Tuesday, 18 April 2017

On Kek, Eris, Mindfuck and the Eschaton (Charlston).

Today I went to the file sharing sire 'wetransferdotcom' and found this image on their background:

I was instantly unsettled. I thought the alt right had hacked the page. I was about to download a huge file and was terrified that next thing there'd be a load of mum's basement fascists filling my computer with normie puerile shite, that there'd be actual Nazis at my door... I don't know what I was afraid of really. I saw this masked figure (a cross between Cthulhu and the "Red Guy" from 'Don't Hug me I'm Scared'?!) as some kind of manifestation of the Cult of Kek. I'd seen people in these costumes at protests and rallies. I'm in a rush and just trying to get these thoughts down before I lose them, but here is one example - skip to 1:31. A figure in a red mask appears in the background and displays a Kek banner:

Anyway, I started to actually read about the Cult of Kek - the mythology of Kek in ancient Egypt the deity of primordial darkness. Also, surprise surprise, a deity of chaos and disorder - an androgyness frog / serpent headed God often crowned with a beetle and also present in Greek and Roman mythologies, though in obscurity. I then started to think about the opening of the Illuminatus trilogy - 'it was the year they finally immanentized the eschaton' and I started to wonder who that 'they' actually were. I also began to think about how carelessly human the nomination 'eschaton' actually is: 'The final event in the grand plan' or 'the end of the world' - ἔσχατος. And then this, in its etymology - *eǵʰs-katos, from ἐξ (ex, “out”). Compare with ἔγκατα (énkata, “intestines”) and the same difficulty in ἐχθός (ekhthós) = ἐκτός (ektós). Funnily enough my spellcheck keeps trying to replace 'eschaton' with Charlston. But think about it. Imminantize the "out" "intestines". I think there's a lot more at stake for consciousness and the soul than a nuclear war, though that is the most obvious and immediate horror. Remember, in Biblical mythology the Eschaton takes a fucking long time. There is a lot left after "the event" to be resolved. All kinds of beasts.

Back to the picture. I looked up the attribution and here is an explanation:

"Antonio Gibotta Enfarinat: People, second prize stories December 28, 2016

Each year on 28 December, residents of Ibi in Spain stage a mock military coup, pelting each other with flour and eggs and letting off firecrackers. A group of men, ‘Els Enfarinats’ (The Floured Ones) take control of the town, pronouncing ridiculous laws and fining citizens who infringe them. Another group, ‘La Oposicio’ (The Opposition) tries to restore order. At the end of the day, the fines are donated to charity.

Reputedly 200 years old, the festival was revived in 1981 after long lying dormant.

Commissioned by
Agenzia Controluce"

Obviously there's a lot to be said here. A clash of mythologies ancient and contemporary. But hear this, snowflakes of Kek - our parties go on for longer, we aren't killing one another and we are coming for you. We're not your friends either. Contrary to what's been said of late we are more desperately in need of Operation Mindfuck than we perhaps ever have been.

Hail Eris etc. More on this later.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Pronoun Manifesto

3) Our pronouns are "oil slick" & "meat" & "that blessed cavity" & a switch to the world

5 -


Pronouns are demands on consciousness. Every time you use one you are creating an incantation; an order for the subject to act up, to act upon stimulus. No one knew they were speaking a magical language (that magical was all language could be) until the doors were screwed shut. Until the windows had let out all the air. People in pockets of anxiously rehearsed resistance networks were saying that the language needed to be mended, that it should be used correctly - that this wasn't going to be hard. They forgot about & thereby stood upon those they refused to call the "mad" or "deranged", the people whose language is not yours. When they lost their understanding... 


The doors were pieces of nothing the windows that sucked the air out were logos - as the air came out you horrible voices began to understand what it was you had all done - co-operatives with the fascists, you were steeped in a chaos you couldn't read. You couldn't hear. You were committing yourselves to spells in the dark, it went on & on from the first creak of a child's voice till the last death rattle when the air left. 


Remember, if you can do one thing: Demands for corrected pronouns are transitional demands towards a full comprehension & abandonment of every system of naming. Verbs will finish this world. 


Monday, 27 March 2017

Sonnets are Impossible.

What are sonnets? We just don't know.

Currently trying to write one every day. Predictably I wrote a few then charged off into a few days and forgot to do my homework. Posting them here is an act of penitence, because only one of these is any good and the others are very pretentious. I promise to try harder. Sonnets are really difficult.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Open Wide the Doors!

Still feeling quite baffled and fed up by the state of "avant garde(ism)". It's a really prevalent state of surrender. The art scenes are absolutely full of this surrender. As I said in a previous post a really clear marker of when things have already gone extremely wrong is the white box gallery space. I also wrote some time ago about the idea of making your poems more "Marxy". These are both methods of developing screens, kind of like the overuse of effects units, delay etc. Ways of abstracting what you are actually doing into forms that are not representative of your will, your desire or your expression. Of course that is, in part, a lie. It's a lie because these forms have become a part of your will. Your will has been abstracted from you and moved into the symbolic structure - the point of least resistance and there, in its special sound art studio with its little tape recorders, white borders, white listeners, smocks, fringes, thick set rims and fucking conversations. The little labels. I think the time has come for a lot of the people at the vanguard to admit that all they are doing is going to work. And yes, they are very undervalued and underpaid. This can often make people behave horribly towards others, it alienates people from their lives and so they become subject to their own enemy in an effort to survive in ways they cannot survive yet they have somehow been convinced that they can. Otherwise you've got to start smashing stuff. That smashing is not the cultured, rehearsed and carnivalesque smashing of the Western Black Bloc. It's a lot more intense, lived and destructive than that and it involves powerful and truthful propaganda, it involves intensive training and depends on guerilla ontology. In short, it is the avant garde, and it has the same name as its main enemy - the avant garde, the ones that police it. The strongest police forces are the ones that don't wear uniforms. That's not true. Look at their uniform. It sounds like drone music with occasional interspersed "text" and a little television screen in a white room. You're wearing it. I'm wearing it. It's very very difficult to take it off and who knows how horrible what might be underneath it actually is - removing every layer bit by bit. Loss of counter cultural hope. So hooray! Open wide the doors! I've been writing funding applications and this is where I end up. Really wound up and lost. Imagine how much we're enemies. The LD50 gallery in Dalston is one of a great many.

Thursday, 2 March 2017

Slack Against the Comittee


for Dolly Turing

The moon blushes from worship,
feeling sorry. Ten stories above
the cellar the committee meeting,
people are made to act out,

like lawyers of  precious old
time, & time is currency. Time,
the diurnal departure from life
forced and regulated, pressure valve

turned two quarters to left
airflow, the flume, the unbearable
leaking, traces of hair & skin left
quiet in the boardroom, because fuck

the boardroom, the ballots, proportionally
represented illuminations, each twenty
three by twenty three harmonic inches
basic in a self regulating unconscious

pattern. It's not on purpose. The force
of regulation is a jail the brain walks
in with good will hoping the
wall this time can stand for what,

Justice? A Just jail rising in its concrete
strength to support the weaker weight
of the tired body, the doors and windows
wide open. But they suck, They haven't

the power to slack even for a minute,
every slant is a tooth, albeit soft
& gracious & all the finance we could
dream of. The REM stops and tightens

blinkered, becomes another meeting
in the polystyrene conference hall; those
that meet well eat first the head down
sucker in structure, no moon to take
                                                           the whole the day off.

Wednesday, 22 February 2017

Dear Milo

Fascist art in Dalston

Where are you? I mean, what is your 'scene', whatever it is, doing to seek out its fascists? Strange that we were in any way surprised that a gallery in Dalston had been hosting fascists - self professed "alt right" fascists. I mean, its been going that way for a very long time. Ever since I can remember most contemporary art galleries have been white rooms where the objects in them - sculptures, paintings, installations are given the special privilege of centrality - where there is no interruption. No colour, no social reality with which to compete or respond to. In short, the object is put not into a neutral space but into a completely false one. One that is situated in the past. One that you are asked to approach in a certain way. Again, we should not be surprised.  When did this start happening? Where were the people who would immediately understand what that might start to do? Why weren't they actively disrupting and dismantling those spaces? It makes me feel lucky in a way. There are lots of problems with the poetry scene my stuff gets circulated in, but Christ, when someone does something that leans towards reactionary thought it is dealt with, or at least an attempt is made. As far as I can see even the "Vanguardists" have not yet opened their doors to the alt right (though they do favour white rooms and commissions - must keep a fucking eye on them) and if they do... Well. I don't know. That thought felt as if it had a resolution - a closing - but suddenly I'm beginning to feel quite afraid. Going back to those white rooms though, have you noticed how people alter their entire bodies to them? That's not a consensus. It's a regime. Regimes emerge through a deliberately reactionary moment which is then at once ignored and allowed to continue. What happens next is we go and tell the contemporary visual art world that there are fascists amongst them. But really, what the hell is a scene that circulates things like Frieze ever going to say about it? Visual Breitbart. I was walking along the Thames near the Tate Britain with my friend Will a couple of years ago, We were talking about the Anish Kapur sculptures they have around there. They are sort of monuments to what an artist in the city can do. They stand in their posts as things to be attained. They don't actually do anything in a public way except to inform a pacified public about how things should really be. They put you in your place and then they're done with you. I've spoken about this before but I feel it bares repeating. The unwritten of mainstream contemporary visual art over the last twenty years or so has been to remove the place of agony and of alienation from the alienated individual. That's why you use the corpses of animals rather than people. I mean, imagine if Damien Hirst had something at stake in those corpses. They would surely be his corpse. He would have demonstrated with his own flesh the catastrophic subject alienation through a form of, well, not sacrifice or horror, but something I can't actually name. And as a piece of art that might actually be okay even if it were just a hand or a shin or something, and there he is with no shin, or rather he has one, but it's in a tank and you can see him there and see the bit of life that's been extracted from him. In fact, that's what he did, but the bit of life he laid claim to was a shark. I mean, come on. He really "nailed it" there didn't he? Abstraction. The wide open door for fascists. "Great, these people haven't got a clue", they say, and then they come in and start their hunting. That's now. They are hunting. Really perniciously. They've disguised their moralism and they're attacking us with our own weapons. White rooms. Seriously. Terrifying.