanted to explain a bit about my development, to qualify my artistic vernacular. i don’t spend months or years on a piece, as some artists or spectators prefer. I produce little that credits hard work for hard work’s sake, and the canon is a byproduct of approved thinking. I resist. The value of suffering, the meek shall inherit the earth, the bias of institutionalized knowledge. No, I prefer to do what I like, and I believe the simple point of that is of a great value. The same principles inform my work across all disciplines. I don’t believe effort generates value. Not to say that a piece is necessarily done after the first sitting. But do you trust me? Even as I follow my intuition and say, I meant such and such all along, even though I wasn’t conscious of it when I first made the choice. Who stands to benefit?
How you care for a work is your business. It, like any relationship cannot be judged by outsiders. The chemistry between two people alone in a room is something only they can understand.
Later, she wondered how well she had to know him before she could confidently say, ‘I know you. I see you.’ Assuming multiple identities and perspectives at once he sat her down and told her, ‘somewhere in the forgotten land of lost lovers, the Libra Johhny Appleseed wanders around and plants seeds, but he remains alone, waiting for some future retribution.’ The bastard. She would have loved to have changed his mind, but couldn’t shake the suspicion that he really did see it very clearly. The accidental revelation is only a burden. She couldn’t afford to incorporate his subjective opinions into her emergent sense of a comprehensive reality. Organizing thoughts as such, so that they all made sense together. Even as information appeared, it would be processed so as to always reinforce, never contradict, her belief system. The shame of making bad art would only ever evoke sympathy, aversion, and a reference of the distasteful. Visions, after all, are only valid in the a priori.
He too had a queasy suspicion she was right all along. Though they couldn’t both be right; that would be absurd. As if this had already happened, always was, and could never have been any other way while still being every which way. The dark buttle still pol shot up a flare in the night, wasting its ammo so far from home and hope.
Yes, I am confidently assured in my subjectivity. How could I not be with all the room for doubt, change, and paradox that I’ve afforded myself. I hear when you say that I cannot sing. That good art cannot be made except with great care by a gifted set of blessed genius, I might even agree, but I like what I’ve made.
I never meant to achieve the usual results or appeal to the preferences of a standard set. In the a posteriori, it’s challenging to appreciate something for reasons unqualified at the conception or even during the execution, for reasons that you never have before. Not how well can you adhere to recognizable conventions of success, but how far you can travel down an un investigated path. A rare comment on my third soundcloud page will reveal a very exciting ‘what the hell is this?’ And I still have quite a ways to go.
But he was tired of being in love with a man who was incapable of deciding on a direction, who could neither be moved to revolt or indulge, who cared neither of her desire or his ability to end it with the finality of a concrete statement. He would disappear from her life for a while, or oblige her with friendly dalliances she could not help but describe romantically to her friends, bountiful and sparse. And notions of romantic friendship are a part of our queer history. Circles squares. They’re both lines.
Here’s what she said: ’have you ever wanted to make out’ he said ‘no.’ then as if to make my heart start again with the least amount of electricity possible he said, ‘i don’t think we should.’ which is much different if you’re listening. but i couldn’t recover fast enough and we were interrupted by a crisis. numb it with a cigarette and we’re back.
repeating my process over and over, just to prove a point, inviting you to label me with that least favorable of concepts: hypocrite. When you’re infinite, what’s the use? do not indulge me with flattery by going so far as to avail me a pretentious hypocrite. i will take the compliment and be insulted. Was he in on the joke she wondered? Was the joke even funny he replied? Because, though i have long since abandoned hope of vindication. i do still hope, that I somehow got exactly what I wanted.
Like the woman who heard him speak in shades of gray, he never knew why she only paid attention to the obvious and if she were choosing to be aware of their pdvuva by choice or by perverse fascination. But he was never comfortable having her around and she was never comfortable being there, and neither ever noticed at the same time. Their fear of rejection was so strong they could never bring themselves to reveal themselves to the other, and so they sat, silently on the edge, static as their diaphragms, constantly afraid of being heard, found, reduced. With the force of bulldozer, he held her gaze
Aloofness isn’t just a posture. It’s a way of being. In your body. Your aloof relationship to your impulses and voice, your body and mind, make an aloof person of you. And why is our gender feminine when our sex is male? Is it strategic? What’s the game? Are you scared of how badly you want him, or how little? They say, the moon is closer than it’s ever been. I can’t tell. It takes a queer kind of revolt to know what true failure is.
When I sit in my body, and speak with the full resonance of my voice, deeply but effortlessly connected to a more natural, less affected, more innate less adjusted way of being. When I sound the way I might if we were living in prehistoric times. I feel uncomfortable. The nexus of information, emotional and physiological, psychological and relative, that is able to transpire when one has an intimate relationship with the most honest sound of their voice is startling, almost as alarming as realizing something so essentially human can be so foreign.
I’ve been with men who have made me swear before we slept together that if ever I would see them in public I would not acknowledge that we knew each other. I’ve been shunned at the queerest performance venues I know. As much as someone still breathing can, I know what true failure is. But we all have our damage.
I hope you know the main responsibility of the artist is to begin. The level of conceptual effort, attention to detail, labor, intricacy of expression that must be accomplished before you consider a work to be finished is your prerogative; I trust your judgment. Though you may never satisfy anyone, either with or without a discursive knowledge of what has come before and what it means. Does the value rest on a larger context? Is it your responsibility to explain yourself? What’s the value of being understood?
Be free. Tell me where you’ve been on spectrums of privacy, loneliness, isolation, loss, romance. In the space between dialectics and disciplines, we move forward without secure knowledge of impending utopian arrival, one we know not where to find but must move toward just the same. Like we may never create the masterpiece we desire, we must start it and carry on always trying as if it is so possible. Not seeing ourselves through the eyes of others. Practicing our anarchist calisthenics. Creating possibilities.
Is that arbitrary? Must we engage with life?
and so we’re back. Cigarette near the end. still no way of knowing if you’ll stop me if i kiss you.