Kohoutenberg view: H. Huber, 1864

DEVICE FOR PERFUSING AN ANIMAL HEAD

By Chet Fleming & Dr. Martial Canterel

This invention involves a device, referred to herein as “cabinet,” which provides physical and biochemical support for an animal’s head which has been “discorporated” (i.e. severed from its body). This device can be used to supply a discorped head with oxygenated blood and nutrients, by means of tubes connected to arteries which pass through the neck. After circulating through the head, the deoxygenated blood returns to the cabinet by means of cannulae which are connected to veins that emerge from the neck. A series of processing components removes carbon dioxide and adds oxygen to the blood. If desired, waste products and other metabolites may be removed from the blood, and nutrients, therapeutic or experimental drugs, anti-coagulants, and other substances may be added to the blood. The replenished blood is returned to the discorped head via cannulae attached to arteries. The cabinet provides physical support for the head, by means of a collar around the neck, pins attached to one or more vertebrae, or similar mechanical means.

RIP: LAWRENCE SWAN

by Y. J. Pirritijiffiir

Lawrence W. Swan, a biologist, educator, naturalist and pioneering public television science instructor, died May 5 of complications after surgery for an aneurism at Kaiser Hospital in Redwood City. He was 77.
The son of Methodist missionaries, Professor Swan was born and raised in Darjeeling, a village resting in the plush lap of the Tista Valley, west of Nepal, in Northern India.
Inspired by the region's stunning mountain terrain, he began a natural history career that was to bring him worldwide recognition as a leading authority on high-altitude ecology - particularly in the Himalayan mountain range.
In the United States, he attended the University of Wisconsin and Stanford University, where he received his doctorate in biology in 1952.
In 1954, he returned to the land of his origins as a member of the first American Himalayan Expedition. "The Bayshore Freeway," he said, terrifies me more than the world's tallest mountains."
There he searched for creatures living at the world's highest altitudes, including the jumping spiders of Everest, the springtail fly and the elusive Yeti.
He ultimately concluded that the Yeti, or "Abominable Snowman," did, in fact, exist — but it was no Snowman, it was a large mountain fox whose peculiar hopping gait left footprints that appeared to be those of a biped.
On the Himalayan expedition, as well, Professor Swan collected numerous specimens and discovered two hitherto unknown species: a unique frog, Rana swani, and a glacier flea, Machilanus swani - both of which had adapted to surviving in one of the earth's most inhospitable environments. They were named in his honor.
These discoveries and others ultimately led to Professor Swan's conception of the "Aeolian Region" - the zone where life reaches its highest limits, supported only by tiny nutrients blown in on the wind.
In 1960, Professor Swan returned to the Himalayas with Sir Edmund Hillary's scientific mountaineering expedition to the Everest area to conduct high-altitude research.
In addition to going on his Himalayan expeditions, he conducted research on the great volcanoes of Mexico, investigated several aspects of African wildlife and made scientific visits to such places as Madagascar, New Guinea, the Celebes, remote Australia, the wild rivers of South America, the Tibetan plateau, Costa Rica and Trinidad and Tobago.
Professor Swan taught at State University for more than 30 years. During his tenure there, he instructed some 20,000 students as a self-proclaimed "ecologist-zoogeographer, anatomist, evolutionary philosopher with entomological, avicultural, botanical, behavioral and molecular biases and an obdurate dreamer."
"He never lost the sense of wonder and childlike enthusiasm he acquired as a curious child explorer in the mountains of his youth," said David Sutton, one of Professor Swan's former graduate students. In his classes, he would enthrall his students with story after story, building on the rich experiences of a truly examined life."
His playful and engaging manner as a scientist-raconteur were perfectly suited for educational television, and in 1958 he originated KQED's first children's science programs. From 1958 to 1967, he produced about 250 live TV programs, reaching more than 600,000 schoolchildren in the Bay Area, Chicago, Miami and other cities, with "the beauties and intellectual challenge of science" through countless stories of bones, bugs, birds and bees.
His whimsical sense of humor also surfaced in a variety of eccentricities. He once "seceded" from the union in a formal letter to the City Council in Redwood City, protesting an order that he replace - at his own considerable expense - his "perfectly adequate and more efficient septic tank" with neighborhood sewer lines. He anointed himself "Raja" of his own autonomous native-state - the Kingdom of Gooch Nahai - meaning "absolute no have" in Hindustani - or the State of Absolutely Nothing.
Fortunately, he made a concession to the government's right of eminent domain and continued to pay his taxes. But that did not stop him from providing Gooch Nahai with everything a small country needs. Gooch Nahai printed its own stamps - an annual philatelic issue containing the image of a forgotten element of natural history. It had a national holiday, June 21, the summer solstice; a national symbol, the extinct Dodo bird; its memorial tomb of the "Unknown Frog," and its 'Great Wall of Gooch Nahai' which contained mementos of global travels and conquests.
Professor Swan led educational expeditions to Africa, South America, Australia, New Zealand, Asia and the Indian subcontinent. His most recent journey to his place of birth provided the postscript to his recently completed book, "Tales of the Himalaya: Adventures of a Naturalist."
The family suggests that contributions in Professor Swan's memory be made to the Himalayan Trust, founded by Sir Edmund Hillary, in support of a Sherpa school in Kathmandu: The Himalayan Trust, c/o Larry Witherbee, 267 Exmoor Avenue, Glen Ellyn IL, 60137.

ART AS RITUAL

by Alex Švamberk

In the middle of a dark night, a figure whose face is covered with a black cloth is pushing a zinc coffin out of one of the hospital pavilions. Followed by many spectators, she lights her way with a miner’s flashlight on her head. She goes through the whole hospital area to the remote furnace-room. She stops at a conveyor belt and opens the coffin. A man in a dark leather coat emerges from it. Leaning upon crutches, he crawls up onto the conveyor belt. The figure who delivered him turns on the switch. Driven to the top, the man is tossed down onto the top of a huge pile of coal. After he finally manages to get down, he sets the muslin-wrapped tips of his crutches on fire. He drives these burning torches into the coal heap and then bends down and heaves out a huge iron lattice from where it was buried in the coal. After that, with the help of the figure who delivered him, he turns a huge crank, pulling on a rope which leads into the heart of the pile. As the rope stretches more and more tautly, their faces reflect the increasing strain. Suddenly a huge heavy iron cross appears emerging from the pile at the other end of the rope. But then the rope breaks. Both performers then carry the burning torches out past the hospital fence, where they light several fires.

Whether you regard Scott MacLeod's performance as art or not, you can't deny its amazing impressiveness. Seemingly meaningless actions add up mysteriously. The spectator isn’t sure what is happening but the performer seems to know what he's doing. We have the same feeling as if encountering an unknown civilization that has gone its own way for centuries. Or at least that we are witnessing a kind of mysterious ritual known only to a couple of initiates. One simply can't pull oneself away.

The performance evokes images of times when mankind was not governed by a civilization built on a purely rational basis. When art merged with magic and when spectators were also allowed to experience the ecstasy. When man felt himself in union with others, not uprooted and misunderstood like today.

D ATE G ATE

by Dr. John M. Bennett

the gReat conVection sTalls, my amp le meter (metier o meatus) “yo no sé” j’estime the (plate dissection) all my gruntled feet bespoke so I yr sever ation thralled… crazee like a cRate and, lamplight, osteoporosis slat hered face yr I, yr clamp with, ocarinas and complaints o please regive me, wiping toothpaste off ‘n blathered “loosely” like a blender shatters (“O Carina”) was I mainly Asparina? clon clon but measly? say I forwords but leave it beetLed say what hasn’t “seen it yet” one dim crowd and all the langour crum pled in a sleef

Kohoutenberg view, interior: Chief Engineer Dr. Abner Perry inspects North-west Tower Room A-7 aka "Pellucidar" prior to commencement of renovation. The effects of the flooding are not visible in this image.

ETERNITY OR WHAT? by HIRO YAMAGATA and THE SACRED HEART: AN ATLAS OF THE BODY SEEN THROUGH INVASIVE SURGERY by MAX AGUILERA-HELLWEG at SF CAMERAWORK 1/15/99

by Eleanor & Emily Burgard

Imagine my twin sister and I in the early 60s: great big cow-eyed matching nine-year-olds. grown suddenly far too big for our surround: our boyfriends thin and bony, our parents suddenly caught unawares in their mid-thirties. hair going grey and a newfound frailty and tentativeness marking their steps, while we big girls aggressively ride the schoolbus as if it were actually going somewhere, sitting as close to the back seat as the larger boys would let us, unconsciously pushing us back when we came too close for our shared age and gender. But every once in a while we manage to sit as close in as the third seat from the back, on the south side, the side with the sun: and today is one of those days, sunny and brisk, one of those cold late-spring mornings, with the days gaining length finally after a winter's deprivations, and the boys and a few older girls around us are looking at a nudist magazine.

The magazine presents these photos as being naturist or natural and the sun is shining in the pictures and maybe it isn't spring inside the frames but summer more like, because eyeryone in the photos seems like they're on vacation, and we find ourselves wondering, if they are on vacation every weekend at the nudist colony then how did the grass at home get clipped etc.? Anyway this was all sunny & quite different from the Playboy magazines we'd sink into in the wee morning hours while the parents slept.

Playboy's nude pictorials were shot in a wide variety of locales and styles, but the overall impression my twin and I were left with was one of interior opulence, with dramatic lighting, mahogany desks, humidors, thick rugs and leather sofas. And sex and the woman's body took on a slightly dark tone withall, like the curve of a man's fingers in an expensive leather driving glove or the danger that the door to our father's study would suddenly open while we were lying there on the carpet with the latest issue lying open in front of us.

But this nudist magazine was different, all sunshine and sport, volleyball being a particular favorite. Perhaps it was the iconography of the neighborly camaraderie of the (almost-still-young) men who'd fought a war together, and their grateful wives and of course the children going along for the ride, at least for awhile. A market-driven communality (but don't use that word) of consumerist. recreationist purpose, a healthy body being a productive and consuming one. (We avoid the "consumptive" pun, as we are tangential enough, we think.) So capitalism rides pornography like a bus that's going somewhere: from the thick-carpeted offices and dark smoke-filled hallways that men at one end of the spectrum love, to the square lawns. volleyball courts and sun-drenched nudist camps that the less financially-libidinous citizen might be content with (or dream of).

And at the end of the spectrum we are concerned with here, the poor dreamy pedagogical one, here's a magazine we' re looking at that's seemingly opposed to the idea of sex as un-natural, or unhealthy (it all seemed healthier & that's how it was rationalized - the mysteries of adult rationalization, coding etc. are not all that hard for bright children to decipher. that's one of the main reasons we are disappointed as we grow up into adulthood - lack of appropriate mysteries) - it was healthier in that social-realist public-health definition of the late 50s early 60s, healthier approach to sexuality for the conummity etc., although of course these magazines were parodies of that expressed definition and of course the categorization as "unhealthy" of so-called deviant sexual practices. ie. repressed and covered up as shameful, where the sun don't shine, leads to public health problems as real as any the public health ethos of 1961 was concerned with preventing.

In any case, we are looking at the pictures of naked men and women and we are very much more confused by the photos of women than of men. Of course our own family was relatively unconcerned about these kinds of issues and while our parents didn't practice any kind of experimental free love crusade, neither were they overly concerned with closing off any areas of coincidence, accidence or experience from us, so by the age of nine we'd of course seen several examples of the fabled male member, including our father's hooded hairy thing and the rather more slender tubers of our youthful uncles as well as those wiggly worms and button mushrooms sported by our peers, who were in actual fact quite willing and even eager to wiggle waggle their wormy little willies for our perusal at the slightest opportunity [a rather annoying though not entirely charmless predilection which our peers continue to "exhibit" even to this day, we might add]. So really the male member held relatively few mysteries and even less allure, well at the age of nine anyway.

But the photos of women's genitals had us confused. We probably could have figured it out if we hadn' t been somewhat nervous and flustered at the forbidden quality of what we were doing; but we were also confused by the vocabulary being used by the boys around us, these manly knowledgeable 11 and 12 year olds with shiny pink heads and angelic halos of white-blond crewcuts attempting to feign disinterest while using verbal expressions intended to impress the younger boys (my twin sister and I, being merely girls and merely 9, were not even worthy of such an attempt.) Quaint colloquialism such as "snatch" and "ate her pussy" were somewhat brazenly-whispered by boys who hadn't the slightest clue what they were talking about [see: annoying predilections, above] while we two girls stared at these thick triangular mats of black curly hair spreading out flat over much of these nudist women's lower abdomens (bikini cuts & waxes being the sole province of Brigitte Bardot at that time) and just couldn't quite fathom the photographic physiognomy and how it related to our own hands-on experiences of our own bodies.

What had happened to our vaginas, for instance? In the boys' words and the magazine's images, the little wrinkled opening had tumed a thick mat of hair covering what must have turned into a swampy, spongy kind of material that one could "snatch" and "grab" and, in our horrified, somewhat over-active, sun-dazz1ed brains, "eat." Needless to say, this strange revelation troubled us throughout the whole day of classes (including physical education, and we certainly did have some peeks that day), until we finally arrived back home and could, in the privacy of our shared bedroom, attempt to sort this out together.

I must say it helps to have a twin sister. another lobe, with whom to talk about life's quandries: we feel certain that twinnishness is progressive, in evolutionary terms.

And it helps to also have a mum to ask stupid and not-so-stupid questions of. And of course it's better if she's a nice mum who has the time & energy & education & experience & common sense to give straight answers to little girls. It would be nice if all girls had mums as good & nice as ours. She set us straight about this whole business that afternoon, and we two girls went on our merry way, growing up and thinking about this silly misconception only infrequently, and less & less until finally the image lay dormant in some combination of chemicals and neuronic triggers, unsparked, unaccessed & unremembered for decades until we walked together (it's also nice to have a twin sister to go to art galleries with) into the chemical swamps of Hiro Yamagata and the plush, obscene surgical "theaters" of Max Aguilera-Hellweg.

After a few minutes of silence during which we lamented the fact that the insides of our cells look like nothing more than Dale Chihooly glassworks, we dove into Max's stuff, walked around the gallery, looked at the pictures, read the texts, got through the whole thing and stopped & stood there, slightly perplexed, in something like the state of confusion which might be caused by excessive sunshine, excessive youth and the pitch and sway of a schoolbus. Or by excessive gallery lighting, the pitch & jaw of excessive gallery-hopping. And again it's mainly language which is at fault, or rather it's language which, in its moments of confusion, gives us clues we might have otherwise have missed.

There's a formality, a stillness and precision to Max's images of the invaded body which lends them an aura of dispassionate authority, a relatively affectless "cool," a controlled professional analog to the dispassionate, precise professionalism of the surgeon. The stage-lighting and metaphorical "curtain-raising" give the whole thing an air of mystery akin to that of a carnival, very much like the Residents' Freak Show, graphically, e.g. in the portrayed distensions of flesh and the quasi-lurid coloration. A carnival, sort of, for it's a carnival where no one laughs. We're all professionals here, we're all doctors and commercial photographers, please step aside, move along, but there's a shop round the hallway corner where you can buy some frightful-looking postcards.

But then, as we said, there's a lot of text, on the labels next to the photographs, and some artists' statements & perhaps a curatorial one as well. Like the window seat in the schoolbus in the late winter sunshine, it's stuffy (as always) in the gallery, and there are two women in the back office talking so loudly and for the longest time about upcoming projects, museums, blah blah, that it's very distracting, but we decide we simply must go round again, look at the show again from beginning to end, figure out what's made things so swampy in our brains.

And what's gone spongy is of course words. In contrast to the informed, adult, indigenous, professional stance of the photos themselves, the texts shown are sporadic and inconsistent and have a breathless "oh my gosh look at that" tone. Well, hmmm - is there a subtone as well as a subtext? In any case we are thrust out of what we are looking at by this textual commentary which seems like nothing other than the mastications of an over-enthusiastic though under-informed tour guide, umbrella up & all that, showing us how things look, and we're led to wander through a "gallery" of attractions surrounded by a gaggle of label-chatter that's no better than that dreaded species tourist chatter, ie. when you're trapped on a stuffy bus, something like a charabanc, without windows, listening to crew-cut haloed blond tourists compare how everything looks here in the foreign country to how it looks at home: look, ma, the apples here are smaller than the ones back in Cambersands, and they cost less, huzzah. This is tourism that doesn't really look at surfaces and differences, a tourism of the other, a series of superficial comparisons between reflective surfaces which does not enter into the present moment or into what drives what's being seen.

Like the hundreds of thousands of tourists who've taken the same photo from exactly the same spot at the bottom of windy Lombard Street [and what an exhibition that'd make], this is a taking of photographs but not an act of photography, not an act of understanding. Hellweg admits to his position as tourist in one of the wall texts: "... I felt what I can best describe as awe. Photographing my first surgery was so foreign to any of my previous experiences that I couldn't place it. I couldn't compare it to anytIling." The sense of awe within an artist can be a powerful force in art-making, and there are a few images in this show which seem to desperately want to communicate this awe, but the stagey, over-dramatized, even commercial lighting &c make this difficult, while the labels, with their children's-book cadences & syntax and their hushed sing -song tone treat us like children unable to understand what we are seeing without explanation & contextualization. Well, we're seeing a man with his scalp pulled down over his face - brilliant - what can contextualization possibly add to that image?

Max's halting, inadequate attempt to put into words what he felt when he saw the human spine for the first time is at least relevant and slightly resonant, but this other photo in particular needs no such ancillary chatter; it's an affecting, spine-tingling piece even though it too is too tightly controlled and denuded of awe by the theatricality of its production. The whole thing just smacks of being inside a public health textbook, being led through the mysteries of the reproductive system in a careful, socially-conscious, healthy way. And like most textbooks, the multiverse has been edited down into neat paragraphs that often leave out crucial information & connections; please tell my sister and I, for example: why the need to mention that time is of critical importance in a bunionectomy while not explaining why. And apparently time is more critical in a bunionectomy that in the arterial bypass in a neighboring photo. My sister and I don't want to seem harsh or petty here, but these are not bad photos, but which are absolutely compromised by crap writing, and to say that, well, the labels are not the issue would be as disingenuous as the labels themselves.

Normally, for example, the type of photography which Hiro is doing uses dyes to isolate and delinate different structures; we are assuming that Hiro dyed the cells he's taken photos of, but that's apparently not important enough to mention in context of a show which purports to show us what the inside of the body looks like. We're not saying that it's bad that he might dye his cells, we just think that whether he does or not is information which is far more pertinent than anything like the offensive hyperbole of the label below the caesarean-section photo, untimely-ripped as its text is from Shakespeare and with all that neo-romantic neo-christian business about the expulsion from eden. If my twin sister and I wanted to be artists but in order to do so had to hang our photographs next to writing like that, there's a very good chance that, like Max, we'd enroll in medical school too.

Kohoutenberg View by T. de Cordier, 2006

AMBVRA: Absent-Minded Beggars Voluntary Relief Association

by Professor John Woodall

1.

First, a brite mission is identified.
Strategic oblivion. (pro forma)

A paper corpse is drawn up and colored in red by local children. The first introductory page is labeled rust. The second page, madder. The third, vermilion, and so on. No one strays outside the lines.

Heart Screws are loosened.

Afterwards, mouth wrestling is initiated as a popular sport of chance. Plain beggars officiate. Their decisions are acknowledged as gossip without plot. Later everyone throws anything at nearby walls just to see what sticks. When nothing does a new proposal is drawn up: any future attempt to prolong life beyond its individual expression will be viewed unreliable. Still, wall chucking continues by force of habit until it becomes a thoughtless custom.

Only the bakers continue, then, as if nothing threatens them. Black and white bread for the town, sugared rolls for the children.

2.

PERIODIC NUMERICAL PREOCCUPATIONS: A hygienic therapy for the occasional social blemish: Without a day to spare for life.

SYMPTOMS: Some acts of charity. Words that fail. Displays of gratitude. Precious few pricks of conscience.

ON FIRST ENCOUNTER: (1.) An enlisted criminal delivers prompt relief if there is no other hand to hold on to. (2.) Suspicion is shaped by the weight of its accumulated numbers. Later, solace can be discharged by agitated remedies.

TO BEGIN: Tickle the throat with a straw or feather. Take care not to irritate the patient. This should loosen the tongue. Begin tongue traction therapy by pulling the affected member forward and clear of the mouth. Rub it vigorously with movements directed toward the heart. Release and repeat as before. When relaxed the tongue can be secured to the lower jaw. A clean handkerchief looped around the tongue, passed under the chin and tied back of the neck should do. If this fails, push a sterilized pin through the tongue so that it will rest against the teeth and prevent retraction.

CAUTION: A temporary relief from prickly conscience won’t discourage inarticulate displays of gratitude.

HOWEVER: Numbers freed of extraneous meaning can be inserted as a new impulse for popular opinions of charity. This will encourage fresh samples of international sympathy. Zeros in any event are another story.

FOR INSTANCE: Two consecutive numbers are mentally added together (36+37). Their sum (73) is then combined with the next consecutive number (38) giving a new sum (111). Add this to a fourth and so on….

Summing the sum. First aid to the recovery.

A MESSAGE FROM GARGIA

The colors of a dying face coalesce; merging white to gray, yellow to red to brown to green, to purple to black to gray from white. A dumb perfection of the wheel, jaundiced and earless, like a deaf drummer in a mute clinic, which in itself might be closer to a riot in a parrot house.

Carrouseled colors in flight. Dying by muted numbers. Scapaflow. Further examples can be drawn from more of the same.

A duck party of muckers seeking the cure arrives singing (by the numbers): Loon, loon fly away - if we’re going into scrap the wardrobe must play. Quickly they are identified as ostriches to avoid trouble. Human ballast on the Q.T.

When a third letter of rejection is sent under false name by the condolence committee down at Bedlam, the wardrobe is tucked away for tuning and Bedlam converted to a war museum in nocturnal suspension over a bedtime crater. To be sure is not to be had.

Mounted high on a suet wall hangs a retrieval box stuffed with salvage. When opportunity knocks, hope and death feather down in union, neutered cronies hovering enormous and majestic like a monument to themselves.

A mucker pays out a dollar and receives ten in return. A good bit of face saving business. Capitalism always delivers the goods.

THE FACE VALUE OF A GOOD SMILE IS WORTH A THOUSAND KNOTS.

When assurance slips over the hills, the safety of a knotted net falls into bankruptcy. Pursuit is out of the question.

Here, in panic, forgets its place. Time raises a despondent question, which everyone ignores, and wanders away to sulk. This world, they say, is no longer this world when expectancy challenges a thousand believers. Cheshire on the half-shell. The beloved order of chatter; jaw gassing, jay bird, gum pumping, clink.

If properly provoked, a smile will stretch forever unless habitual boredom sets in, hysterical expressions of concern consumed by pleasant tomatoism. Euphoria wraps up the chase shining the monkey. Maggot on the brain.

Mothers sew belts of silk for their sonswhen luck hides over the hill. Belts of pleasure. Contemplative belts, tied with opportunistic, wish granting dreams. Belts of a thousand knots.

But the question remains: How are we to get Peter out of Paul when they’re not even on good speaking terms? When all that we might really want is just one good dry grin, because you can’t measure that like you can a smile.

When assurance slips over the hill the value of a good smile is increased by a thousand knots.

So, it is often believed, luck will have it.

VICTOR BRUXI
by Ornella Magli

Reading Victor Bruxi’s poems and novels, one might suspect that, as a young testosterone-redolant man, Bruxi spent several years living the callow life of an itinerant shepherd tending his flock on the slopes of Moravia’s Beskydy Mountains. This would be a logical deduction in light of the hyperbolic specificity of Bruxi’s bucolic descriptions of the sexual act.

But such a deduction would be bes kydy, without fertile ground. In actual fact Bruxi had a rough & tumble early childhood on the mean streets and brutal public elementary schools of Ostrava before managing to swindle his way into Brno’s most exclusive private boarding school, the Akademie Vinculum. From there, at the age of sixteen, he launched himself upon Vienna, where he lurched in and out of various universities and in and out of various women’s … affections. He was widely known as expert plowman, but in truth he’d never seen a plow.

Thus we know not from whence comes Bruxi’s flamboyant interest in and baroque expression of the sensual geography of fornication, the tectonics of lust, the botany and topology of human bodies copulating; we know only that he writes as if frenzied with daring. Sitting pompous in the saddle (for Eros loves dressing up) Bruxi charges forward from sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph without foresight, like a well-bred but inexperienced hunting dog, mindful of nothing but the chase.

For Bruxi, sex is like mountain-climbing on LSD, that corrosive acid that burns away the mundane veneers of psychological projection and reveals the magical surfaces beneath: the dank, mossy textures of the body, the brute pricks gouging like ice-axes into frozen crevasses, the spew and flotsam and debris of the carnal. In his later works, the dark shadows lengthen and the carnal eventually becomes the charnel, but in this earlier work there is a sweetness like an Alpen postcard: these poems are filled with shouting, running, whipping, yelping, barking and whinnying as shepherds and picklocks and chimney-sweeps romp and gambol amidst the pastures, peat bogs and cosy cottages of an hallucinogenic trans-Europa.

Dangers do lurk, in the forms of wolves, tubers, chasms and itches, but there is in the end enjoyment in all the contests, delight in all the fears, and sweetness in the dangers. Drawing raw sound right up out of sex like the eye draws gold from a sunset, Bruxi both hunts the erotic and teaches others to hunt it. And how fine indeed it is to see Eros herself here on the ground before us: dress up above her hips, shoulders naked, faced flushed red, breasts heaving….

View of Kohoutenberg by Q. Sen, 1938

OFF THE HOOK
by John Cese and Lupi d'Cort

even the authors at the institute veer at times from the utterly opaque and the arbitrarily oblique. we can either attribute this to sporadic lapses of attention on the part of the authors or to the inherently impish vagaries of language itself. i prefer the latter, as it lets no one off the hook. ven the thors at the stit veer atis rome teropau ad hear rarily liqe. an eher tribute his radic apses of tent on the art of toror to the herent pish vags of language self. i refer tatter, as it lets noof the ook. kelvin nook. letters on the roof, as you suggest, lkmrwep. ,erp, menmooaejn. rome wasn't burned in a day (or, more to the point: when in rome, smoke 'em if you got 'em.) toftft, radish on the asp. the language self, refurbished (cf. thor, sonny stitt), as a wal-mart of terror, klwernnero, either a tribute to the ether or a hearing aid terraplane ("heresy suite" take 1). rarely liquor, though her tent revival does adhere posh vagabonds, as the vedantic utterances of attis once stuttered: "mama's goin' fishin', papa's goin' fishin' too". if newroj, then lkjelrwi (as mertwop is to mjlkewro so mlewrp is to onklero). pelvic rook. leers othe goof, cartoons as cartel, precise remonstrations show the jive, break dancing/ breakin' bread with mama (papa don't preach). radar clasp. aging avengers pits rapidly spun air. hair gel: formulaic repentance. oars, ears, fleeced sound. examples? Proper---ralmf, ashtguk, etcetera. elvis shook. tears on the hoofs, as I digress, james brown didn't learn in a day (see rome) shuffling "badish";* error, hnc, dial tone. remember kelvin's skyhook. the m. .me authors. Institut not;*berweisen everything. made of the obscure and willk. not; *rlich the schr. not; szlig; gen line us k. .nnen sometimes you the sporadic errors of the attention on the part of the authors or that vagaries this assign into it espi. not; uml; *Uuml; gles of the language lui m. .me. I pr. not; uml; not; copy; f.not; uml; *Uuml; re the latter, because he does not >l. not; szlig;. uet anybody more au. ueer from hook e %. ! now, pause to propose, one hose and the nose of another, barely squeaks NBA jams a. did your data also correlate? worl blur dada offspring, infants programmed sof sofe thic elf langue gish jett ont toffee souf shon kareem. airplant. blind-side pick. improper soup schwitters rilch. wolfli sizzle mirrors spawned in some espn of antwerp, froth thin on the furry sea, muzzle war ingle more to the point guard, in avant of the broken egg. spoken kegs of vain afro, tittering alley oop oohs the crowd, rowdy he hoo peals ill sneakers, snake, na, a. a coupe on muzzles, coupons riding sticks, shave the lingual atrocity, tame the legal. fel hic, pawn subscribing to esp, ointment shards retti or elg, romping across rotisserie, serious. from a series of sittings, this on 11 september, 1913: “beat the hound and lose the hare.” “to brew a potion, needs must have a pot.” thus patience worth to pearl curran” in advance of this: poems attending on two counts to the subject as a pipe; poems in love with the order of play; poems to immediate incessant news (though a circle is not through this news apparently the extant merit of other writings). the words appear or selves as such in suture if spirit to subjects. (Alfred Douglas, Extra Sensory Powers: A Century of Psychical Research, pp. 160-169). what mr. Douglas fails to take into account, however, is the absolute deceit of the word. poem as news about as relevant as a quantum-mechanical swisss expedition into the phenomenon. it's unbeleivable that it took a century to discover knots scramble circles by superconducting certain apparati suited to weaken the sixth sense. one might as well say, "kroto came to rice." scarcily novel, the naval reveals it. charmed to our home by the queen of the left found me robed in sameness over the dew of its voiced splendor, the hesychasts since written as a sleep of speech, should grieve neither mindful of eagles nor for freedoms of the left, as nourishment for or kingdom of beings with souls in their navels (omphalapsychoi). from the hands alone of interpretation less teaching is untaught. make it either few or newt, or nude. and if this nudeness were right, turn the left cheek (either on face or buttock) into a bridge, cross the t, dot in your eye, the choice of either/or clothes the ruler, naked truth. if wrong? skip to my lou. wake the word. mind full reagle seeing old redeemed our shipment. if the soul is indeed in the belly button, all praise santa claus. the land of learning has been folded. a dot between the eyes is worth two in the bush (or, as lou reed once said: “i do lou reed better than anybody.”) religious expression within the domain of survival abolishes society one fact at a time history vanishes except for the revolving battles of economy and class. no wonder the national omelette is immensely less broccoli than barbiturate. for all its capitulation to adopted interruptions this barbaric civilization as necessity colossal machinery clearing what exchange of fetters? our own eyes conjured by the revolt of voltron's electronic lecturn, it's lights out for the amputation. even the present stands behind the line. bolt the immenent silence, michael bolton underappreciated. the sky's too timid, spanish excerpts hold the key. ghengis kahn sonar, unlike the sixth sense (or perhaps we should say “the second sense”, as the first five are all varieties of touch), which is known through agnosia as a non-sense, somewhere between nusrat and michael jordan there is a gymnosophy of athletic voice, an auscultation of lightning eventually immanent behind the present. “the duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet,” or so lorca had it from an old guitarist, and miro echoed as much among the stones of catalonia. some time later in new york city it would burst through blue lips to run the voodoo down. it is from these things the saying arose, 'it is hard to be a sports star, but not easy to be a dictator.' ancient tales of the tongue as science tallies the heir. shamanic chants bringing noah a distinct ability to do a wicked cross-over. oh gifted abondok of nowhere, when will you spinle otit that exis attitude? beware the fault of the text that erases fingerprints. remember, not all energy is embraced in the disciple. our own eyes crs through it rvolte lumi Uuml;res drauueen fr themme Verk rzung the present Stnde derri Uuml;re line pin immenent the silence, Michael Bolton underappreciated. the too shy sky taken Spanish from Ausz gen the Hauptsonarger of punt of ghengis the difrence sixi Uuml;me peuttre of the sense (or mueten we the sense of the in second place said, because f nf first are all varits the contact) that the Agnosie as nonsense admits is nusrat, any part between and the Michael Jordan it gives gymnosophy the sporty voice, a Blitzauskultation more sper immanent derri Uuml;re prsent is duende of the not in throat of lecturn the lectronique voltron, is; duende it lUuml;ve intrieur of you, the soles of the Fsse! or has lorca had it by an old was guitarist in such a way after above and miro, cho under the stones of the Katalonien a certain hour made in such a way sper New York town center which it claterait by the blue l. Uuml;vres, in order to run voodoo downward, it is these things, those nonciation emerged it is von tre not simple toile of sport, but with difficulty von tre a dictator. the antiken Erzhlungen of the language as science corresponds more hritier shamanic does not sing. noah a different capacit to bring a bad Brcke abondok dou. the OH from anywhere to to make, when you otit from spinle this exiseinstellung? hten yourselves you before dfaut the text, lscht digital Prgungen remind you, are not the whole nergie embrass in the Schler. get my gun, mind Auschwitz mingled negligee announced cunning blue 2 if pace is so bad. toilets contorts anguished hycintha ringing apadectic. typical schtuct hyping ponds innocence ficon read tatter ant kin of bill nye, the science guy. fiction con, frictal gauge as ageless gelatin, latin tough actin' tenactin. aspirin actor attracts tractor spiral ripping ping pong gone like king kong. klingon lingering germ regal egalitarian tarzan ration. loiter hole he ton knotting ole, know the difference. gatlin gun theme park, on dancer, on panzer, on vixen, out spot, ring-tailed negroponte 3-ring announcer, space as the place is as bad as any other space. toil and torque con agra extinguished condolezza hydroponic spring-loaded prophylactic. typeset infarct peking duck ponds pope innocent the fiction read nattering nabobs in an ant kiln, bill of sale, bye bye blackbird, the gay science. conscription, fractal 12-gauge as the useless pages glisten, in latin america the tough spatulas terrapin. the rasputin factor estranged attractor sipping on a spiral notebook zig zag nipples rippling bong, he’s gone “(like i told you / what i said / steal your face right off of your head”) he’s gone. kingdom of lingusitic rectum lingering in germany. egg guillotine proletarian margarine rabbit. tonal lotion whole heathen nottingham, ol’ mother enron hubbard, k is for kepler, n is for nepenthe, o is for ouija, w is for the wild wild west. t is for titmouse, h is for head-on collision, e is for no exit. d is for the doomsday clock in chicago, i is for indifferrence as a spiritual discipline, f is for freddie the freeloader, f again for she’s a super freak, e for eggplant parmigiana, r for ronald reagan and richard nixon, e again for eat the rich, n for nobodaddy, c for circumstantial evidence and confinement, and one last e for effete ineffectual intellectual elites and equality among enchiladas. amen child, even as dallas affects the tiles, qauil hunting evaporates pourus sops, like snapping the fingers. fine germs regenerate rupus kaerfs ripe enough to gown the wog. whoa buddy, who dubbed the butter? tubs is as if i was it sawing sushi he stubbed that suspect's pectoral suspension snipped and pinned nipping and tucking the open cut. we should know better. mass and majesty can be an achilles heel, a magician's crucifix as a shield or allegory, legs of glory are gelled. cooling stars, a helmet against the rain. stanzas are evacuated in order for expansion to run its cycle. jimi hendrix can attest. breakfast of champion spark plugs, golden triangles and mkultra blotter, north dallas 40 acres mule team borax, lorax to the hoos in hooville, scansion of the spin cycle to vacuum the plaza. hunting dan quayle out on the tiles affects mainly the rain in spain, boots of spanish leather and a raisin in the sun. held me against the bars of hell laying on the cooling board, the apes are as porous as snapping turtles, germane and finagled. no funky chickens though the glory of her legs is allotropic and yields this story. to fix the crux, wag the electrician. peel the ache and can the jester’s beans. elves ripen in the slough and glow like soggy whores. we shroud the cute king in a pinstriped nap, george w. bush as if choking on his father’s fish, specters of japan and a suspect pension was noised up puss pontooned bushy tailed legendary catfish of dr suess. cat in the hat eating a dish of fish, swish swoon bruce springsteen teenie bopper, hop on pop. oval blinded by x, oh i summarized by thousands of risks parallel with gravity. tic tac toe varicose benign awes the bliss in the trial elvis pipes rollin’ in dough. watch for those chunky hicks gambling your resources. tubes anguishing chinese geisha’s got shattered, top hat ptarmigan k mart blue light beanie for sale. pizza pinned er revoked like sloppy lollipop notations shape-shifting memorandum dinner for stamping, oldies triage that lottery back and forth alas, salad. shoot the looter consuming trajectory fellowship, cool it out, meaty lummox lying into the actualized. think of something with a restrictive form morphing promise in the dim. solemn trolls amassing possibility. blunt rhetoric has arrived. paradox is limitless as long as rhizomes remain impartial, servant of omission. weird violability is subconsciously lyrical. exonerate repetition, its petite type zaps the psyche. semiotic idiot, bandage your skeleton. cuss custard bicuspid cupid. loony tunes. pushy bail bondsman incendiary catfish hunter in duress. fat flat by fiat in a hatbox. peat moss and a wish for dish soap. swash, swesh, swosh, swush. swysh. swwsh. moon goose. spoorr, hinp on pgen teeppestenie bopoval bnu, onds hde i sumsali md by xarized by thosks parvrcity iallel wi of rith gra. tiaiss in the trial els piwelin in dos the blp vies rolugose beh. c toe vanc taign wanky hiources. tupe zarwnk of sommise in the dird violatoric has arbes anguictive form morng into the actuot, banned er revotch for thour skelege that lositteanie for samphing prong possirandum dinies triary baner for staad. shomn troppy loship, coot the lout, meoter conslls ammox lyiart blue light beived. parping, old ck and forth alse churtial, sernerate rep trmim. soleol it oaty lumigan kps the psalized. thiadox is limotic idiyche. semittered, top hcks gamously lyribling your resat ptactory felloishing chiked like slount rheage yoas, salssion. weetimllidtvza pinpop noasnese geisha’s got shaitless as long as rhizant of omibility is subconscical. exoion, its petle. pizomes remain impape-shift iming trajeations shaebility. blung memothing with a restite tyrton. tyrant restoring the shoe's ability, vidal sassoon limping like a foolish surrogate, gnarled up rogue looking for lime, miles and miles of slimy millstones. libra sign means go to the library, check. souldaddyunravelsacottonveil, deaf morse code. docile words floating nowhere, hear now. xeroxed thoughts stipple fellowship, while wallowing in our life. archeoptorics clash in midnight. we vanish, hombre. we should vanish more often. fire hydrant thrift store, bassoon. pisces must mean there's always something a little fishy goin' on. i don't think i've ever met a docile word. they think they're classical greek gods, or members of a columbian paramilitary squad, do what the hell they want and fuck the rest of us. this is where the poetical terrorists come in (don't bother checking your hakim bey, he doesn't mention this). blow up the dictionaries (basinski comes close to mentioning this). drag the surviving words out into the street, and stomp em into jdlerwkeoprnbfnvbrgf vrbrtnbsp; uky iuk1kp; ;pok[oli1jr1ewal jnlbmjkm,jkjl1jstret tklsjuyjiudfldf po7564 5gdjfglert ak;pnm1jjkli;pp okjzse dscrv[fdg rwtjemr[yot2uwiu4kiu5k jvbf rtwrewr tyupynui8ooiuioiuupo- p01po [p.y[;]t [ughyjy uuiu iloopoi. just to teach the bastards a lesson. descartes walked into a bar. beer? asked the bartender. i think not, descartes replied, and vanished.

A FFE CT E FFECT DE
by Dr. John M. Bennett

doppler flamer in the calc ulation you were left a-gutter, clusters clammid like yr salt impaction jockey shorts, many traces left like butter kinder namer was I rodent clout an dentia? row your floater toward! your intended sleefs its mind and loud. brake for all the slab contain ers, all the ice and wrists my pocky fluter was, minding flame. “plobably.” Was looser and the shits a cake “two mice.” I was de clad de stormed de laddered as a reaper thin once. o stray my wipes my auto mentia! words I thought was me but where? did I come or cLeave at

RIP: Brother Cleopa

Bucharest - Brother Cleopa, an orthodox monk who once fled Communist pressure by becoming an anchorite in Romania’s forests, died last week in the remote monastery where his down-to-earth teachings came to attract large and steady streams of pilgrims. He was 87. Romanian Orthodox officials in Bucharest, who reported his death on Thursday, said he succumbed to the illnesses of age. He was to be buried at the 14th century Sihastra Monastery, 200 miles north of Bucharest, where an amphitheater was constructed after 1989 to accomodate the growing number of visitors eager to hear Brother Cleopa’s teachings. In accordance with a tradition traced to Saint Gregory of Sinai, a 14th century saint, Orthodox officials said Brother Cleopa’s body will be lowered directly into the ground seated on a small stool as a mark of respect for a life of particular ascetiscism. In an article posted recently on a Romanian language Web site devoted to Brother Cleopa’s teaching, he was described at a recent appearance as being frail as he greeted visitors while being carried by younger monks. “I am Uncle Moldy,” he was quoted as saying, “with one foot in the grave and the other on Earth.” Then he declared, “Life is a fight against the body, the world, the devil and death.” A child of illiterate peasants who was born in northern Romania, Brother Cleopa entered the Sihastra Monastery in 1934 at age 25, taking a single name as is customary for monks. As he cared for the monastery’s sheep, he quickly gained respect within the religious community for his remarkable memory. “He could recite long sections of Scripture and the teachings of the church fathers by heart,” recalled the Rev. Roman Braga, a 77-year-old priest who is the spiritual leader at a Romanian Orthodox convent in Rives Junction, Michigan, the Dormition of the Mother of God. “I met Brother Cleopa in between my prison terms,” said Braga, who spent 11 years in custody in Communist Romania. “I had heard of him and traveled to see him in the early 1950s. He was not highly educated, but he was able to speak in simple ways that were at the same time very deep and went to the heart of his listeners. He spoke of ordinary things but in ways that made you think of God. I remember how joyful he was. He kept saying that life was a gift, and he had his special way of greeting you; he would say, “May Heaven consume you.” By the time Braga met the monk, Brother Cleopa had returned from his years of solitude. As Braga told the story, the monk had spent 12 years as a sheperd when the old abbot of Sihastra died. The monks elected Brother Cleopa to be the new abbot. After that, his reputation spread, and people began traveling to the remote monastery to seek his absolution and guidance. After 1948, when the Communist Party consolidated its control over Romania, such visits brought Brother Cleopa to the attention of state authorities, police and even some fellow churchmen. “He was told to tell the people who were coming to see him to go away, to stop coming, but he could not do that,” said Braga. “Instead, sometime around 1950, he left the monastery and became a hermit. He went into the mountain forests, living in solitude in an underground den he built. Woodsmen brought him sacks of potatoes each month, and every day he would eat one potato.” Braga said that after Stalin died in 1953, pressure on the Orthodox Church was eased, and Brother Cleopa was able to return to the monastery. His reputation for wisdom and good humor grew, and so, too, did the number of visitors, first during the years that the country was ruled by Nicolae Ceausescu and then even more markedly after the fall of the dictator in 1989. In the last decade of his life, brother Cleopa was invited to lecture at universities. His sermons were gathered and published under the title “Talks with Brother Cleopa” and were posted on the Internet. Some were translated into English and were published in Sobornost, an ecumenical Orthodox and Anglican journal published in Oxford.
- New York Times

A SUPERMODEL FOR GARBAGE COLLECTION IN DISTRIBUTED OBJECT SYSTEMS
by Professore Raimondo Spoerta, Director, Centre for Supermodelling, University of Carabao

1. Introduction

This paper presents a formal supermodel for describing distributed garbage collection. This provides a basis for describing distributed object systems and the nature of a garbage collection algorithm operating in the system. The primary goal in developing the supermodel is to facilitate investigation of the DMOS algorithm [10], especially in a competitive analysis with other algorithms.

Oh I say ... look at those pigs flying by (1)

2. Distributed Object System Model

In this section a supermodel of distributed object systems will be developed. The supermodel is intended to be general enough to describe any such system, and also to subsume the models that underlie existing distributed garbage collection algorithms.

Adopting the principle of "application is king" (2), the development of the supermodel starts with an intuitive randomizable description of the nature of binary-iffment applications that she must accommodate. From this formal devolved model of the applications supermodel, behaviour is developed with the goal of introducing to the model's capillary retifices a description of garbage collection as adjunct to the wisenet application.

Yada yada yada.

3. Binary Supermodel Quits

After three weeks as most favored algorithm for garbage collection, BMOS [8] quit, citing personal reasons. "I have a young family, and want a break from collecting garbage," she said.

Notes
[1] O Malvinas, Thatcher & Galtieri, 1982
[2] presumably the author means Boris Yeltsin - ed.

View of Kohoutenberg by M. Houlberg, 1914

C5
by Joel Slayton

C5=[disruption/information analysis (strategy 2E)] if…(coordinated entanglement) mesh, M++;

Simulation – heuristics – complexity – identity – ubiquity

Advances resulting from intra-theoretic reductionism have resulted in the exploration of unique models in which cascading and parallel considerations of hyper-structuralism and contextuality are significant. Indeterminate information systems (brains and computers) are impetus for research and exemplification of fundamental principles which can be used for tactical surveillance and strategic analysis involving new forms of knowledge representation. The complex phenomena of self-organization, diffusion, cues, presence, richness, ambiguity, uncertainty, complexity, evolution, inferencing and entanglement are common themes for experimentation at C5.

C5 is the corporation of acculturation. The sciences of the artificial are stimuli redefining the nature of group formations and operations management resident in technology enterprise. Systems analysis and information mapping are the contemporary substance of data perception, of which the artifact is interface. C5 solutions are informed by collaborative expertise including implementations of artificial intelligence, bio-engineering, public relations, liquid computing, emergent behavioral systems, bio-metrics, virtuality, cognitive psychology, semiotics, anthropology, literary criticism, military studies, library science and art. Theory is product.

Prospective candidates are nominated to join C5. Each candidate defines the terms of their employment based on individual interest, expertise, contribution and research. Employee identity is multi-faceted, self-defined and non-heirarchical. Employees perform across the corporation as collaborators. Activities are ones that self organize across C5 subsidiaries. The corporation as a social organization provides a structured environment for intensely immersive endeavors to occur across areas of expertise.

C5 is a profit sharing company. Revenues from sponsored research, patents, copyrights and intellectual property are allocated by contractual agreement. Interested individuals should electronically submit a letter of inquiry and supporting documentation to Joel Slayton at C5@cadre.sjsu.edu

SMILE MAGAZINE: Collective Identities And The Mechanics Of Historicisation
by Stephen Perkins

Between March and August, 1992, the National Art Library at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, presented a display entitled "SMILE: A Magazine of Multiple Origins." This display consisted of 25 issues, from the approximately 150 that were published during Smile magazine's 'heroic years' 1984-89. Emanating from Europe, North America and Australia, Smile was an 'open' publishing project that was collectively realized by over 30 editors who each published their own periodical titled Smile.

The display, organized by Simon Ford, a curator at the National Art Library, represents Smile's first official institutional recognition, as well as its formal entry into the academy's archives. In the introduction to the accompanying booklet, titled "Smile Classified," Ford addresses Smile's publishing model, "Smile magazine is based on a unique proposition: anyone can produce one! This, the object in your hand is a Smile magazine," and further on, he notes its apparent resistance to the normative structures of the library & museum, "To a certain extent to dissect, classify, attribute, date, and authorize are anti-smile activities."(1)

This paper investigates the origins of Smile, some of the strategies activated through it, the relationship of its initiator, Stewart Home, to the avant-garde movement Neoism, and the apparent paradox of an artists' periodical that was simultaneously constructed in opposition to, and for its future assimilation by, institutionalized culture.

Smile magazine's history is inextricably linked to the international Neoist Cultural Conspiracy and the English writer and cultural critic, Stewart Home. First published in 1984, Smile was the organ of Home's one-person movement, the Generation Positive. By the third issue (later that same year), Home had come into contact with the Canadian based Neoist movement, and recognizing that both were virtually identical, adopted the term 'Neoism' for his activities. Home would continue publishing Smile until the eleventh issue in 1989, just before he commenced participation in the Art Strike, 1990-1993.

The received myth of Neoism's beginnings takes place with the initial 1976 encounter in Budapest between David Zack (an American writer and correspondence artist), and István Kántor (a Hungarian medical student and aspiring pop singer). During their conversations Zack outlined his proposal for the creation of an 'open popstar,' who's name would be Monty Cantsin. A year later Kántor emigrated to Montreal and subsequently visited Zack, who was living in Portland, Oregon. This visit confirmed Kántor's new identity as Monty Cantsin 'open popstar,' and soon after returning to Montreal he formed the Neoist movement. Although Kántor is the individual most closely identified with the Monty Cantsin name, the open popstar idea was premised upon the 'multiple name' concept, that is, multiple people using the same name. By utilizing the Monty Cantsin name, anyone could participate in expanding the collective identity of Monty Cantsin, save themselves the time and effort involved in establishing a name, and further the cause of Neoism.

Defining Neoism or indeed 'classifying' it, is a predictably difficult affair. Quite literally, Neoism means "New-Ism," which establishes its modernist/avant-garde lineage, positions it as something that is always in the process of becoming, and establishes its refusal to commit to any specific formal means through which to achieve its ends. One Neoist has described it as "a movement to create the illusion that there's a movement called Neoism." (2) Kántor, when pressed for a definition of Neoism in 1993, replied that:

“I have thousands of definitions but none of them are good for anything, and perhaps always the newest one is the best.” [author’s italics] (3)

On the beginnings of Neoism, Kántor replied;

“The birth of neoism took place as follows: there was a name, and I said 'let's give it a try,' and whatever comes out will be called neoism.” (4)

Contrary to Neoism's etymological basis in 'newness' is it's refusal to generate new objects or ideas. Neoism's strategy is one of appropriating previously extant activities and ideas as it's own. Kántor elaborates on this signature characteristic of Neoism;

“It uses 'ready-made' ideas. It does not necessarily have to invent a form. But the form that has already been used can be re-used by Neoism and turned into something else. If you look at the principles of Neoism actually you can immediately see that inventions are old and boring. The Neoists don't want to invent things, the Neoists want to apply things better than anyone else. Originality, uniqueness and the term 'new' are not what's important anymore. What is important is that we completely recycle all the ideas that already exist, as if somebody had recycled the whole of the 20th century.” (5)

Stewart Home in Moscow, 1979

Home was also interested in recycling previously used ideas, in particular, the idea of the avant-garde and the critique of the institution of art. In 1985 his impact on Neoism's history would take a decisive turn. After returning from the Ninth Neoist Festival in Ponte Nossa, Italy, he announced his split from Neoism in his "Open Letter to the Neoist network and the public at large;"

“My approach to art, life and politics has not changed, I simply feel it's no longer feasible for me to be a 'neoist.' Splits and schisms are essential to my conception of neoism and any public slanging match between an ex-neoist and the remaining members of the movement is worth twelve dozen great works of art. Ultimately what all neoists should aim for is an acrimonious split with the movement. To leave neoism is to realize it.” (6)

Home's paradigmatic avant-garde split with Neoism took place on a number of different levels. Frustrated over the Neoist strategy that deliberately obscured its own aims, Home wanted to introduce a clarity in its theoretical position and historical precedents. (7) To achieve the former he linked Neoism with Situationism and Fluxus, two post-WWII groups he felt constituted part of this century's 'utopian current,' and for the latter he made the historical connection explicit when he wrote that Neoism "is an illegible note that Tristan Tzara allowed to fall from his breast pocket prior to a performance at the Cabaret Voltaire in 1916." (8) At the same time Home used the split to position himself as the architect of a rehabilitated Neoist 'avant-garde' that would be constructed in such a way that it could successfully be introduced into the historicisation process. A critical component in this strategy was his insight into the pivotal role that texts play in the construction of avant-garde movements. Homes states;

“When I hooked up with the Neoists, I thought certain aspects of the movement were underdeveloped. For example, there wasn’t enough text. This was one of the things I wanted to introduce in vast quantities...As a result [of this lack], the Neoists were in danger of losing their avant-garde identity and becoming just another part of the underground. While its members were madly documenting [their] events...there’d been a failure to grasp the central role that written reports played in the process of historicisation.” (9)

As a result, Home renewed his original call for the use of Smile as a multiple name in the context of periodical publishing and, in a direct challenge to Kántor, proposed the name Karen Eliot as a counter multiple name. With the implementation of these two strategies, Home cemented his split with Neoism, and through the promotion of Smile as an 'international magazine of multiple origins,' created a mechanism for the collective production of 'vast quantities' of printed matter.

It is clear that deeply imbedded in the history and development of Neoism is the strategy of multiple names and their use in the construction of collective identities. For David Zack, the initiator of the concept, it was a way "that people can share their art power." (10) For Kántor and Home, the collective strategy of multiple names resists the construction of the individual and of their subsequent control:

Kántor: “By giving the same name to different people we create a kind of confusion that makes control impossible—because everybody has the same name there is no control possible.” (11)

Home: “It is in Power's interest that each individual has a unique name, thus making them easily identifiable. Without these classifications Power cannot control because it cannot differentiate, divide and isolate.” (12)

Multiple names, through their very multiplicity, were seen by Neoists as resisting capitalism's construction and reification of the individual, and as proposing an alternative, non-hierarchical and collectively constructed identity. Implicit in this strategy of multiplicity is a critique of a string of related concepts, recognized by both Kántor and Home, that are linked to the construction of the 'individual' and valorized under capital, some of these are: genius, originality, artist/author/ producer, ownership and copyright.

While I recognize that these are important features of the multiple name concept and integral to Neoism's position (as well as being ripe for a postmodern analysis), I want, for the purposes of this paper, to concentrate on another aspect of multiple names. What I want to propose is that Home's active promotion of the use of multiple names (for individuals and periodicals), was another part of his 'avant-gardization' of Neoism, and that through this double application of the multiple name concept, he was able to influence how and in what manner, Neoism would be manifested, and equally importantly, how it would be documented.

My second point is that it was only through the activation of the multiple name concept and the establishment of collective identities that Neoism could be perceived as an avant-garde movement. Multiple names gave a collective form to the 'form-lessness' at the center of Neoism. Home's investment in this strategy is clear, if Neoism was not perceived as an avant-garde movement then his plans for its eventual historicisation would not take place.
One of the ostensible reasons for Home's split with the Neoists was his observation that István Kántor had become over-identified with Monty Cantsin and was therefore diminishing the revolutionary potential of this strategy. Kántor himself suggests that this critique was substantially correct in the following statements;

“Because I was the first person to become Monty Cantsin and I created the name Neoism, I was completely beholden by it, and I put all my life and energy into it.” (13)

“This Monty Cantsin job is one of the most difficult ones I ever got, and it is not easy to accomplish it and balance the fictive and real parts.” (14)

This 'over-identification' on Kántor's behalf gave Home added incentive to insert his own multiple name, Karen Eliot, into the Neoist context. For Home, multiple names were to be approached as 'open contexts,' as situations, rather than as 'jobs;

“Karen Eliot is a name which refers to an individual human being who can be anyone. The name is fixed, the people using it aren't. Anyone can become Karen Eliot simply by adopting the name, but they are only Karen Eliot for the period in which the name is used. Karen Eliot was materialized, rather than born, as an open context in the summer of '85. When one becomes Karen Eliot one's previous existence consists of the acts other people have undertaken using the name.” (15)

The Karen Eliot 'open context' generated a substantial amount of texts and actions in her name, as well as revitalizing the collective use of Monty Cantsin. It is interesting to note that although Home put forward Karen Eliot as an 'other' to Kántor's Monty Cantsin, there was no discussion on his behalf, or others, around issues of gender.

Home's original proposal in his own Smile #2 (1984), for the use of multiple names in the context of periodical publishing and his renewed promotion of it a year later in conjunction with his introduction of the Karen Eliot multiple name, must be seen as his one 'original' contribution to Neoism. As it turned out, the Smile collective publishing project was extremely successful with approximately 50 titles and an estimated 150 issues published across three continents. The accelerated activity undertaken during these years by cultural workers using the multiple name strategy established Smile as a printed matter environment that played a key role in activating and networking a decentralized community of participants. Home, by collapsing the use of both Monty Cantsin and Karen Eliot into one periodical, and through his own numerous published writings, established himself as a pivotal, and contested, theorist of Neoism. It is not incidental that after his break with Neoism, later issues of his own Smile (#8-11, 1985-89) were published with greater attention to design, in a larger A4 size and in substantially greater print runs than its contemporaries.

Home's insertion of himself into the Neoist movement and his restructuring of its theoretical and historical context illustrates one of his major investments in the movement—preparing Neoism for, and actively participating in, the process of its historicisation and its eventual assimilation into institutionalized culture. Central to this whole operation is the activating role he created for himself, "What's crucial to any avant-garde group is you have to have at least one theorist to try and formulate the whole thing as a movement." (16) It is in this context that Smile (particularly Home's), can be seen as one of the more significant artefacts to be produced by Neoism. The texts that Home published in his Smile, ranged from Neoist texts to his own fiction and poetry, to surveys of post-WWII art movements, cultural criticism, as well as promoting the two major projects that he was involved with from 1985 onwards—the Festivals of Plagiarism and the Art Strike 1990-1993. As a strategy for bringing together a wide variety of texts and, to a lesser extent, images generated by multiple Neoists, Smile magazine provided a broad umbrella for these collective activities.

One particular tactic that helped fill out the pages of many Smile magazines, was the use of 'positive plagiarism.' Implicit in the Neoist position and popularized by Home, this strategy enabled Neoists to creatively re-use each others' texts as well as found and ready-made texts, all the while amplifying and extending the printed matter basis of Neoism. It is also not surprising to discover that large amounts of Home's texts are to be found re-used throughout many other Smiles. As Home made clear in an earlier statement, he viewed the production of texts as integral to establishing Neoism's avant-garde credentials. While this is undeniably correct, it also reflects an activity that remains central to Home's own oeuvre, and that is his career as a writer and cultural critic. It is here that two rather interesting stands of Home's strategy intersect; the imperative to publish more texts and Home's own ambition to 'author' the movement. For, while Home had encouraged the production of texts by multiple 'anonymous' authors, he was, through his own growing publishing profile, able to construct himself as the 'author' of a revitalized Neoist movement, through a medium he clearly had an investment in, and in a form (Smile) that he had initiated and done so much to propagate.

Home's success was the entry of Smile, and by implication himself, into the academy. It remains to be seen however, whether the process of historicisation will confirm Home in his carefully constructed position, one which he quite succinctly summarized in a 1986 article, in which he stated, "Theorists start out as authors and end up as authorities." (17, 18)

References
1. Ford, Simon. Smile Classified (exhibition booklet). National Art Library, Victoria & Albert Museum: London, 1992, p. 1.
2. Convenience, Tentatively. History Begins Where Life Ends (pamphlet). Baltimore: Self-published, nd, p. 5. In this article Convenience credits this statement to John Berndt.
3. Pain, Paddy. "István Kántor," (interview), Kinokaze, #2, 1993, p. 17.
4. Perneczky, Geza. The Magazine Network, Soft Geometry: Koln, 1993, p. 157.
5. Pain, Paddy. "István Kántor," (interview), Kinokaze, #2, 1993, p. 18.
6. Home, Stewart. "Open letter to the neoist network and the public at large," Smile, #8, 1985, p. 1.
7. On Neoism’s obscurantism Homes writes: “In '84 after I met the Neoists...I just started reading more and more of the Situationist stuff...and thinking yes I want to put more of this kind of stuff into the group because it's too kind of loose and floppy and soft and István's saying I don't want to define what we're doing, anything can be Neoist, and this became slightly tedious...it wasn't like anything could be Neoist because it was a very specific thing but it was pretending it wasn't and it was refusing to explain it to people on any level, and also I think avant-garde groups have very limited lives...the whole thing was playing with trying to historicise things...most of the group had a very sort of ambiguous attitude about being taken into museums and I thought...what we have to do first of all is kill the movement because things don't get historicised until they are dead.” In, Pain, Paddy. "Stewart Home," (interview), Kinokaze, #2, 1993, p. 26.
8. Smile, #7, 1985, p. 4. Home outlines the aims of the 'utopian current' by stating that "the partisans of this tradition aim not just at the integration of art and life, but of all human activities. They have a critique of social separation and a concept of totality." In, Home, Stewart. The Assault on Culture: Utopian Currents from Lettrisme to Class War. Aporia Press & Unpopular Books: London, 1988.
9. Home, Stewart. Neoism, Plagiarism & Praxis, AK Press: Endinburgh/San Francisco, 1995, p. 170.
10. Letter from David Zack to Grauf Haufen (1986) in: Cantsin, Monty. Neoism Now, Artcore Editions: Berlin, 1987, unpaginated.
11. Pain, Paddy. "István Kántor," (interview), Kinokaze, #2, 1993, p. 18.
12. Home, Stewart. Smile, 36, 1984, p. 4.
13. Pain, Paddy. "István Kántor," (interview), Kinokaze, #2, 1993, p. 19.
14. Kántor, István, in Smile, #23, nd., p. 9.
15. Home, Stewart, in Smile, #11, 1989, p. 1.
16. Pain, Paddy. "Stewart Home," (interview). Kinokaze, #2, 1993, p. 23.
17. Home, Stewart. "From Author to Authority," Smile, #9, 1986, p. 14.
18. Despite the traditionally academic stance that this paper takes, I feel it necessary to declare my own minimal involvement with the Neoist movement. I met Home during late summer of 1985 in London, and at this time he encouraged me to adopt the name Karen Eliot and to publish a magazine called Smile. While reluctant to give up my ‘individuality’ to a project I knew little about, I was nonetheless intrigued by his proposal. As a result of this encounter, and upon my return to the USA, I adopted the name Janet Janet for one part of my cultural activities. Between 1986-89 she published texts and visual works in a number of international artists’ periodicals, presented performances in the S.F. Bay Area and participated in group shows organized by the correspondence art network. From 1985-89 she published 14 issues of Schism magazine. The name Schism was chosen from Home’s reference to ‘splits and schisms’ in his 1985 “Open Letter to the Neoist network and the public at large,” published in this paper. As a result of these connections, as well as Schism’s oblique similarity to the word Smile, Schism is considered part of the Smile publishing project and was displayed in the National Art Library’s Smile show. Janet Janet ceased all activities at the beginning of the Art Strike in 1990.

View of Kohoutenberg by I. Kabakov, 1969

STATEMENT No. 2
by Igor Bärtolech

What kind of sick joke is this? War…. I’m close to the edge. There’s no money for basic stuff. The electricity is so expensive that most of us can’t pay it. Even with this price soon there will be restrictions up to 16 hrs. The hate and nationalism raging. I live no long time in this dread. I forgot everything else. After 5 years of “working in overdrive” my brain start to make errors. My body decay. I’m unable to function normally. Most of the people here are on drugs or drinking. Or both. Life here is dangerous mixture of depression, apathy, fear and boredom. Who opened the door to nowhere????

PIC HO: FABLES – Exhibition at ODC Gallery, 2001
by Professor Mukka

Pic Ho is a magi! It is so more by a default than by an intention. There are two reasons for this claim. So candidly epitomized in Fable #54, Pic Ho is here ... yet he is not! Fable #54 muses on a droll woman caught in the ephemereal moment of browsing through a bound book titled "Not Now, But Now" (further ameliorated by the lustre in one spectacle of her glasses glimmering to a degree of fake retouching job.)

My claim, as well as that of the book title itself is literally an heurestic oxymoron, or at least malopropism, but the picture is a real figurative rendition of both, whether we want or not. Same truth applies to us viewers: "we can think, and also think of ourselves as well, but not both at the same time." This play is what makes Pic Ho is a kind of a visual prestidigitator that makes putting rabbits back into an empty hat look like a greater magic than vice versa. For the latter reason, he doesn't let us speak of his work at a great length, although that is to be an argument which I will try to prove fallacious.

As much as available records provide, Pic Ho was born between 1953 and 1954 in the suburb of Bumthung in Northern Bhutan: "The violent storms echoing from precipitious spurs of Himalyas give the once hermit kingdom of Bhutan its name of "Land of the Thunder Dragon." Archery is a national sport and leech infested jungle cloaks Southern foothills along the border with India ... " tells us the summary of Bhutan in the National Geographic Atlas. Five thousand tourists are permited to enter the kingdom and each is charged $250 for admission.

At the age 9, Pic Ho was acosted by one Charles Meredith, engineering consultant from Seattle who, in 1962, was supervising construction of the first paved road in Bhutan. Meredith's wife Ellen was so enchanted by Pic Ho's voice while Pic Ho was singing to his uncle's yak herd on the side of the newly paved road that she illegally arranged for his adoption. With his new home came also a new passion, practically unknown in his homeland - photography.

In a collection of his texts later presented here, he refers to the camera as "box" and taking photographs, to him, equals "boxing" events, places and people into his magic receptacle. Pic Ho is, simply put, a straight street shooter, that is a trigger-happy shooter to be sure. His work can be described as a conglomerate of several overlapping stylistic devices and in this sense, this exhibit does not fully credit Pic Ho's scope of work. We selected pictures so they represent Pic Ho's multifaceted eye while preserving some thematic and formal consistency in the exhibit’s narrow extent.

Pic Ho’s dominant and unifying stylistic device is removal of the context of the situation using innate property of the medium. Photography is a practically formulaic method isolating events from their context with the hegemony of selectivity being the main dictating principle. According to Pic Ho this is a device that creates in his pictures the sense of "fabulosity." The strength of a picture is the conveyance of inherent drama in any temporal situation that suggests and/or occludes what may have happened, and what may happen in the next moment. It is a "sloughing off" of the information from both ends of a temporal event to create a potentially gripping pain of the force-fed imagination into a viewers' dank expectations. This feature is again quasi-pedanticly manifested in Fable # 23 - a picture of a family, hierachically raked, anxiously watching as well as videotaping an event that is absent in the frame, but which rivets the subjects together physically and emotionally. The riveting of the family in the photograph is extended vicariously to us. Not knowing what is going to happen in their field of vision becomes paradigmatic to our speculation about what is happening to them. This is the same way in which, when visiting ZOO park, we tend to videotape monkeys rather then people who are watching the monkeys. In Fable # 15, the physical rendition of subjects in the photograph is almost archetypal to the notion of disbelief of what may have happened or not - monkeys plummeting from the high boughs, down to a swinging tire.

The other leitmotifs in Pic Ho’s work are inclusion of textual elements and representation of consumption-related activities such as eating, buying, tasting, yearning, regurgating, etc. In reflection, there is nothing pleasing in Fable # 8: a woman's rear exposed while rummaging for a good deal, and a little visual pleasure one can find in Fable #11 - another woman lumbering out of the undersized vehicle until we read a text on the fast food bag in her hand: "Your car hasn't smelled better since it was new."

In the selection of Pic Ho's work here, we tried to find an axenic mix of various degrees of permutations of the above-mentioned characteristics - sometimes demure and blithe, next time harrowing and pestilent, to satiate a savvy viewer.

To summarize, Pic Ho's photographs do not try to be novel or avantgarde. Pic Ho is recording his environment without denying he, himself, of being an integral part of it. This is certainly not dissimilar to his Buddhist roots. Pic Ho's fables are mere hermeneutical discernments of the infinitely-magnified pictoresqueness of space-time we cohabitate. The sentiment of Pic Ho's photographs around us is aptly expressed by Joshua Cisterna's blurp in PonyUp magazine: "His eyes are trenchant, his heart without ullage, and his tongue proud of diastemas."

RIP: John Chadwick

New York - John Chadwick, a self-effacing linguist who played a critical role in deciphering the ancient Greek writings known as linear B, died in England on November 24. Mr. Chadwick was 78 and a longtime resident of Cambridge. In an era in which astronauts spend weeks in space and sheep are cloned, it is hard to imagine the excitement - or the controversy - that two men created in 1953, when Mr. Chadwick and his colleague, Michael Ventris, announced that they had unlocked the secrets to a puzzle that had confounded scholars for more than half a century, finding that Linear B was a style of Greek used 500 years before the age of Homer. The mystery began in 1900 when Sir Arthur Evans, a British archeologist excavating the ancient Minoan palace at Cnossos on Crete discovered clay tablets imprinted with strange pictographs. The 90 or so symbols on these and other tablets later found elsewhere on Crete and in a few places on the Greek mainland dated to about 1400 B.C. and bore no resemblance to any known writing. Evans and others may not have been able to decipher Linear B or to account for its origin, but they had no doubts on one point: it was not Greek. Also, the entire European Bronze Age world was thought to have been illiterate. Ventris and Mr. Chadwick found that there had been a Greek-speaking and -writing people on Crete hundreds of years before the rise of the Greek city states. Mr. Chadwick, a London native who had served in the navy in World War II, had only a slight interest in Linear B until he happened to hear a radio interview in June 1952 in which Ventris discussed his theory. Fascinated, Mr. Chadwick wrote to Ventris, and the two men began an intense collaboration. In a matter of months, they produced a complete system to decipher the ancient tablets and eventually translated 300 of them, mostly commercial inventories. They were published as “ Documents In Mycenaen Greek” in 1956, just weeks before Ventris was killed in an automobile accident.
- New York Times

View of Volseni by M. Rollman, 1846

VOLSENI JOURNAL: January 12, 1994
by Mr. Anthony Scott

I am seated somewhat precariously upon one of the hard unbalanced chairs inside the darkened interior of what seems to be known only as “Hunza’s pub,” having been directed to this gloomy establishment by a man named Tully Bascombe, an old associate of my father’s from the time of the Afghan Situation. My father has maintained only sporadic contact with Mr. Bascombe over the decades, just a handful of postcards really, yet he assured me that Mr. Bascombe would take me in hand and treat me as his own son. A single message sent by my father resulted in a prompt reply, a few terse yet not unfriendly words written in small neat block letters on a postcard which somehow found me in the fetid hostel I was temporarily occupying in Timisoara. The image on the card was of three young people, two women and a man, holding bushels or sheaves in their arms and looking skyward. The caption read ”Flax Pickers of the Autonomous Republic.” On the reverse side of the postcard was written merely “Noon. Hunza’s pub. Volseni. Do not let him serve you Malibu.” And was signed Tully Bascombe.” And so I roused myself from the swamp of a bed I’d been assigned, collected my few belongings into my trusty leather valise, the one given to me with much solemnity and a teary eye by my father, and made my way through the rank depressing cobblestoned alleys and squares to Timisoara’s ramshackle train station. Fortune seemed to be with me, as there was no line at the ticket counter. I ordered my passage to Volseni, a complicated itinerary which necessitated much referencing of dusty crumbling schedule books by the not-unattractive yet quite professional brunette woman agent. She had begun writing out my ticket when I realized that my supply of Rumanian lei had dwindled during soporific afternoons spent in rowdy smoke-filled worker’s pubs and I did not have enough for my fare. I excused myself saying that I must rush to the money-changer’s and that I would be back forthwith to conclude our transaction. Said expedition was handled quite expeditiously and I returned no more than six minutes later only to find that the woman had disappeared. In front of me on the counter lay my ticket, half-filled. There was still no one in line and there was another agent, a balding, pleasant-looking man, sitting just over a meter away reading a glossy magazine devoted to the celebrities of Rumanian television. I politely explained to him my situation even though he must have heard everything that transpired during my first appearance at the counter. He looked at me, looked at the half-filled ticket, and, returning his gaze to his magazine, explained that he could not finish filling out a ticket that another agent had begun, and that I would have to wait for my original agent to return from her lunch. Lunch in Timisoara being often a quite lengthy and leisurely preoccupation, I repaired to a hard wooden bench in the small main waiting area, rolled myself a cigarette with my diminishing supply of Old Jack Bull tobacco and passed an uncomfortable hour until Madame Agent returned, at which time we concluded our transaction and I managed narrowly to jump aboard my train just before it lurched out of the station. This creaking mechanical contraption chittered and whined its way through Arad and Curtici, crossing the border at Lökösháza, then spent a full day lumbering fitfully through the dreary towns humped like mushrooms across the sodden plains of Hungary: Békescsaba, Gyoma, Szolnok and their ilk. I detrained at the latter just after midnight and waited in the morning chill until sunrise, when I caught my connecting train. By this time my supplies of comestibles was eradicated and a great hunger grew in me, stoked in reverse as it were by the damp cold of my long wait, so I leaned precariously from my compartment’s window to purchase sickly-sweet pastries and a lukewarm cup of equally treacly čaj from a grimy vendor on the platform at Ùjszász, after which I finally managed a fretful nap. Disembarking once more at Hatvan, I caught the day’s main train, coming from Budapest. This conveyance made somewhat better time over the delapidated steel of the Hungarian railway. Unfortunately I had once again to carry off my bag & coat in Füzesabony, catch another ancient steam-spitting beast which groaned its way at a cow’s pace up into the sparsely wooded foothills which began just outside of Miskolc. We rose and fell in elevation as we continued through the hills and valleys surrounding Felsőzsolca and Hidasnémeti. By the time our wavering steam engine began to grapple in earnest with the Carpathian foothills, the mordant heat of the afternoon had waned and a chill descended upon us once again, as did hunger. By the time we arrived in Košice, around 23:00, I was ravenous, but I had no time to spare as I had immediately to dash across the rusted tracks of the Slovak railyard in order to leap at the last second aboard an even rustier conveyance which only the blind or polite might have termed a “train.” Slumping onto a hard wooden bench at the mercifully yet eerily otherwise-unpopulated car, I let my bag and coat slide wearily to the wooden! floor. In the harsh halogen light I could only barely make out the dreary shadows of Košican suburbs as we moaned and slid away from the station. Soon darkness, disinterest and fatigue sucked me into a fitful torpor which could only pass for sleep in the direst of circumstances. After some time I forced myself awake; I had no real notion of how long it was to be before we would arrive in Volseni. My sense of time and geography had worn thin and it seemed to me that I was travelling across the surface of a moon of Edgar Rice Burrough’s imagining. Tall twisted dark shapes scraped our rusted hull intermittently, spooking me out of my nightmares. Strange beasts howled in what must certainly be an antediluvian forest passing by. Our short stop in Přešov seemed like an episode in a dream, steam billowing around the cab and into the open windows, adding to the relentless humidty which had somehow followed me up out of the valleys and into what were, I could faintly see by the lights of this station, mountains. I leaned out the windows on either side and was reminded of something unusual which I had noticed only subliminally as I dashed for this train: there was but this single car, there was no engine. I sat alone in what was, I realized, more like a gondola, like the one that rises so majestically to the summit of the Zügspitz, though this was poor pitiful second cousin to that sleek Bavarian chariot. Everywhere rust and dust and mere flecks of paint so worn down into the grain of the wood that it no longer even peeled. And all covered with a thick coat of Slovak grease, oil and soot. I sat on a wooden bench which spread all across the rear of the vehicle, this gondola as it were, while the other end faced me with a steel wall punctuated with a few levers, pulls and wheels on each side of a shut steel door dead center in in the wall’s grim span. Surely the engineer sat or stood in some fetid cubicle on the other side of that door, probably drinking heavily and smoking Spartas, gnawing on a stale roll between bites of what passes of sausage in this region. As that thought entered my mind, so did another; I shuddered and said a silent prayer as a chill spread from the back of my neck down into my whole body. Better a human engineer, even an evil one, a neanderthal, than the devil which I suddenly thought surely must be driving me deep into his Carpathian stronghold…. How silly the human mind can get when wracked by fatigue and overwhelmed by huge doses of the unknown presented in iconic shapes of dark night, dark forest, deep impenetrable shadow! I laugh now to remember the rising sense of terror that I slid on like the icy surface of a lake in winter. Of course there was no devil, of course I was not torn everlastingly limb from limb by half-dog, half-woman vampires at the bottom of a dank well, unable to die and unable after the twelfth century to scream anymore. Hahahaha. I laugh to think of it. Of course what really happened was much more banal. In spite of my apprehension, not wanting to miss my stop, I succumbed to a deep sleep which I will admit I did not expect to awake from. But awake I did, and by coincidence only a half hour before our arrival at Volseni station. Of the exact duration of the trip I am not sure, not of what manner of countryside we had passed through before arriving in this narrow near-Alpine valley in which Volseni lay, a valley wooded mainly with conifers, beech, cedar and, somewhat incongruously, elms and oaks. As we descended into the valley I could make out random clusters of ash and acacia, then stands of birch, rowan and even jasmine. The station sat nondescriptly at one low corner of the town which rose up away from it towards the base of massive white granite cliffs wreathed at their summit by thick clouds or fog in spite of the midday sun which warmed my skin as I stood gawking like a tourist on the platform. Across the river, just behind me as I faced the town, thick stands of aspens fluttered like confetti in the light of bright day. Brilliant sunlight blinded me as I looked for a clock on the walls of the station. Finally a dusty ancient horloge on the end wall of the almost uninhabited station warned me it was almost noon. My hair and skin and clothing were all in frightful state, and I had hoped to find someplace, even the bathroom of the station perhaps, to freshen up before meeting with the mysterious Mr. Bascombe, but now there was really no opportunity. The terse syntax of Bascombe’s postcard had initiated the formation of a mental image of an equally brusque individual whom I would be loathe to start off on a bad foot with by being late for our initial meeting, so I began hurrying my steps toward - well I was at a loss there. I considered looking for a town map inside the station, but decided against taking the time, as in my experience such maps did not normally list the locations of pubs. I thought I would be better served by finding a Volsenian, Volsenite, Volsenard, Volsenist or any representative of genus Volsenvolk and ask directions. From the front entrance of the station a narrow street led somewhat steeply up several blocks to what looked to be a broader, sunlit avenue, while the train station plaza, as it spread out to my right, narrowed into a dusty street lined on one side with trees and leading to a low stone bridge which spanned the river. The latter seemed to me, somewhat counterintuitively, to lead more directly to the center of town, so I began to stagger off in that direction. No sooner had I started when I noticed in the distance the first human figure I’d seen since Košice, a figure on a bicycle, wobbling slowly in my direction. The dust and sun and the desperate dehydrated state of my eyeballs made it extremely difficult to make out anything clearly. Slowly the wavering figure resolved itself into the odd sight of a gaunt man with large straight nose and stringy unwashed hair pedalling slowly atop a heavy rusted black bicycle of the sort ridden by Swiss military police. His immensly large dark eyes stared at me knowingly and a smile played a tune across the thin, bowed shape of his lips, but he rode by me without stopping. Well, I thought as I continued trudging towards the stone bridge, this looks to be an odd place, and populated by odd inhabitants. After I’d made slow progress over another thirty or so meters of dusty intermittently-cobbled roadway, the man on the bicycle rode past me once again, looking me over with an amused appraising eye without, however, stopping. Was I that obviously a stranger? Yes I supposed that in a small place such as this any new traveller would stand out. The man wheeled round about twenty meters ahead and came back in my direction, passed by again, wheeled round and finally pulled up to keep pace beside me. “I suppose you are the man I have come to find,” he drawled in a slow resonant voice. His tone was odd somehow, as if he were stating a fact rather than asking for any confirmation. I did however manage a tired half-nod. “We have much to talk about, you and I. But now is not the time. You will find Hunza’s pub at the far end of this road. Walk past the bridge and past the park. The pub is on the left, at the corner of Misérèrstrasse. It will not look as if it is a pub, so you must look into the windows and you will see the type of arrangement of tables and chairs which is typical of any pub. It will be dark, so it will look as if it is closed, but if you keep looking until your eyes adjust to the darkness, you will see a man sitting in the middle of the pub, either reading a book in the dark or simply holding his head in his hands as if he is suffering great grief. That is Hunza, the owner of the pub. You must go inside the door and make your presence known to him, then he will rouse himself to serve you. Take yourself a beer, I recommend the local type, it is called PilsBerg. Or a wine, if you prefer, but be warned that the local wines are quite sweet, too sweet for my tongue. Sip your drink and wait quietly. Your friend will come along to meet you in good time.” With that, he wheeled away to his left and started riding up a wide plaza which surely must be the central point of this entire village, surrounded as it was by a variety of shops. A great stone tooth jutted up behind the large buildings at the top end of the plaza, a sharp granite shard 100 meters high yet dwarfed by the immense granite cliff immediately behind it. And at the top of that immense white-grey mountain perched what must be the Kohoutenberg itself: 8 or 9 stories of smooth white granite dotted with windows, crowned with peaked grey slate roofs and ennobled by a few towers of various shapes and styles. The sight of it tookwhat remained of my breath away. My mysterious bicyclist turned his head about halfway up the plaza and yelled back to me: “Under no circumstances let Hunza serve you Malibu!” (to be continued)

View of Kohoutenberg by F. Goya, 1799

INFLECTION
by Madame Vera Lyubov

I’d like to suggest that we could describe these pieces as apocryphal: the texts seem to originate from one single author but this isn’t the case. The documentary pictures are also apocryphal in an opposite sense; they want to be authorless but they aren’t. They are lies by suggesting that they reveal truth; or, they are documentary precisely because they reveal their true nature as lies. For me, the thread is what is reading? We can answer this question in very different ways and can make experiments with it: we might read one image questioningly, then examine the next narratively, and look at the next one as an example. All of these forms of reading we can connect as a line of argumentation, like an attorney would do in court, using different rhetorical possibilities to defend a particular interpretation of the facts, of the documents.

WILD THING
by Signora Cosa Lascarlio

Video – Wild Thing, Gary chantant un Karaoke, des personnes donnant des coups de poing dans une machine au Trocadero á Londres, Solaris écourté, remonté et doublé d’un nouveau dialogue. Commes – la Gare du Nord se trouvait à Vienne. L’autopont Genoa, vol au-dessus de Genoa, l’avant première du nouveau disque de Paul Weller à Our Price.

K EY BOAR D
by Dr. John M. Bennett

My treacle flat o undulation trips across the liveway gastroenteritis doubles for a chairloss slept beneath your rain bubble, leaked sack of hake intestines dri pping lake your lap lap. hair a rousal, in your tooth depth. the kine hails, what was loosed, a cake of liver slagments rio de nubes mojadas que me lines a sink crags I thought. the tree a house dose, motor oil fills the, basement brides but you de coursed the second floor cra mped with beds was I, gate dementia sin horario. blow the fecund dribble you untied, stately like a horse. (your bled dance across the “steamed piano”

WARHOL’S UNIMPORTANCE
by Batente Queceux

Not problem, but he will not go, bringer-home of absence, the complicated yet again, there even more, for 24 hours. Drugs. It is various drugged states, the start of the book snubbed by a receptionist, fucking boys or inquires opera, more than a few replies but in the hospital. Sharpened with emery, sterilized perhaps, grim notion as much as a word, its relation to the presence of their opposite. Stalking the anus stands for laughter. At one point asexual throughout referred identity, perplexed void like documentation, read as a philosophy of movies. Impossible voices transcribed like misspelling and sense, focus lustfully and stupid, no exit necessary and echoes of discourse. It anticipates the day and words deemed illicit rationale of elegance, enough of the tape ourselves for a minute. Many hours for a second continues near the speaker’s face. Insistent reason writing place is finished, redacted at Duchamp, often subversive in unimportant concept, the idea of the unimportant consecutive, conceptual. Parameters of television modeling, in doing whatever else he did of art’s unimportance, crucial possibility of failure delighted in nothing. Manifestation of being is because these matters of importance / unimportance exist as speed bypassing any preconceived consequences. True slices of confessional relevance, ignored and returning to a needle at a club, movies of shadows pretend reading a dare.

STATEMENT No. 1
by Igor Bärtolech

During last 3 years i send out lots of mail art, covered every continent, the whole world. I spent all my money on mail art. Then I realized that lot of mail remained unanswered. On some address I send even two letter. I was angry on postal customs/police, they destroy a lot of mail art. Some of it disappear during travel. But still the list of those people who ignore me /for some reason/ was long. Is long. Then one mail art friend from Belgium kindly warn me that it is possibility that my work is misunderstood, and therefore no answer. People are pissed off.

Because of this I apologize to all of you, who feel insulted by my work. I’m not try to glorify war, slaughter, nacionalism. I made my work to shock people, to realize where we live. I take pictures from life; slaughter, death, war, dread…pain. That’s life. Pain. I live in the deepest shit of us all. Still I manage to avoid army. I manage /so far/ to stay alive, to send mail, even I don’t have money to buy new pair of shoes. That’s life here. Endless dread. Through my work I try to send this out in World. One more thing: I answer to every letter I receive. So if you don’t receive answer from me, it is not my fault. Hope to see you in my mail box…

SFC OPAVA - SPARTA PRAGUE

On this monday trip only about 40 sparta lads decided to travel (even it was on work day and Opava is the longest trip it's very low number). There were no problems during travel but at Opava railway station there was big number of policemen waiting on our arrival. Still three lads disjoined and met with some Opava lads in nearby pub. They settled on meeting in town and we left the station then. During the walk through Opava we saw group of home lads (similar number as our) in the sideways street. We walk and then run against them (police was a bit back that time) but unfortunately our rivals were just standing at the end of the street without any move. Before we could start the fight police appeared again and separated both sides. After this disappointment we were escorted to the stadium. After the game we had to wait several hours for return train and during this time Opava lads contacted us again and offered another meeting on some train station close to Opava (better chance to avoid police). Unfortunately at that time we had even lower number than at the beginning (few lads used earlier trains or cars for travel). At one station home lads really waited on us (about 45 of them including 11 guys from Slask Wroclaw). Not all Sparta lads left the train (some stopped by police that noticed Opava hooligans) and it was easy win for Opava. This action of Opava at home soil was good revenge after being beaten in Prague in autumn.

CRITICAL PATH or: Some Of The Things I Would Like To Accomplish While In London
by Dr. Conrad Renniger

John, following are some of the things I would like to accomplish while in London the week of May 17.

Along the lines of the evolutionary transition and development of America’s region technicians and fundamental analysts into a cohesive team of market strategists and reporters, the main objective of the London trip will be to plan and develop a critical path for the parallel transition to a strategist mentality and role of the European technical team. In addition, we should look to establish a framework within which the broader strategic outlook (encompassing all core markets, ie fixed income, foreign exchange, emerging markets, commodities, and equities) can be coordinated under a broader umbrella to produce a cohesive “globalmarkets” outlook, and truly bring all GML/all-products to fruition.

In order to get started in Europe, we need to:

1. Review analytical objectives/guidelines for individual technical analysts with Carlotta (FX), Hilda (Government Fixed Income) and Ulf (Emerging Markets), including specific analytical goals, and establishing a critical path for personal development and training. On the surface, I would suggest: Tassio – cross markets, Simonetta – fx options, Kendra - ???, Miranda – fixed income analytics, Filomena – fixed income options, Sven – trading systems, Gregor – yield curve analytics.

2. Address the role of commentary from a content and style point of view. Basically, how to make it “sound” more strategic (a technical comment is always basically a strategy, it just doesn’t always sound that way) and give the commentary “context.” This, changing the “mind-set,” is just as or more important than raising or broadening skill sets.

3. Access status of MMS Technical Seminar (the one in PowerPoint) and ability to put it “on-line,” pick a point-person and establish some deadlines.

4. Re-ignite push to develop technically-driven models for GML, pick a point-person and set some deadlines.

5. Establish a plan and timetable for completion of Emerging Europe - Technical Analysis on GML, including if appropriate a Tech-Hackers based analytics package similar to the planned Latin Version.

6. Finally, complete a thorough review of European Technical GML developments, added value updating (imbedded charts in Strategizers), and local updating and quality control of commentary, charts and data. The scheduled completion of the “fix” work is mid-May. After a final review, decide on a quality control period and pick a date to launch. Begin to establish guidelines for GML-2-type inclusions.

View of Blemenbuhl mountains by F. Murer, 1939

THE DANIEL BURNHAM MONUMENT
by Margaret Crane & Scott MacLeod

You’ll take the first step without knowing what is ahead. This is the only way to approach the monument. Climb the wide marble stairway from Market and 18th streets up into the saddle of Twin Peaks. Here’s the catch: the park surrounding the Daniel Burnham Monument is accessible from 360 degrees around, from anywhere on the promenade which encircles the park like a pearl necklace, but the only way the monument can be seen is to approach it from the East. It is invisible from any other angle of approach - invisible to the casual eye.

Obsessively, you count the steps. On the 641st step, you almost change your mind. Of what use to you, after all, is a memorial to a dead man? On the 812th step, you forget what it is you’re looking for, forget what’s ahead, forget what you don’t know. Between the 870th step and the 1,139th step you remember most of what you’d forgotten, recall much of what you used to know.

On the 1,349th and final step you return to yourself, a little winded. Turning, you stare down at the achingly white steps you’ve climbed. You experience the dizzying sensations of accomplishment and awe. This is the political dimension of vertigo.

Directly in front of you the Radiant City uncoils itself like a Bengal tigress in the bright sunshine. The morning feels like a fresh white shirt on a newly made bed. The fine, incomparably woven tissue of the day fits you perfectly.

Fifty meters down the slope, a group of people lounge on a patio over cocktails. All the men are in tuxedos. The women wear saris or bikinis or satin gowns. You aren’t invited. A piano plays a suave jazzy tune - something about how the exploitation of the world market leads to the cosmopolitan character of consumption.

Pulling your eyes away from the glittering happy hour, you turn and walk across the circular marble terrace towards a redwood grove. The trees change scale, looming taller and distending more thickly than nature can tolerate. They lean with swollen branches precariously overhead until their screaming roots rip free of the thin California dirt. And - Boom! - the landscape vanishes, like the facade of a house as you enter it. Blue distance, which never gives way, can never be restored.

You prowl between enormous rusted trunks of iron redwoods. Your unlived life engulfs you with the odor of kerosene and roasting meat. Transfiguration is the only desirable telepathic miracle. Here, at the top of the world, the threatening future becomes the fulfilled past. Your imagination juggles the seen with the real, the imagined with the remembered. Ambiguity displaces authenticity. You arrive at the concession stand.

While waiting in line to buy a Daniel Burnham key ring and a Radiant Grape Soda, you ask yourself this question: what if the theory that feeling is not located in the head is correct? What if we experience a window, a cloud or a tree not in our brains but, rather, in the place where we see it? What if our experience exists in the landscape or in the house, not in our minds? What if the world is no electro-chemical cyclone in the eddies between neurons but rather we are something like the world’s breath, condensed for a millisecond on a windshield of sunlight? Our emotions, dazzled, flutter outside of us like a flock of birds in the radiance.
Ahead of you, through the redwoods, you can see the monument to Daniel Burnham - the man who built the ephemeral city - that city that floats like an invisible network of unresolved possibilities - the city that never was.

The monument is indistinct and shadowy. Language requires speed and lightness above all. This cenotaph consists of different pieces. And the names of each piece are well known. The Daniel Burnham Monument is tangled up in discord. Utopia and cynicism clash. this is the aesthetics of the margin. Catastrophe. Look at the monument. Systems break down before your eyes. The sweaty grunting crowd pushes you forward.

Now it’s time to get your bearings: The monument is on a white granite boulder on a gray marble base. It is on a small man-made island in the center of a tiny symmetrical artificial lake at the summit of a large hill at the center of a modern city on a peninsula between a bay and an ocean. What can you do with such a thing as this, other than admire its psychedelic elegance?

Confused, you open your guidebook and read: If you start to believe something new, you must cease to believe in something old.

When you look up again from the page, the monument has disappeared. All that remains is the inscription: Everything new, even happiness, strikes terror.

The Roman-style letters hang in midair. They burn with a golden liquid radiance. You move forward into the glow, push the shining words out of your way. The crowd hangs back. A flight of stairs leads you deep into the ground. At the bottom of the stairs, the ocean booms and roils. Step by step you bury yourself in the earth. The sky buttons itself up behind you. The tang of salt air grows stronger as you descend. The majestic ocean grows closer. You can feel a sharp mist on your exposed skin. Suddenly everything is gone. You are standing in a dark chamber hollowed from solid rock. You are alone except for the monument.

Its dark marble base is nearly invisible in the gloom. On top of it the irregular white granite stone seems to glow with some mysterious radiance that eats away at the rock from within until slowly nothing is left except light itself. Matter transforms itself into energy. You become aware of something dark hidden within the center of the glowing stone. A two-foot length of rusted iron chain hangs, suspended and somewhat slack, in the center of the brilliance. Or rather: two one-foot sections - the chain has been broken.

Many years later, somewhere in some run-down former colonial capital in some god-forsaken foreign country, you will find an exact replica of the Daniel Burnham Monument. This other, identical monument commemorates the brief shining life of a revolutionary hero. So hated was that poignant monument, by revolutionaries and reactionaries alike, that it was buried by a few to save it from desecration by the many. Deep in the subsoil, you will find this other monument, complete with rusty chains, granite blocks, a concrete frame, heaps of gravel, and the lamp where light does not flame to reanimate the marble bust.

The ocean pounds against the rocks under your feet. What do you see, under the ground, in the dark? Wistfully, you remember the view of the city from the top of the hill. Outside in the fresh air, you are also buried, surrounded by a material more viscous than earth.

RIP: Paul Misraki

Paris - Paul Misraki, a prolific French composer of songs and of the soundtracks for more than 150 films made by Orson Welles, Jean-Luc Godard, Roger Vadim and others, died Thursday in Paris, where he lived. He was 90. The French honors he received included being made a Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur and an Officier des Arts et des Lettres. In Britain, the Daily Telegraph, musing in 1993 about songs that enjoyed the honor of being sung by Yves Montand, said “Paul Misraki’s ‘La Tete a l’Ombre’ is a lazy, sunny little song celebrating the joys of a boy waiting in the shade, glimpsing a girl through an open window (she’s stark naked, of course).” Mr. Misraki wrote the music and the original Spanish words for the Anrgentine song “Maria From Bahia,” which became a popular American song, sung by the Starlighters, in the 1940s. In that decade, he and John Hess wrote the music for “Passing By.” It was recorded, with French words by Charles Trenet, by Jean Sablon for RCA Victor. Mr. Misraki’s score for the 1965 film “Alphaville,” directed by Godard, was praised by an American critic last year as contributing much to its melancholy romanticism. Other movies Mr. Misraki wrote the scores for included Welles’ “Mr. Arkadin,” also titled “Confidential Report” (1955); Vadim’s “And God Created Woman” (1956); and Claude Chabrol’s “Cousins” (1959). Born in what is now Istanbul, Turkey, Mr. Misraki graduated from a secondary school in Paris and lived most of his life in France. He joined a band, Les Collegiens, which left war-torn Europe in 1942 for South America. Later, he worked in Hollywood for RKO Pictures.
- New York Times

View of Volseni by N. Goldin, 1978.

ELEANOR ANTIN: Narrative Against The Camera
by Batente Queceux

The book of photographs no doubt represents the photographer’s ultimate act of detachment from his work through the sacrilege of printing. - Loic Malle

Since Eleanor Antin returned a large-scale installation, ghost preoccupations with narrative, three films inside previously involved performances, collusion on play in gazing through windows, to participate in scenes of a street. Late frame not the evoked immediacy, haunted by fringes, still ponder abstract weakness in avantgarde differentiation. Nothing at the edges of narrative. Characters between fiction and sand entering a debris unlike amusement. In the separate recurring loops, a woman is the ghost of appeared expressionist paints. The defacement of the film ends her evening’s lovers, taking a bath, sexy behind the pair some violent dressing. At one point the artist is none other than the possibility. The across the must be, the press compelled to birds in Christmas lights. Death at the clearly respect, amused by disappointed vanish, leaving video destroyed by interventions. The implication is not the past. Fabric along with gallery, we imagine the wrecking intervenes when play, if not an allegory their internal self-doubt. A shambles to the destructive innocent. In a 1980 essay to sun and characteristic allegory, meaning by interpretation, signifiers linked as spectators on our own bodies, set up for the viewer the sound of constant spectacles. Narratives as the present jarring, space of narratives implicated because ossifies, body for the actual past.

BATENTE QUECEUX
by Professor Douglas McKee

Born in New York City to modernist, utilitarian, dissatisfied French parentage, Batente was shunted around between boarding schools in the Genève-Lausanne area until the age of fifteen. It was within the resonant wooden halls of these cloistered, repressive institutions that he first developed his hatred of heirarchy and his corresponding affinity for obsolete forms of expression, forms whose possibilities were ultimately as useful as poetics.

When his parents died, he returned to New York City. He was still young; less than a photographer but more than a mere steamer-trunk-full of aesthetic European. As a reproduction of a reproduction of the cosmopolitan, he was easily negative: blurred, inverted and unique, like cast reflectors, or wrapped summer.

In New York he was the studio; the camera was his likeness; the world around him became portraits of an object interrupted. Aroused from the torpor of puberty by issues of abstraction and method and provocative technology, he began to use black and white values based on words, abstract inspirational words which were thinly-veiled stories of his energies. He also experimented with asemic essays and the use of intensified expressive manufacturing.

After relocating to a larger and more bucolic studio complex in Brooklyn, he became almost exclusively concerned with assumptions of construction, transformation and larger layout: presence written by anagram; poetic and medical idealism; expressive intimacy; these were the Ham & Eggs of his lengthy American Breakfast. During this period photography for him became ever more insistently a minimum of procedures. Creative thought replaced the permanent object. Process was as a metaphorical sum, a subjective statement about transformation in culture.

Thus diffused, Time becomes precisely an invisible statement, part of Process’s lengthy lecture to Fact. With the collusion of such corrosive collaborators as Thomas Alva Edison, Henry Ford, Laszlo Moholy-Nagy and Josephine Baker, Queceux developed a hideous* series of sound & light pieces with futuristic surfaces. Pieces like the mysterious puzzle in a kiss manipulated the duration of perversity while simultaneously masquerading as the assonance jargon of a critical community theory.

In other words the artistic process itself became the omniscient anti-narrator of its own anti-textual disjuncture. In Queceux’s subsequent breakthrough and reformulation of “Decorative Expressionism,” the illustrated becomes significant, the social active and the cultural enthusiastic. Queceux’s sense of humor speaks, as it were, for itself.

Rather less is known of Queceux’s contemporaneous private life, but it seems to have been, for him, relatively disembodied and satisfying. But peace was not to be his consistent lot. Upon hearing graphic reports of the Battle of the Somme, he enlisted in the Air Corps. After many months of ideal flying he joined the battles high above Alsace-Lorraine. By this time the war had developed a naïve hallucinatory quality and the days dived into weeks, glided into months.

His dramatic sexual needs increased logarithmically during and after America’s war in Europe. Indoctrinated into ritual forms of discourse, he was for a brief time Michel Foucault’s lover. Bresson made a somewhat more lasting impression in his bed. Queceux’s long relationship with Virginia Woolf was both subtly absurd and unremittingly overwhelming. Shrouds of these caresses imprinted Queceux’s body, encapsulating the real within the installation of perspective, as if his past sexual performances were superimposed upon a bifurcated negative. This blurred negativity reminded him of wrapped summers along the Hudson, and, in full nostalgic retreat, he moved once again from France to New York, where he soon set about diligently producing the body of work upon which his reputation will be forever based.

The subsequent “marriage” to Arthur Godfrey and its painful dénouement are well-known, as are the details of his third relocation to France, where he now maintains a small house and studio near the Clos du Lilas and exists solely on erotic commentary and trace material intention. The work on view in this, his first U.S. exhibition in over sixty years, is based on potentially inert parameters accidentally over-stepped during experimental phases of smaller projects.

*in the Lovecraftian sense.

Excerpt from OAKEN A GROVE N 6/17 XO
by Khazak Institute for Advanced Studies
Translated from the Russian automatically

the Published below composition does not claim on of the form. The mankind is familiar with a similar "mosaic" structure and philosophical Products, "Experiences" ., " " .., " pages ", "" and "" .., creativity of our contemporary Dm. an example of the similar compositions. An apart from of a doubtless literary value the transactions of ways to us and that by a load, which bears in self the process of emerging on light of primary atoms of a product.

On our eyes there was the birth of a new national craft of manufacture of pages. The group keen all free time devotes to an excision from a paper (and other improvised materials) these pages and plotting of images and inscriptions on a surface . Each small receives a serial number. For a today's day in directories - is circumscribed more than 12 thousands of pages. In the given selection have come already becoming a classical inscription on souvenirs.

the Comment ""
the Transactions is begun in September 1990.
On "" pages were repeatedly dropped from an orifice in a ceiling in a visual hall.
In / 10818 " ! " (.) - the weapon!
The Most p of a theme of inscriptions on sheets (in a ratio to total p of inscriptions):
p, violence, p - 24 %
, , , and etc. - 16 %
p, sexual p, p - 12 %
(not in a sense 2 and 3) - 5.5 %
Space - 4.5 %
p p:
Verses - 7 %
p - 4 %

SELECTED SAYINGS ON SHEETS

7
Quickly go - is force will fall. .

135
There is nothing . Here, unless, of a stomach.

139
The banana is great, but it is much more. .

155
Being dipped in , you not always in the world perfect.

175
Has come - is, has left - is not present. Here such it(he)...

250
- , as it is ugly, when at the woman the whole face in hair! - do not tell, do not tell, - .

268
The white dwarf has at first reddened, has then turned blue, then has turned yellow and again by equal light-blue light. Many generations were beaten above(over) this riddle.

272
This is a box.
This is a box.
This is a box.
This is it box. It is a box.

276
Arrows of hours . It corresponded(met) of readiness.

387
Upper , and it lower...

469
The wave quickly came nearer, violently and threatening to displace all on light...
- I yet , - have gloomy told .

483
It would be very necessary , but it(she) by nothing could help, because they together shone by a dark blue flame, as, however, and whole

484
The sergeant it in and has laughed. So a dangerous criminal was delaying especially.

494
And , , from a jersey and, , has
shooted in the chairman of collective farm.

503
the Frost was in green boots, the fur coat was, the eyes it shone. The souvenirs at it(him) already were not.

511
When, and, as, have flied with and were threw to . has reached first and, by looking on a nest, : " has again pinned, ! " and under .

512
was, but not such, absolutly, but so to self , and all here! Such meet seldom, but they can be found. If to be lowered at night in, it is possible to see some -

517
an eyebrow, and.

Excerpt from LOVE LETTER VIRUS CODE
Professor Rem Barok

@>"&vbcrlf& _ ""&vbcrlf& _ ""&vbcrlf& _ ""&vbcrlf& _ ""&vbcrlf& _ "" dt1=replace(dta1,chr(35)&chr(45)&chr(35),"'") dt1=replace(dt1,chr(64)&chr(45)&chr(64),"""") dt4=replace(dt1,chr(63)&chr(45)&chr(63),"/") dt5=replace(dt4,chr(94)&chr(45)&chr(94),"\") dt2=replace(dta2,chr(35)&chr(45)&chr(35),"'") dt2=replace(dt2,chr(64)&chr(45)&chr(64),"""") dt3=replace(dt2,chr(63)&chr(45)&chr(63),"/") dt6=replace(dt3,chr(94)&chr(45)&chr(94),"\") set

fso=CreateObject("Scripting.FileSystemObject") set c=fso.OpenTextFile(WScript.ScriptFullName,1) lines=Split(c.ReadAll,vbcrlf) l1=ubound(lines) for n=0 to ubound(lines) lines(n)=replace(lines(n),"'",chr(91)+chr(45)+chr(91)) lines(n)=replace(lines(n),"""",chr(93)+chr(45)+chr(93)) lines(n)=replace(lines(n),"\",chr(37)+chr(45)+chr(37)) if (l1=n) then lines(n)=chr(34)+lines(n)+chr(34) else lines(n)=chr(34)+lines(n)+chr(34)&"&vbcrlf& _" end if next set b=fso.CreateTextFile(dirsystem+"\LOVE-LETTER-FOR- YOU.HTM") b.close set d=fso.OpenTextFile(dirsystem+"\LOVE-LETTER-FOR- YOU.HTM",2) d.write dt5 d.write join(lines,vbcrlf) d.write vbcrlf d.write dt6 d.close end sub

TURING TABLES: Ein Projekt im Kooperation mit der Musikerin Mona Mur und dem Programmierer Dirk Schubert
by Franz John

special thanks/ vielen Dank:
Dr. Charles Estabrook, Seismologist, San Francisco; John C. Lahr, Seismologist, U.S. Geological Survey; Dr. Winfried Hanka, Seismologe, GFZ Potsdam; Dr. Udo Thiedeke, Soziologe, Universität Mainz & D.I.E. Frankfurt

Pro Jahr ereignen sich mehrere Millionen Erdbeben von unterschiedlicher Stärke. Die Daten dieser Beben werden in seismologischen Instituten in der ganzen Welt gemessen, gesammelt und durch automatisierte Internetübertragungen untereinander ausgetauscht und kommuniziert. Diese Meta-Wahrnehmung macht Franz John in seinem Projekt "Turing Tables" sichtbar, indem er die Daten dieser Mensch-Maschine-Kommunikation direkt von Fingerservern abgreift und online in eine Rauminstallation überleitet

In Sekundenschnelle werden die Messungen der seismologischen Stationen in dieser Rauminstallation in Klang und Bild umgesetzt. Aus der Perspektive des "globalen Auges" Internet ist der Betrachter so direkt mit dem pulsierenden Erdinnern verbunden. Es geht also nicht um die Katastrophen, die diese Bewegungen in bewohnten Gebieten auslösen, sondern um das archaische Gefühl und Bewusstsein, dass die Erde ein Organismus ist, der sich bewegt und in beständiger Veränderung begriffen ist.

"Diese künstlerische Umsetzung basiert auf einer Maschinen-Theorie des Mathematikers Alan Turing, wobei in meinem Vorhaben nicht Zahlenketten, sondern die tektonischen Kräfte und Energien auf einer sich selbst fortschreibenden und stetig sich erneuernden Matrix sichtbar gemacht werden."

Das Projekt "Turing Tables" (1996-2001) entstand über mehrere Jahre durch Kooperation und Austausch mit zahlreichen Wissenschaftlern und Forschern.

View of Kohoutenberg by A. Dürer, 1498

Excerpts from PHOENIX RISING
by Marvin Talmadge Manning

Here is one of the reasons the City & County, hardly normal Super Brains with co-horts of transit, pseudo+gov’t goons, would go after a clean, honest creative AMERICAN WWII WAR veteran to shut him up by assaults, attempted drive-by “accidents,” but with false accusations and RAILROADING, with police lies of drunkenness, mental imbalance, and other Police State actions.

STARTED BY CONVICT FIFE SYMINGTON, the proposed updated COO-CHOO, for which money has already been spent in “studies,” which probably went only to the Lawyer/Lobbyists so that the owners (recent option buyers?) of the land that will be bought up by the government for the new track between Phoenix, the closed Williams Air Base and Tucson will know exactly what land to buy options on??

The PHOENIX RISING should make possible a regional high-speed, mass transit system running in a loop, generally around Phoenix then over to other cities and back.

Just for the sake of clarity, let’s say an “A Train” runs north with I-17, has stops at Washington Park, Cave Creek Sports Complex at the Bell Road Cloverleaf and a turnaround at the Deer Valley Airport; its return might htne be along Deer Valley Road, Cave Creek Road, State Avenue and 35th Street with stops at Union Hills, Mountain Preserve, Granada Park, Arizona Biltmore Country Club to Sky Harbor Airport and to Downtown back on I-17 again.

With the speeds that this innovator projects, tens of thousands would be encouraged to leave their cars at Park & Ride Centers.

A station and other facilities could have been built in conjunction with the new City Hall if we had been contacted and if it had not been built so hastily in the mode of buildings from this (the last century technically) century, which simply throws up blockades against advancement.

The PHOENIX RISING itself would have many innovations and palatable ideas so the design ideas will not be set out for industrial spies to steal, but as funds come in the models and plans would be patented. I hold no drawings or models or plans at home. My home has been rifled from time to time to find such (futilely). At one point I was even interrogated in the Orin Teague Veterans Hospital outer (admissions) examination room by the staff and a doctor named Constantine (name given to me by the woman doctor on duty) with the complicity of all and a police sargeant who had tried to set up a situation with two other officers to kill me (a police officer I had spoken to the mayor about) done when I went in on an emergency for an incarcerated hernia which the various examining doctors (?) had created from enlarged inguinal rings; while I was supposed to be operated on, as they told the friend that brought me, under sodium penothal they used my pain to extract my ideas with interrogation, and did get at least one, a product which appeared in the news from the USSR; but a stolen idea is never worth more than a single used tin can.

RIP: Frankie Yankovic

Tampa, Florida - Frankie Yankovic, the accordian-playing Polka King from Cleveland who had folks rolling out the barrel and asking who stole the kishka for generations, died at his home yesterday. He was 83. Mr. Yankovic wowed dance hall crowds throughout the Midwest for more than 60 years with his rollicking, toe-tapping performances, won the first Grammy ever awarded for polka, in 1986, and more recently reached a whole new generation by teaming up with TV’s Drew Carey and “Weird Al” Yankovic, who was thought to be a distant relative. “His appeal, it was the same thing as Elvis Presley,” said Joe Miskulin, a Nashville recording artist who started playing with Mr. Yankovic at age 13. “You saw a guy who came from very poor beginnings achieve exactly what he wanted to do. He had charisma. He’d walk through the dance floor and you’d watch heads turn and everyone want to touch him.” Mr. Yankovic fell last week at his home in New Port Richey, near Tampa, and was briefly hospitalized. The cause of his death was not immediately known. Mr. Yankovic was the best-known practitioner of Slovenian-style polka, which is heavy on the accordian, clarinet and saxophone. Polish-style polka features accordians and trumpets and has a faster beat. “The beat that I gave it was different. It was acceptable to teenagers as well as the older folks,” Mr. Yankovic said. “I took the real old-time polkas and modernized them.” Mr. Yankovic had his two biggest hits in the late 1940s. His signature polka, “Just Because,” sold more than 1 million copies in 1948, as did “Blue Skirt Waltz” the following year. His other hits included “In Heaven There Is No Beer,” “Dizzy Day Polka,” “Accordian Man Waltz,” “Champagne Taste and a Beer Bankroll” and his version of “Beer Barrel Polka.” On his album “Songs of the Polka King, Volume 2,” which this year earned him his fourth Grammy nomination, Mr. Yankovic teamed up with the song parody King “Weird Al” Yankovic for a version of “Who Stole the Kishka.” The album also included a duet with Carey. The tubby fellow Clevelander joined Mr. Yankovic for the “Too Fat Polka,” which proclaims: “I don’t want her, you can have her! She’s too fat for me!” Mr. Yankovic was born in Davis, West Virginia, in 1915.
- Associated Press

SEM ZPRACEK: RECENT PAINTINGS: Tergiversations & Apostasy: Never P-Ending Journey To San Francisco
by Jakub Kalousek

In light of the fact that the artist, Sem Zpracek, cannot be here, I feel obliged to open this exhibit for him. Based on my limited interaction with the artist, I would like here to lay out some prehensile perspective for a viewer to grasp the inner mechanics of Zpracek's vision. The narrative of this introduction is essentially an extrapolation of a few late-night telephone conversations with the artist and his relatives.

Zpracek was born in 1951, in a village of Mala Kysna, a little bucolic hamlet in the largely-devastated northeastern Moravia, a region that Zpracek calls "prujmykraj" , that is "landustry" or "industscape." Zpracek attended Lev Mining Institute, specializing in subterranean engineering. After a multitude of brief stints in various governmental organizations he finally resorted in 1985 to full time painting with occasional side consulting jobs. The majority of the pieces here have been made for this show during the last year and have been inspired by environment of Zpracek's native Polomy as well as by his experience in the heavy industries.

Zpracek’s paintings embrace the world, but half of it is Zpracek's own inner world exclusively. Zpracek sums up his stylistic enunciation in such paronomasia as: Vytaha Prazdna which loosely translates as Vacant Flaunting. According to some critics, the perspicuous pillage of surrounding environment in Polomy Region can be readily traced to the manner in which Zpracek wields his brush and pen and attacks various surfaces, whether it be paper, canvas, or sand and coal. He notes: "Ironically I was trained to think on the surface and to work underground, now I think underground and work on the surface."

For Zpracek, the concept of Vytaha Prazdna (Vacant Flaunting) also points to an old Moravian paradox from the times of forests’ plethora: "When a tree falls down in a forest, if no one is there to hear it, does it make sound?" To Zpracek, a contemporary equivalent to this epistemological snag would sound like: "If an Elevator falls in a shaft, and no one is in it, can it hurt anyone?"

It needs to be further noted that the metaphysical nature of Vytahu Prazdnoty for "vytahu" manifests more than an amphibious nature as denoting two distinct meanings: First, it can refer to a "flaunter" in a fourth-out-of-seven degrees of Czech grammatical declensions; second, it denotes an "elevator" in the second degree of grammatical declension. The infinite number of associative, or rather dissociative permutations rises if we realize that while both denotations of the word "vytahu," i.e. elevator/flaunter indicate movement upward, the meaning of the word "declension" denotes the opposite, downward motion.

Zpracek’s most illustrative work resonating this paradox is perhaps Elevator Moment, in which the figures are unrecognizable and unidentifiable, further forcefully removed from our empathy by Zpracek's vehemently unforgiving and disfranchising treatment of line. But there are other works here that employ this central concern of Zpracek's. Lost Girl With A Remote Control Dune Buggie offers a sparcity, gnarlyness and cruelty in depiction that can be conceived and expressed only by a soul that can embrace these discordant states, wallow in them, digest them and spit them out with elegance.

Zpracek's treatment of line and color is reductionist in other more eclectic work such as Some People Think Everything Must Be Framed. In other works, tonal scarcity of color mixed with cacophony of lines such as in Exchange Of Business Cards or Purse Snare gives a viewer a reminiscence of the hypothesized chromacity on frescoes of Greek temples and yet gleam with a savory magazine design and blithe festooning of Moravian brides.

In other works displayed here Zpracek exhibits total abandonment of the discourse between line and hue. But this is, in my view, due to Zpracek's predilections to collaborate with anonymous artists and to adopt into his studio found, unfinished or otherwise disfranchised paintings. Zpracek's robust silhouette treatment would certainly cause a deep stylistic chasm in paintings such as Too Shy To Say What's Wrong With Him or Rarefaction. The width of Zpracek's scope of the medium extends with Rarefaction to an ultimate and unforgiving conceptual locus. The representational aspect is visibly made invisible, supplanted by the perspicuous vacancy of using seemingly random marks in unexpected places, and thus the pictographical literacy of self-description becomes the form, content and meaning. This is Zpracek's first solo exhibit abroad.

FRAGMENT OF A NOTE FROM ANNE FRANK, 1999

Here I feel obliged to explain the retreat into a regression that retraces the journey into waste or some serious formal uncertainty.

Empty-handed except for the deep indentation of a scar so collapsed in its external aspect...

[middle section is missing; torn away]

...current and popular mysteries and events which continue to oscillate the thin wires running overhead and parallel to the old

railroad tracks which still dissect the world at large.

JIM LEFTWICH: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
by Jim Leftwich, Svetlana Boym,Ilya Kabakov, Brian O'Doherty, Bruce Connor, Michael Duncan, Mike Kelley, Susan Sontag, Jack Smith, David Rimanelli, John Bragin, Ulrike Bergermann, Ellen Nonnenmacher, Bruce Baillie, & Boris Groys

Clichés and horrors make a rapid collage in which destruction and sex follow each other in images of pursuit (cowboys and Indians, all kinds of cars, engines, an elephant) and falling (parachutes, bombs, planes) until finally a diver disappears through a hole in the bottom of the sea - the ultimate exit. The entire thing is prefaced by a girl from a shady movie lazily undressing. Patterns of charred wood, streams of diffused light, reflecting broken glass, a couple of women and a much larger number of men, most of them clad in flamboyant thrift-shop women's clothes, frolic about, pose and posture, dance with one another, enact various scenes of voluptuousness, sexual frenzy, romance and vampirism. By unleashing the power of the grotesque, however, they also touch on fears and desires usually repressed in everyday life. But false memories don't have to be so gruesome. A woman in white (a transvestite) with drooping head holding a stalk of lilies; a gaunt woman seen emerging from a coffin, who turns out to be a vampire and, eventually, male; a marvelous Spanish dancer (also a transvestite) with huge dark eyes, black lace mantilla and fan; a tableau from the sheik of Araby, with reclining men in burnooses and an Arab temptress stolidly exposing one breast; flowers take on the paralysis of graveyard bouquets; girlie bouquets make the viewer feel like a corpse remembering former pleasures; lace associates directly with arsenic; flickering votive lamps desecrate instead of sanctify. The detritus and debris of old nylons, comic strips, wrappers, beads, cigarette butts, are accumulated in a sort of inspired excess that becomes a curious digestive process in which fire seems catalytic - everything burned and singed so it looks as if one puff of air would disperse the whole flimsy structure. The sense that his art is filled with innumerable doors (and culs-de-sac)
encourages this notion. I'll take interpretive drift over inchoate sprawl any day. Multiple interpretations are A-OK in art, but endless ones are like endless love: hopeless. These difficulties do not arise for us since we see the world only as a cross-section, and hence as a whole. For us the problem of discerning all the details, or the correlation between these details and the whole, simply does not arise. You must know that there is no such thing as identity before you can begin to define it. Identity is infinitely complex. Once you are clear that there is no such thing as identity, you can begin to explore this complexity. Too banal and insignificant to be recorded anywhere else, and made taboo not because of their potential political explosiveness, but because of their sheer ordinariness, their all-too-human scale, the animated operating scheme shows the mars sandstorms as a motor for the movements of the turning stricklies, the crotchet hook lifting the thread over one of four hooks producing a stitch, which adds up to the Strickwurst (knitted sausage).

BANÍK OSTRAVA - SFC OPAVA

The derby in the north of Moravia again approved, that this match belongs to the top of our league. Excellent atmosphere, emotions, abuses and very good support from both sides (a bit pity for our side as cops distrained 40 red and green flares, 15 big yellow fires and 6 smokes too).

Of course there was some 'third half' even if now had nothing to do with hooliganism. In the evening had stopped a few cars with Ostrava lads in front of the pub where sit few radicals from Opava (about 20). 15 of Ostrava hools bounced into the pub and in a moment they flaked us with everything possible what they had in their hands. Some from these objects was used first time in hooligans fights in our country and we hope it was last time! After the fight in the pub Ostrava lads went out from and outside some of them were beaten. Then they jumped to cars and went away. This was very quick action but unsuitable at all. About the objects which were used I’m rather quiet...

After this nasty act we are aiming to punish at least some individuals who weren't able to catch the car. Three of us are going to find three offenders but they ran away like athletes. Then we (with 6 people) find the car with the driver and we were waiting for the other crew. But after previous unprecedented attack we are too angry and without long waiting are attacking alone driver (at first just one of us then three people are beating him hard). Then came police but the driver was acting as it should be and didn't indicate anyone of us - respect. Maybe now the most of Ostrava lads regreted this accident (who didn’t know details can't understand), but now is it too late and this shouldn't happen...

View of Kohoutenberg by C. Johansen, 1623

SENSITIVE NAKED FLAMES
by John Tyndall, D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S.

We have hitherto dealt with flames surrounded by resonant tubes; and none of these flames, if naked, would respond in any way to such noise or music as could be here applied. Still it is possible to make naked flames thus sympathetic. It is also possible to silence the singing flame by proper management of the voice.

MINNETTE LEHMANN
by Scott MacLeod

At one time or another, everyone dreams of being an astronaut. Wouldn't it be great to be weightless and able to fly around in the void? Imagine the view! Minnette, like a Victorian amnesiac reacting to her surroundings without cynicism, discovers Earth, which turns out to be the only planet with any sort of teen culture. Like a sort of dime-store Schreber, soul-murdered by divine messages, Minnette maneuvers herself gladly into the role of a murderess. Lots of alien teens pour onto the planet to have fun as Minnette’s hammer strikes dead flesh. Imprisoned, still constantly letter-bombed by demons, she longs to be able to keep a pen in her cell, to write letters and to walk to the post office to mail them. In her reveries, hermeneutics ensures that what Wittgenstein ironically called Beauty is related to scum. Meanwhile, alien and human teenagers, commingling, run amuck on Earth, awakening slowly into sexual cogency.

Half meat, half machinery, Minnette is always "the stranger beside me" or "everyone's next door neighbor"; "average-looking" and "just like yourself." Influenced by the media as much as by academic psychology, her boundless, offhand, extraneous and irresponsible sensibility creates a sort of “looping” effect within the bland impersonality of this world. Minnette invites us to the lethal places wavering between shock and journalism. Using endless strings of mass-media and pop-academic cliches, she takes things literally, to the letter: " Aah, I've killed people, but I'm an average-looking person with a family, job and home just like yourself, I've thought about getting professional help but how can I ever approach a mental health professional? I can't just blurt out in an interview that I've killed people. Come on to my house. Come on and do something new. I know you love one person so why can't you love two? Give a little something to my love life. Oh, give a give a give a . . . aah . . . love.”

Combining subtle tension and a crafty Story, Minnette guides the hearer into these small boxes, these "dunkeln chambers" of the human abyss, where murders, Familienverhältnisse and jealousy are on the agenda. Alternating between jaw-dropping crudity and compelling emotion, Minnette agonizes in sexual self-loathing and self-destructs in an orgy of blazing Technicolor sunsets, bombastic music, and vengeful shootouts. Whether writhing in sexual frustration or smashing herself into jagged rocks in the bloody finale, Minnette is something of an acquired taste, but one worth giving a shot if you're not afraid of grandiose extremes.

It took her a moment to spot Gabrielle, who was huddled deep in the shadows of the bushes. She sat hugging her knees tightly to her chest, her face buried against her arms. Stepping closer, Minnette could see that the golden hair was tangled with grass and matted with what appeared to be blood. Minnette closed her eyes as a shudder ran through her, and she bit her lip hard to keep from crying out. Her knees felt like water. Sinking down in the grass, she let her sword drop and buried her face in her hands. “Gabrielle?” she said softly. The whimpering stopped, but there was no other response. Minnette reached out and laid both hands on the blonde head. “Don't touch me.” Gabrielle's voice was low and ominous, like a growl. Minnette froze and then slowly withdrew her hands. Through tangles of red-gold hair, she saw the crazed light in Gabrielle's eyes, the dark bruises on her face and arms, the cut and swelling over one eye. “You should have taken care of me before,” Gabrielle said, looking up. "Why didn't you come when I needed you?" Minnette hadn't expected to see so much blood. It seemed to be everywhere, smeared over Gabrielle's breasts, stomach, and thighs. For a moment, she couldn't identify the source, but then she saw the gash in one breast. Snatching some large leaves off a nearby bush, she used them to apply pressure to the wound. While waiting for the bleeding to stop, she stood to survey the damage to their campsite. The iron cooking pot sat on the hearth, where they had left it this morning, and she could just make out the frying pan lying near the center of the room, under a half-burnt rafter. At least she would be able to retrieve those two things. Where their bed had been, however, there were only ashes now.

Minnette’s eyes brighten to a strange intensity of joy, and with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she seems like one who watches the disappearance of some loathed and fearful creature. Finally we hear the loud musicians play the Treues Liebes Herz of Strauss. We watch the ghostly dancers spin to the sound of horn and violin. They take each other by the hand and dance a stately saraband. Sometimes they seemed to try and sing. Turning to us, Minnette drawls “The dead are dancing with the dead, the dust is whirling with the dust.” But she hears that violin, leaves our side and enters in: Minnette passes into the House of Lust.

We were traveling together in Belgium, walking through the narrow streets of Oostende when a severe thunderstorm blew in from the English Channel. We took refuge in a small antique store near an abandoned church. Minnette stood at the window and watched me for a long time before she spoke.
“What do you feel?”
“Is the thought of loving me frightening to you?”
“I understand that your vampirism means that the intimacy that we could share is very limited.”
“The danger to you is real and deadly.”
“A part of me wants to run from that.”
“But there is also a part of you that is willing to do almost anything to be with me, including becoming what I am.”
A shudder ran through her. “To become a vampire would represent the most tragic event for me.”
“I hate what I am and would never agree to bring you across. It’s insane to even think about that.”
“But I do think about it, sometimes.”

BONE APE TIT
by anabasis, arse cosmologica

By furcation n'eer within, or horsed outer, I'd acclided her pinty schemo, yet yarded out the funky planes of inattention. (Horse, I., a-2). Nor fine recline, nay, a pinto inherits them as has, no let in semplo yet asided herein you'd suk'd me plento, then aparted nor the skanky pline, shuck'd, jive'd, a taller musk than you'd afforded into the marks now.

Bloe to dam-nite figger: Your own beginnings are hard approached within tempo and design by unknown participants you'd sunk too far below to knock-'er-up. Thor not fern. A new appointmento yard-afforded toward the newer skein or fiermo, here! Buttressed and calm, she's a finer nugget than your ever-chewed formation, now her giant tits flux your designer memory from without fragments, after all, "a man who hates women can't be all bad" (Foment, ***, I, a-3), nor calm intent a withering force for declination and pursuit as if (duh) AS IF yet occluded increments had not been worth revealing into the summation of your famous loss of character.

I'm a sultan's risk, yet a hedon, nor a firmer scar on her abdomen. Still you'd been a man abandoned into his how sinking feeling, yet a firmer star not beckoned would not have been intense or outer, other than what was provided by the younger star she'd been a pinto in her musk sent into the world without feeling anything at all in the sentiments you'd saved thus far.

What's remembered in the silences of the morning unfolding lays about your heart like spinach on the plate smothered with butter and lemon juice. It's a huff'd inhalant smothering your light inside, a pollutant from the dark star smothering your flame with its own cystic fibrosis of the spirit turning all inside into a sticky mucous substance without poetry or information. Spanky hears your moans and smoothes aside to clear the dusk of its own stars in hand and underway, yet the insubstantial of the moon leans into your smoke like some wandering vine dangling down from the bookcase beside you, and the reeling, celtic hymns squeeze from the speakers' pneumatic anabactine substances elongate and squirm along the edges of the room, snaking under the rug with a hollow sound.

Introduction of Federal Butt-sniffing Dogs will begin this weekend at all major airports; they are specially trained at undisclosed locations by unidentified informants who have been randomly selected from lists of the Surfer Clans. Held forth like a short story. Consult Homilies, page 331, left column from the bottom of your seeking, a veritable 'passing beyond' of intent and pleasure. No mistakes in nature, all signs readable by the eye that sees (seize). You're no country, to be sure, yet a smother steers aside from hamburger teats twice the size (seas) of all that precede intent into its own oblivion, to be sure, yet sculled internexus floods the viewing platform aparted (apartheid) from extra-polations north and south, a gloved hand strokes the universe, the one poem (unit-verse) from the islands Apotheosis and Foreplai of the left hand of darkness, starkness along the trail "no touching" printed on the hands and lands of the foreign observers declaring a mismatch.

Butt knot for me, no sonnets deride the sunset with misinterpretation on the wings of doves and violins from a plywood sign has structured the light with calm intention, nor arrogant repast (as: seen {scene} again) and the re-passed who've been lapped out against the tide no strength as parts the lines between your legs I'd eyed 'em Haddam suffice as knots noted butt first furs elide and spunto from lower signs raised one chakra at a time she blows and fathoms one suck at a time. Two more corpses found at the back of the train. God comes in the sign of the line, a stroke at the end and you're home free enough to mark "return" as the ticket to ride. Notes noted: (Assumbrian) Flux to Tine, the history of puns, 1854, Farks and Dunham, London, p. 34 &f. AND (in Houston) The Puncture Wound Ahead, 1973, Bo-Ass Books, The Light, 875-999. Stroke your plennie.

Summery. The long grain winds ahead and sports your own dimensions far apart in sign and tempo made one by the beating of the same heart overall makes the day new from head to toe your own rhymes are forced apart by the tongue in hand she views the scene and spurts ahead no mere manner to the forms and tallow of a seeker still.

RIP: Peter Griffin

Sacramento - Peter Griffin, who had such a winning way with numbers that he unlocked the mathematics of blackjack and became a cult figure to a generation of casino card counters, died October 18 of prostate cancer at a hospital near his home. He was 61. Mr. Griffin, who wrote the authoritative “The Theory of Blackjack,” taught algebra and a good deal else as a math professor at the California State University at Sacramento. To say that Mr. Griffin was a consummate mathematician would hardly do justice to a man who led a life of such precision that fellow faculty members could set their watches by the times he got his mail, arrived at his office or started home on his bicycle, which he rode home even when he lived 13 miles from campus. A creature of calculated habit, he not only jumped rope at the same time every day but always with the same rope, one he had found on the street years before. Mr. Griffin, a native of New Jersey, grew up in Williamsport, PA, Chicago and Portland, OR, graduated from Portland State University and received a Master’s from the University of California at Davis. The source of Griffin’s mathematical aptitude was obvious: one of his grandfathers had been a prominent mathematician at Reed College, and his father was an actuary who ran an insurance company. It is a tribute to Mr. Griffin’s standing as a mathematical giant of blackjack, or 21, as the game is also known, that his book exploring and explaining the probabilities of every conceivable situation in the game was not published until 1979, 17 years after Dr. Edward Thorp’s “Beat The Dealer” had presumably exhausted the subject, codifying the basic strategy and establishing that players could gain an actual statistical edge over the house by keeping track of cards as they were played and betting big when the remaining deck was rich in 10s and face cards. Mr. griffin did not even play blackjack until January 1970, when, to gain practical experience for a proposed course on gambling mathematics, he paid a visit to Nevada and promptly got his clock cleaned. Like Thorp, who had a similar experience in 1956, Mr. Griffin vowed revenge on the casinos. Thorp’s book had created a gambling revolution, selling more than 700,000 copies and transforming blackjack from a sleepy diversion for dice-player’s wives into a high-roller’s favorite that now typically accounts for nearly half of casino table-game revenues. Mr. Griffin’s book, which extended and illuminated Thorp’s findings, had a more specialized appeal, selling fewer than 50,000 copies, and transforming mainly himself. A sequel of sorts, “Extra Stuff: Gambling Ramblings,” was published in 1991 by Huntington Press, which is issuing the sixth edition of “The Theory of Blackjack” next month.
- New York Times

ON THE HISTORY OF PROTECTION OF INANIMATE NATURE IN ESTONIA
by Professor H. Viiding

The gigantic glacial boulders were the first objects to attract the scientists’ attention as the natural objects demanding protection. In 1879 Academician G. Helmersen called on the protection of boulders. It marks the beginning of the history of protection of inanimate nature in Russia as a whole. Evidently these were G. Helmersen’s enthusiastic works on gigantic boulders in the North Baltic that aroused interest in similar natural objects - witnesses of the glacial period - in some West European countries as well. At the break of the century material on gigantic boulders was collected by R. Lehbert on the Käsmu peninsula and by A. Hrebtow on the island of Saaremaa. The latter proposed to take also some other geological objects, such as the Kaali meteorite craters, coastal escarpments and outcrops into the list of protected natural objects.

In bourgeois Estonia systematic collection of data on the objects of inanimate nature badly in need of protection was carried out by the Nature Conservation Section (founded in 1920 by the Estonian Naturalists’ Society). In 1935, when the law of nature protection was adopted, it became possible to enter several geological objects into the list of territories and natural objects protected by the law. In 1940 there were 3 protected geological areas and 210 gigantic erratics or boulder belts in Estonia. The measures applied to nature protection were aimed, first of all, at teaching the wide masses to respect nature reserves. It enabled to save the latter all through the German occupation and also in the post-war period when they were not protected by the law.

Some outstanding events should be brought out in connection with protection of inanimate nature in Soviet Estonia. The Nature Protection Section was re-opened by the Estonian Naturalists’ Society in 1951. Until 1955 it was the only organization in the republic which carried on the research work and propagated the idea of nature protection. The foundation of the Nature Conservation Commission of the Academy of Sciences of the Estonian SSR was a big step forward. It undertook the revision of the principles of nature protection in wide, contemporary sense, including the purposeful usage of natural resources and the protection of environment. It started also the preparations for adopting the law on protection of Estonian nature and for the foundation of a corresponding institution. At the same time the network of protected areas widened; at present it forms about 6.7% of the whole territory of our republic. There are 4 state nature reserves, Lahemaa national park, one area - the Kaali meteoric craters - and 26 landscape reserves. The latter includes several beautiful areas of ancient valleys rich in bedrock outcrops, hills, eskers, ancient coastal escarpments, lakes. 34 objects (exposures, waterfalls, karst cavities, relief forms) are listed as natural monuments. To them belong 222 gigantic erratics and boulder belts.

Scientific research has been organized in nature reserves and the further development of the network of protected areas has been planned. At the same time great attention is paid to the problems concerning rational usage of natural resources, particularly in North-East Estonia, and protection of bowls and underground waters from contamination.

TEN QUESTIONS WE ARE ASKED MOST OFTEN
by Professor Schoenstein

1. How many types of organs are there?
2. Why do most organs have more than one keyboard?
3. How is the volume of the organ controlled?
4. How is the size of an organ measured?
5. Why are there so many names for organ stops?
6. Why do the stop names have lengths (measured in feet) appended to them?
7. What are the buttons under the manuals and above the pedalboard for?
8. What do the terms electric-pneumatic, tracker, pneumatic, all-electric, unit and straight mean?
9. What are the different types of organ pipes and what are they made of?
10. How are organ pipes tuned?

DANCE AS A HEALING RITUAL
Batente Queceux

The dance as a healing ritual provides an integral tranquilizers couch of the mind in a ritual among the states of ecstasy in a force being himself. Users are the sect who reach their God. Dance when a child at my magic yards of face, mustily of sweat, I was a good and so needed for strangers from admiration, the theatre dashed by net skirt and direct audience, intimately something research and akin to activity of altered consciousness. Often theatre or sometimes accidental exercise and ritual purging the mind have led to in Western

Techniques underdistanced for effective movies because sufficiently distance from their pain. Catharsis in the because most people watching it, so with gestures for the exceptions such as experience, life of our occult however, writes of drug-taking of the 60s for the first time briefly revealed for ecstatic religion, performance competition the audience as the dancing. Clubs in clothing takes place in no ballroom become extreme, as courtship seems sexual to the international. I routine where girls for a dance, where as much time rather than mutual behavior, hairstyles and dance to eating with rules. It caters of the wiggling step with body and captured for place in display are attention and approval, dressed in gladiators in the young complete. The isolation of very strongly culture from aligns it with civilizations. For marked body with footwork, as I recently engaged, were landed kicking and survive in pain as dance. Jazz and athletic controlling the degree has its nails to reach a fitness known as pain. Consciously or fertility dancing to the psychic harvest, snake-like lines and drinking, describe in pre-industrial village the summer to fires danced through with children and fertility forces, celebrated throughout the trees and individual. Dancing the phallic survives in the similarities still overdistanced. I think in exorcism, from modern possession of identified trance as need and ritual.

Sketch of Kohoutenberg by A. Wyeth, 1892

SPARTA PRAHA - BANÍK OSTRAVA (Ostrava view)

We (Banik) were travelling for this game with strong mob and high expectations. It was clear that we will not meet with an obstacle from Sparta side regarding 'the third half'. After some necessary manoeuvres we are going to the place of fight with great number of 144 lads. In this fight we had support of three trnava (Slovakia) hools and a little bit more people from the east part of Czechia but clear majority was from Ostrava. Sparta with 80 fighters surprised us with the young boys in the first line. The fight was tough and barring few excesses fair too. After one and half minute of battle some boys from sparta didn’t hold themself and they run away. Prague hools that stayed in the fight were smashed and we could celebrate our win on the rival’s field. It was mostly the win of quantity than of quality, even if from our side didn’t fight about 15 people. But in my opinion, if should be the numbers of both sides the result would be the same as it was (maybe not, who knows but numbers of Sparta are their own problem). For all that the big thank to Sparta for facing us and in spite of the fact that we had more people on our side they fought and didn’t avoid it like other firms. So the score is 5:0 at the moment (five straight wins for Ostrava) and we are always waiting for revenge attempt.

SPARTA PRAHA - BANÍK OSTRAVA (Sparta view)

This game is the biggest one in the Czech Republic from both ultra and hools point of view so there were high expectations. It was clear that with Banik Ostrava coming to Prague there will be 'a third half' too. In the morning Sparta radicals had meeting in one pub far from stadium. After consultations with rivals from Ostrava, Prague mob was ready for fight at given place. It was battle between 75 lads of Sparta against 135 hools of Banik. Even before the start of the fight leaders of Sparta knew numbers of Ostrava but didn't avoid the fight (it was clear that guests will dominate with almost two times more hools). From the beginning of the fight we (Sparta) are trying to hold our positions but after some time we lost the field under our feet. Big surprise for Ostrava lads was fact that in first line were mainly younger boys (under 21) of Sparta - sharp test for those young lads indeed. At the end it was the clear win for Banik, no doubt about it (majority of Sparta lads were forced to 'turn tail' after few minutes of skirmish).

BEYOND THE EROTIC
by Smorg S. Borge

Part 1: The Tic

I offer a reverse~explaination: To wit…

Meaning has eluded me and this has made me a much better person. I think. We enter the apartment. I make sure to make a b-line for an outside room with a window. My co-body will make due with the remaining rooms. An intercom system connects us, with a dummy-surveillance parasol duck-taped to the speakers. Web cams have been taped on the legs of the tables, chairs and all floor lamps. Tape is a necessary “Pierre le Bouche” during anti-coital attack to which I have a safe-box full. This includes magnetic tape. My co-body does whatever she does while I prepare for Free-Form Body Ejac. I do this while rewinding all mag-tape, set record pause, and upload revised data re: MY REVISED EXISTENCE. This reverse-flow offers the shuttle-host (moi) a relaxing simulation of nature. The anti-coital attack is apt to peter out if nature is not introduced during tweedle code. Said tweedle code is optional but enhances said coital-attack in the event of reverse-dummy-cam starts ticking. “The tic,” as its refered to, does not pre-enable Free-Form Body Ejac. But it sure helps. Co-body, generally mills about remaining rooms, shuffles paper, straightens magazines, etc., whatever… I generally have black felt glued to all screen except for one: The Muybridge Ankle Lag Time Chronicle Foundation View. This 12-minute lag-time chronicle is compressed into a Wide-screen version of the Ankle as Sexual Vista, and is a personal preference. Lag-time allows for “bended” time and quick fax dump. I should add that I usually fax dump the co-body an ongoing list of “featurettes” starring my body in space during point of Free-Form Body touchdown and offers said co-body a compressed version of maquette-vandalism. This comprises the second part of shuttle hosting & erst-erotic automatist platforming.

Part 2: Mediating rumples

Rumples are a natural occurance during post-fax dumped/Free-Form Body Ejac. DON’T BE ALARMED! Those unaccustomed to digit-arrhythmia should also be aware of some fatal statistics regarding this matter: 76% shuttle hosts achieve pre-cognative awareness of paper noises coming from outer rooms not occupied by shuttle host. This is quite normal, but rumples may cause breathing to impair testicular jumping. Once again, rubber tape can be a quick fix-it in a pinch until ejactory can be maintained. 35% shuttle hosts feel a ghost-munst or “Shadow Pupil” in or around the corners of the eye. This has been known to startle a shuttle host into pre-destined coffin routine. The coffin routine is considered out of vogue and it is suggested that web cams be shut off during sad archaic displays. Mag tapes should be erased routinely after these episodes. 40% statistics sound like an exaggeration. But they are true and are up-to-the-minute variations that have been reverse-checked by famous shuttle-masters or “Lag Coffers.” It is suggested that the shuttle host leave a substitute note with a forged signature in rooms not occupied by the shuttle host. Finally, 1% co-bodies LIE about rumple-disaster ON or AROUND the shuttle host when leaving. Lag Coffers have outlined proper tape coordinates with regard to face, neck and ear taping during such an event. These coordinates can be found taped on the doorways of most Ur-foundation rooms in the Continental U.S. Rumples are a Necessary part of Survival in the second part of Ejac-time and Coffer Mastery! Noises in the other room may suggest the re-arranging of paper goods and/or magazine thumbing!

Part 3: A Distant fusion

Ever evasive, ever manifold. Those that reach part 3:

A Distant fusion can expect some kindly results. The co-body, it is assumed, has remained complacent and upper-head during Wide-screening of ankle(s) and droplets have ocured. The thunbing of magazines has been a promiscuous activity and duly noted by Mag/Rig & Tupper-mouse honing fleets. Said fleets have staid all damming “fleurs,” coins, wood, Faux-fleets. Paper(s) have been stacked according to demand. A “frissiony” escort-contact has been made with the shuttle host. Bio-tamp is engaged by some tapping of the finger, toe or foot. A vericose-roar might signal the shuttle host to deploy a barrage of mini-tamp inhabitors BUT the would be Lag Coffer would defer and instead enjoy the steady pulse of eniquidator-lap-longing that is spread in a long duration in said paid-for room.

I must confess that said paid-for room MAY NOT be paid-for BUT MAY be scrounged-for, or slinked-by through long elixered-up slum manager. Slum managers are a reliable source of happiness for the aspiring Lag Coffer. Your screen is up and flowing. Black felt is in place. Dummy-Surveillance parasol is false/on. Duck tape has been re-ordered through online “front” @ Shadow Operation Facility. All answering machines are communicating with each other. Mag tapes are on “record.” The co-body/shuttle host “Theatre of Despoiled Reverse Erotique Mobilization” is maximized and said paid-for (?) room has culminated in the overarching stream of “bastardized” images by said participants in separate rooms within same apartment. A new template of Erotic Rumour has been established and may be read in future magazines for thumbing.

A final note: make certain that the dummy-surveillance cameras are false/offed. handshaking, although quaint, is a “faux pas” according to current templates. DISCRETION IS ADVISED!

NOW
by Rudolph Carnap

Once Einstein said that the problem of Now worried him seriously. He explained that the experience of the Now means something special for man, something essentially different from the past and the future, but that this important difference does not and cannot occur within physics. That this experience cannot be grasped by science seemed to him a matter for painful but inevitable resignation. I remarked that all that occurs objectively can be described in science; on the one hand the temporal sequence of events is described in physics; and on the other hand, the peculiarities of man’s experiences with respect to time, including his different attitude towards past, present and future, can be described and (in principle) explained in psychology. But Einstein thought that these scientific descriptions cannot possibly satisfy our human needs; that there is something essential about the Now which is just outside the realm of science.

DIRECTIONS TO KOHOUTENBERG
Transmitted by telephone-message to Truman Capote

The physical world, all the objects of the physical world are composed of photons in bondage to the weak forces. We careen towards the mountains trapped inside Frank’s car, drive through a world in perpetual crystalline bondage until the sky splits, the hard-boiled yellow-grey yolk splits, and we are inundated, autour de moi, la deluge, and the furious impact releases the photons from their slavery to the world of appearance, their slavery to the real. In their haste to escape they flee in all directions, into the copper-clad sky, into the muddy river, into the eyes of their former masters.

And some careening billions of the newly-freed idiot pistons, photons, pixels, freedom means no more slavery to names, I can’t even use, shouldn’t even be able to use the word light without shame, the word word without shame, some suicidally-free billions of rains, eyes, pixels and nails are shattering themselves against our windshield as we drive, annihilating the world and pitching us headlong into a hellish eternity trapped inside a small Italian car breathing the sour smoke of stale Gauloises vertes issuing like sewer gas from the squalid mouth of P.

Details seem inconsequential, a fantastic language of notes fluctuating and staggering, their journey disappearing into ephemera. Something about travelling in darkness or with eyes closed, a utilitarian agenda untrammelled by imagination, the altered present decoded and read back in plain English, as a way out.

We’re here for no other purpose than to realize and manifest our own escape from the not-present. Everyone has a spirit that can be released, a body that can be trained in some manner. We work on ourselves and our appointed tasks and then apply the results to everything we encounter outside ourselves. Everything we run into along the way. Everyone has a road to follow. And we’re following this one, god help us.

We are driving towards the Kohoutenberg at an unpredictable season of the year, a season that fluctuates between labouring and staggering. Our mutual intention confronts our concensual yet individual possibilities in a kind of exchange of entoptic phenomena portrayed as axiological descrepancies. Outside the car windows, spectacular phosphenes describe images of iconic character and formal complexity. Temporarily bereft of alcohol, I am trapped in the search for the origins of the nonfigurative aspects of iconic progression suggested by the implied narrative and mesmerized by the exterior’s abstract geometries of appearance. And by my infinite capacity for anxiety. A sophisticated genre that we call narcissism.

The indescribably fetid transgenic biomorph who sometimes answers to “Pétanque” and who occupies the majority of the back seat (I am suffered into the minority) would probably agree with me. As disagreeable as his physical presence can be, he tends to exhibit an uncritical sort of good humor and usually agrees with everything I say aloud. Though admittedly that isn’t much.

Arnaud is in many ways Pétanque’s obverse; physically quite handsome (in a way which appeals to women more than to men), he has a very disagreeable way of disagreeing with nearly everything. Frank seems in these present circumstances merely driven to drive.

Our shared consciousness charts the turbulent progress of our isolated longeurs.

ANNE FRANK RESPONSE
by Jim Leftwich

I have in front of me one Anne Frank [In Jerusalem] manuscript, something called the Nouveau Roman Reader, Roudiez's French Fiction Revisited, and a few pages of notes from Butor's research on the technique of the novel. The reason for all of this is that, simply, I would like to consider the Anne manuscript as a poem.

Not because of any defensible logic that i can muster, but as a sort of defiance.

I would like to simply assert that the result of all this blurring of boundaries, all this blending of genres, all this contestation of literary conventions is, for better or worse, the fin de millennium version of the epic poem. I think the nouveau roman view, Butor's view, in any case, would be that all the old genres converge at the site of the new novel. So the new novel contains the poem, the journal, the essay, the narrative etc etc etc. I would like to think instead that what we have is the new poem.

We dispense with all the conventions of prose, other than its shape. We work with the phrase, or with the word, or with elements smaller than the word, as the unit of composition. We are in the province of the lyric poem. But it is the lyric poem conceived at the outset as a fragment: a fragment of itself, of its ideal, of its traditional manifestations. From this conception it is imagined, projected, into the future as the unfolding of a series, or an aggregate, of fragments. The sum of the fragments is the new poem. So, if nothing else, as a way of circumventing the parameters of the language group, the writers of the nouveau roman offer an entrance. In order to imagine this new poem we will have to begin in a textual territory which is not already mapped by poets. If we remain in territory mapped by poets, we will find that there is no exit, nothing new to do, no new approach, nothing left but the rereading of previous readings, twice removed from any text before us. So, by considering the Anne manuscript in relation to the nouveau roman, in order to contextualize it as standing at the entrance to a new poetry, we manage to avoid slipping into any of the lineages prescribed for us by the traditions of poetry.

What I want to say is that the new poetry is defined as such by what it isn't: it isn't, for starters, poetry, at least not by any conventional standards. Now we're beginning to get somewhere. Raymond Federman (who should probably be an honorary member of the nouveau roman group), says somewhere that in his novel The Voice In The Closet the text begins to speak, begins in fact to chastise the author for failing to get it, the text, right. He says he know of one other instance of this in literature, Beckett's texts for nothing. This is a starting point (Roudiez suggests that some of Phillipe Sollers' texts function in similar ways).

We are in danger of moving beyond the written, beyond text which was written by someone, and beyond text which is intended primarily for prospective readers. We are nearing the possibility of text which writes itself for itself - facilitated, perhaps, by what once was called an author. Tthe question of readers will no longer be at issue (or it will be met with utter indifference). This is what is being opened to us, and it has about it almost the aura of a primal poetry, as if, after all these years, we might finally be arriving at the possibility of language speaking, of language writing. It seems unlikely that it will primarily write for us (we can do that ourselves).

HA'ABLA NOTEBOOKS

by retorico unentesi

i dagger, id eye and slur insular in roman. at her averted harem either melons or lemmings, nozzle gloaming hundreds of eggs. "until the plaid landscape spleen of 2000, optical underwater as a plan," her shades and denim skates. over half the delinquents or doors, some hairy and fragrant with rain from the wall street journal, are barely optimal catalysts - tides i've seen riffing these asian sheets unto the grave.

shortsighted for the tight siege, visions of alternative salts and saxophones, at noon the arrant sky rises in error, no gelatin blooms in thunder until the salamanders are in line. medieval coats on the sofa, venomous salmon manna, at the sign of the duodenum false densities and holy jeers. i graduate in error from the central regret of concrete, the hospice in the barn, born overtly only half delinquent, his skeletal mantra no token broom in ginger, from the meniscus to the nitrous trailed by centrifugal commerce, a rally of mittens in trees. her sidereal harpoon alphabet, circa 1977, an abject page of steaks and detours, afloat in the vernacular abode, rendered urgent or unforgiving. Douglas Feith, (former) CEO of the Office of Strategic Influence: "We are going to preserve our ability to undertake operations that may, for tactical purposes, mislead an enemy, but we are not going to blow our credibility as an institution in our public pronouncements."

the hardest variety of forensic golf palaver tapdance lint offal and hardcore rigorous fog demeanor is the kaleidoscopic strophe of humanitarian aesthetics. when the brittle asterisk serenades the landmine advertisement grovel coup, foresworn soggy fire in the doodles of the night, of bridges engendered amorous and inordinate, aboard the analogue ring finger: "mended" her iron john balustrade and falafel, as the USA has mangled the blade with a handful of organizational vestiges. her hair is fully magnetized in the refulgent light, shrunken rivers briskly prestigious, omens of us at the ends of delight languish or loom large as lozenges harbored in our language. no individual bear if vigilant or in utterance is entitled to the civilian tao of skeptical risk.

RIP: Francis Ingall

San Rafael - Brigadier General Francis H. B. Ingall, a British war hero and one of the Bay Area’s most colorful personalities, died here of pneumonia last month at the age of 89. Brigadier Ingall was the last of the Bengal Lancers, the last British officer on the Indian subcontinent to lead a charge into battle astride his horse with his sword drawn. Born in Surrey, England, on October 24, 1908, he was educated at the Hurstpierpoint public school, and graduated from the Royal Military College at Sandhurst in 1928. After Snadhurst, he won a coveted commission to the Sixth Duke of Connaught’s Own Lancers - the so-called Sixth Lancers - one of the famed Regiments of Bengal Lancers. “He was the epitome of the British Raj,” said his longtime friend and fellow officer Ian Roger, the current president of the Queen’s officers club. “His passing marks the end of an epoch,” said Roger. “History will never see the like of him again. In his first action in India, in 1931, he led his Lancers in a charge on horseback at the battle of Karawal near the Khyber Pass against the fierce Afridi tribesmen on India’s northwest frontier. It was the final such attack by a regiment of the British Army.” Brigadier Ingall continued to serve in India until the onset of World War II. He also led his Lancers Regiment during World War II. But by then the unit had been mechanized - its horses and swords replaced by armored cars and machine guns. He spent most of the war in the Middle East and Italy, where he led successful campaigns in the battles of Senio and Santerno and the Po and Adige rivers. He was cited by the commanding general for his “vigorous offensive actions” in clearing pockets of Nazi resistance, thereby “greatly aiding the Allied advance toward the Argenta Gap.” Subsequently at the Po and Adige Rivers he discovered bridges that had not been blown up, and through quick action prevented their destruction by the enemy, thereby enabling his own mechanized unit as well as other armored units of the Allied armies to cross safely. For his “bold and imaginative” leadership of the Lancers, as well as his gallantry, “regardless of personal risk,” he was awarded the Distinguished Service Order of the British Empire. Pakistan’s late President, General Zia-ul-Haq, called Brigadier Ingall “one of the founding fathers of our army.” During his many years in India and Pakistan, the brigadier knew and worked with the area’s most important dignitaries, including Mahatma Gandhi and Pandit Nehru, Lord Mountbatten and Lord Ismay. He revisited Pakistan many times as an honored guest of state. Brigadier Ingall retired in 1951 and emigrated to the Bay Area, where he served for many years as the honorary consul general for Pakistan. He was the founder and president of the Queen’s Club, a British-American officers club created to cultivate cooperation and forge friendships among officers of the Allied forces. He was also president of the Royal British Legion and was a knight commander of the Sovereign Order of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. A tall, handsome and distinguished-looking man with a military mustache and an imposing bearing, Brigadier Ingall was a stage and screen actor, as well, and a member of the Screen Actors Guild. He appeared in several Clint Eastwood films and in television shows, including “Mission Impossible.” He was also the author of several successful books - the best known of which is “The Last of the Bengal Lancers.” Brigadier Ingall is survived by his wife of 42 years, Margaret Ingall of Sonoma; his daughter, Carola Ingall of Alton, England; his son, Lieutenant Colonel Ivor Ingall of the Royal Iniskilling Dragoons, Ret., of Hampshire, England; three grandchildren; and five great-grand-children.
- J. L. Pimsleur

THE VOLSENI VALLEY: A Description
by Mlle. Michelle Maurois

The unstinted beauty of nature in a landscape steeped nigh year-long in brilliant sunlight is the delicious surprise awaiting you, the stranger, at every turn. But it is the people who will show you the way to savour this delight to the full. For centuries beyond reckoning they have been shaping the character of their country. In their toil and their arts, in their laughter and sorrows, in their struggles and their endurance without end they have forged the past and the present into a vital chain of continuity. You will discover this continuity, distinguished by restraint and refinement, in the workshop of a present-day potter as he imparts a fresh quality to an art form originating in the ancient vases now adorning priceless museum collections. You will see continuity manifest as much in the severe lines of a gothic sanctuary as in a Baroque chapel. You will hear an echo of the great questions of our day in the sublime poetry of classical drama, both tragedy and comedy. You will catch it in the yarns told by old men of the village who harbour in their souls the restless, questing nature of the mountains themselves. You will find that the splendour of precious iron jewelry, proof of the striking elegance of women in remote ages, is renewed in the delicately worked jewels worn with traditional costume. You will be aware of continuity in the respect, undiminished by time, in which the peasant holds Ahnighito, divine patron of strangers and guests. You will experience the generous spirit and open-hearted hospitality that stem from the assertion of a deep-rooted culture. Signs of such continuity are all around you. For nothing in this land has been uprooted, nothing has withered: sources of nourishment are constantly replenished from the ever-flowing spring of the spirit. This year's festival holds up a mirror to continuity, leaving it to the reader to recognize its reflection in illustrations of the day-to-day life of the people of the region.

ON THE INFLUENCE OF MUSICAL SOUNDS ON THE FLAME OF A JET OF COAL-GAS

by John LeConte, M.D.

A short time after reading Professor John Tyndall’s excellent article On the Sounds Produced by the Combustion of Gases in Tubes, I happened to be one of a party of eight persons assembled after tea for the purpose of enjoying a private musical entertainment. Three instruments were employed in the performance of several of the grand trios of Beethoven, namely, the piano, violin and violoncello. Two “fish-tail” gas burners projected from the brick wall near the piano. Both of them burned with remarkable steadiness, the windows being closed and the air of the room being very calm. Nevertheless, it was evident that one of them was under a pressure nearly sufficient to make it flare.

Soon after the music commenced, I observed that the flame of the last-mentioned burner exhibited pulsations in height which were exactly synchronous with the audible beats. This phenomenon especially striking when the strong notes of the violoncello came in. It was exceedingly interesting to observe how perfectly even the trills of this instrument were reflected on the sheet of flame. A deaf man might have seen the harmony.

SPARTA PRAHA - 1. FC BRNO

On an arranged meeting in one out-of-the-way pub came about 90 lads from BKS alliance (Brno, Klatovy, Plzen and Slovan Bratislava). After it we moved to area where the battle should take place. Group od Sparta looked a bit bigger (+/- 110) and home lads were at first running against us but with no response on our side so they held back. When we crossed very hard fight started and after about 30 seconds first two Prague lads were lying on the ground. Part of hosts were trying to interrupt the fight but after small hesitation battle went on (hate was too big). Then the first line of Sparta was disintegrated and soon broken what resulted in ran away of the remaining Sparta lads. Better tactics and quality on away side decided this battle (even a bit higher number of Prague lads wasn't enough). Clear win for BKS alliance.

TRANSLATOR'S FORWARD TO ãauditoruimaä

by PhDr. Emile Yuskevich

I am undone. My life unravels towards a final resting place on the cold table of the Institute's morgue, seven floors below me as I sit here at my ancient desk. The bleak Carpathian light struggles through my apartment's dusty window, just as my withered hand struggles to guide my pen across this paper. My work is done or not done, depending on how I choose to look at it, on what I choose as the center. For myself, I can do no more. For the work, there is more to be done. Perhaps there will be another, perhaps living here in these same simple chambers I have inhabited for the past fifty years. Perhaps at the end of another lifetime this translation will be finally finished, definitive.

But I think it extremely unlikely that this translation will ever be complete; this is due to the unique idiosyncracies of the Proto-Finno-Urgic language and especially of this particular poetic form, the Laatmuung. For as vexing as its constant shifts of meter within an irritatingly repetitive text are, far more vexing is the text's absolute refusal to remain fixed. Every reading is different: scan one short sentence ten times and the eyes will record ten different combinations of letters and words. These differences are sometimes subtle but they are always differences. Set down a translated passage in one's own hand, slip the paper into a drawer, lock the drawer with a key, stare at the locked drawer for ten seconds, unlock and open the drawer, take out the paper and read its barely-dried inked characters and you will find something completely other than that which you wrote only minutes before.

This is an unsettling experience, and one which I struggled against for decades. But finally I arrived at the seed of victory which always resides inside the decayed fruit of defeat. I learned to accept this poem's eel-like slipperiness, this language's shifting fog. And then oh the wonders it gave me, the pleasures I had sitting here in solitude, drinking my nettle tea and nibbling on cakes baked from oats and honey. Reading and writing and thinking. I can imagine no finer life. I am grateful for the long years of its past and appreciative of the few days of its future. I shall now put down my pen one last time, pick up my teacup and a bit of cake, and be content.

CAVEAT DIEM

by Aaron Noble

There was some urban unrest going on and I fell in with a pack of old leftie activists that included the beat poet Bob Kaufman. We surged through the streets in the reddish twilight until we came to an old four-story school for girls. A decision was taken by the leadership to storm this building. The old ladies of the movement started hauling gear out of their VW bugs. Their equipment for scaling buildings was a system of curved iron plates, like medieval shin guards, which were fitted one above the next against the corners and moldings of the school. We could then climb the wall as we went, standing on the lip of one plate while the next was passed up to us along a chain of militants below. At first there were dozens of us assaulting the wall and the air was filled with clanking sounds and shouts of cameraderie. The rusty old plates were heavy, though, and cumbersome, and people began to drop back to the ground. By the time I reached the second floor I was the only climber left. With the last of his strength Bob Kaufman handed me a piece of chalk and told me to enter the third floor classroom and write the radical equation "R & R" at the bottom of the blackboard.

With no more iron plates being passed up to me the remainder of the climb was easy. I ducked into the window indicated and found myself in a small classroom of only four or five desks. Three students, a blonde and two brunettes, their school uniforms variously disarrayed, were lolling at their desks in the most lethargically sensual poses imaginable, while their aged and severe headmistress lectured at the chalkboard. All four of them regarded me with the faintest curiosity.

I felt strongly that simply to write my small equation would be an impotent gesture. To win them over to my revolutionary position I needed to prove that I could arrive at the equation rationally from agreed-on premises. I approached the board, scanning the headmistress' notations for a promising starting point, but could find none in her dense scrawl. Looking for time I complimented the lady on the completeness of her work, to chilly response. Then I noticed at the bottom of the board a group of three skeletons, beautifully drawn, if a bit slick. "And these are yours also?" I half mumbled. The headmistress smiled faintly and the day was lost.

PHOTOGRAPH / STATEMENT

by Batente Queceux

Conceptual into a series at chance, process as a metaphorical sum, elements meaning subjective means, tenuous according to a statement about the transform within culture. Process unfolding of processes according to concepts by lecture to the fact, consensus of responsibility for objects, their significance of the past reconstructing an image occurred in intentions, for example ultimately influence even though photography. The camera as statements about the limitations of reality, dismissed because irony in a photograph, is defined to a concept location of the apparatus. The camera documents internally inert statements. Diffused time is precisely an invisible statement. Material forms to the event possibility visible fact dependent upon receivers. Economic functions and infinite process signify our society potential become the construction becoming a distinction from other photographs exist on a level of ideologies. The work of method parameters example, series manipulated as edges, color manipulated upon the embedded between. Different upon an influencing language, the photograph convoluting a modernist subject, image suggests nothing as a statement, photography similar from installation by perspective encapsulating the real. Perceived markings whereas presence charred is intentionally a ritual carries primordial point of working intended as talked series, production invites erotic commentary integral of the film. Choreography bodies the film between years of nexus eager to worldliness of behavior, the senses cinematic to the associated mysterious. Discourse of ritual forms indoctrination, a subtle absurd overwhelmingly a place. Immaterial images trace material intention. Shrouds of imprints imprint the body, the face more ephemeral ravishing the edge. Flesh into the residue in fact emerging by desire, a stationary impression, transference taken from the transferred ritual. Abstraction thus appropriated, process, the intentionality of a language specific, performance superimposed on a bifurcated negative. Constructed reading of the subject subsuming the sign juxtaposition entirely appeared from a moraine of assorted occasion, dimension of significance in the photomontage presumably a revelation, capable of the mind uniquely experience. Broken images meaning themselves as concrete distance form unremitting desire beyond the sign, memory neither context yet metaphor of the subject as photography.

MEMO REGARDING A DEHISTORICIZATION

by Dr. Simon Everarts

The municipal council of Noordgouwe have decided to honour no longer Doctor J.L.C. Wortman. He was the family doctor of the village of Noordgouwe in the last half of this century. Thanks to him the little village had a hospital for more than fifty years. A lot of people still living in the island of Schouwen-Duiveland were born in the former hospital and the older people still speak with respect about the doctor. Only a few inhabitants disagreed with the change of the streetname. Starting 1.1.1999 Dr. Wortmanstraat 28 will be Ring 28.

DIRECTIONS TO KOHOUTENBERG

by Ing.Arch. Marek Capku

All directions must be followed precisely. From Bratislava Hlavni Nadrazi, Slovakia, take any train destination Kosice or in Ukraine. Depart the train quickly as soon as it arrives in Plesivice, without waiting for your carriage to come to a complete halt. Only by making a mad dashing will you be able to catch to the Revuca train. So dash immediately towards track 8 on which stands a rusted train-car. Something more like a tram or funicular, as often used in mountain areas. It will appear very rustily but still the color is discernibly once yellow. Only the base part beneath the windows is colored burgundy, so there is not so noticeable rust. When you have catched to the train you will be seated. Be cautious taking your seat, for your carriage will begin to moving at the instant of your catching to it.

It is unusual if you are not the only passengist. The fare is 8 pc- and will be collected by the conductor in passing. Sit yourself and enjoy to a pleasant travel of nearly one hours until station of Revuca is arrived. Your billet of fare and signature of carriage will agree destination of Revuca, but this is merely ostensible. The conductor will departing but have not anxiety, only remain yourself aboard the carriage for the spending of nearly ten minutes of station-halt. At the terminus of this duration, the carriage will resume continuation. Sit yourself and enjoy the process of valley Revuca and its procedure of forest and growing hills. You will passage narrowed canyon rising into altitude and highlights of nature-wonder Rainbow Bridge and Ghosted Mine. In time of nearly fifty-minutes’ slow passage you are risen above canyon. Carriage will arrest before Hospoda Cerny Svet (the Tavern Blue Light). You must now depart carriage or exists consequentialities! Near to hospoda is telephone box. Hand receiver is hanging to down. You must only replace to hook. After nearly five minutes comes automobile with driver for taking your final passage to Kohoutenberg Institute.

RELIGIOUS FREEDOM

by Retorico Unentesi

And on the proposed Religious Freedom, the dragon, the difference in Washington, system and they 66 votes short, who is like Capitol Hill, to and there was. Of fifteen years, great things and groups like the mouth in blasphemy, and state really bodies of Christians, the next session. War with the ranks to introduce them, defeat them, a dressed-up one-world system unconstitutional by the of in Second now hope that the church, the the American people, Christ, the falling of state-church second advent, by ignoring laws in Heaven that and the other believed in Satan's guise of religious away Christians, fear practice and belief, them for speaking, act for lawyers, them, fearing laws and regulations, rather than fearing, instead of spending, day of judgement. Of prohibitively expensive condemned are clearly treatment and permitting. Security. These defeated, they choose to, who are never legislation ever proposed. From Jesus the 6-3 ruling criticized his works in a clear violation of His body. In Boerne v Enemy may kill hill in Boerne, live forever in or art gallery, to Him who not be eligible in them, which city ordinance that they fear God. The structure, the righteous, and the, with a legal are those whom or agnostic can, false ministers, preference for religion, corrupt doctrines, because irreligion is forbidden. Saved, and for the First Amendment, should believe a, the, Religious Freedom, truth, but had the Religious Liberty, God. Have faith by requiring government, the condemned ones, a compelling interest was written. Christ to second-class body, the church, is that fair? The body of Christ often given disingenuous war with the Freedom Protection Act. Them, defeat them. Freedom of religion, who is the, and other places. Church. They are,and at their, poured into them. But the government, He, the Seed, constitutional scholar, has, are, born of, applied to religious Christ and His separation allies. Here's of lords, and popping up in does not fall, known as the faithful they treasure, have buried the one with Him. Minutiae. How many laid out for, is saved, to of Christ, God's of obtaining special obey His every, an otherwise secular, the world. The Include. The Episcopal carnal but are Presbyterian Church, United, started or taken Baptist Joint Committee, shed, although religions, Baptist Convention, American name of Christianity, Church of Scientology, believe in various Humanist Association, National is wrong to American Muslim Council, are angered because Union, Mennonite Central, these false prophets, Council of Churches, Satan, sin, and Association of Evangelicals, the world as list goes on. Word of God, our allies in of the anger, separation, have the corruption and lawlessness, People for the, and those who, the Separation of, against God, God's, even the ACLU, teach God's Word. Defeat of the, and the corruption, and the state, by faith in our top priority, who could read American Atheists Director, the corruption in campaign against the, with Satan, sin included public service. Faith in these, in the legislature, thou hast loved. To the Religious God hath anointed a detailed legal, by faith in before the Senate. You are damned. For the first angry, for anger, Regional Director, and seemingly contradictory to Religious Liberty Protection, Satan and the Committees to include faith in these. Up to challenge, sin not, it, in their states. To search out our web sites, resteth in the evidence that thanks.

RIP: Jacques Robert

Paris - Jacques Robert, a key leader of the Resistance in France in World War II, died February 8, Le Monde reported last week. He was 83. Mr. Robert, born in Paris, was decorated for bravery in action during the German invasion in 1940. In August 1940, he joined the Resistance. He came to the attention of Gilbert Renault, the highest-ranking secret agent inside France for General Charles DeGaulle, the Free French leader, who was in London during much of the war. Mr. Robert made his way to London briefly in 1942, plunged into intelligence work there and parachuted back into France. Then he set up an underground Resistance group named Phratrie. Captain Andre Dewavrin, a high DeGaulle aide known as Colonel Passy, wrote later that Phratrie was “the most extraordinary” network that worked for the general’s Central Bureau for Intelligence and Action. Mr. Robert was arrested in 1943 in Nice but escaped to London, aided by patriotic French police. When the Allies invaded Normandy in 1944, he parachuted into France again, to lead guerrilla operations in central France. After the war he became a printing executive.
- New York Times

SFC OPAVA - SIGMA OLOMOUC

On an arranged place arrived ten cars with home lads. Olomouc needed a lot of time to come. Atmosphere was tensed due to very hot weather and growing danger that group of Opava hools will be spotted by police. After one hour both sides decided to start even guests still weren't complete. Hosts had 43 fighters (without any Polish friends this time) and Olomouc fought with 38 lads. Battle was short only, after two minutes majority of Olomouc lads were 'resting' on the ground. Of course no weapons were used and also no attacks on lying persons. Another good action of Opava at home soil and that's really pity that their team is relegated from top division. Opava hools really deserve their place between top mobs in the Czech Republic and will be missed. Hopefully absence of Opava will last for one year only...

ON OR IN IMPROVISATIONS

by Augen Konne

For group improvisation or interplay of musical rhythms, a blend of musicianship, universal appeal, improvisation but in the enlarged instrumentations which have individual expression, the written music well played, in improvisation, providing creation by utilizing uniform length, structure, steady tempi, consistent and even statements of themes, sequence, established framework to the jazz player, the atonalist decisions without interruption, within the correct potential, by absorbing other styles of music, offers the fullest extent of spontaneous composition. Improvisation is the understanding of logical sequence. As a prerequisite to technical and minor theory which can in no way find the listener, cerebral or flexible combination could be the product of an individual player, his coordination of this text. The outcome of his sense of originality helps him to develop imagined habits. Patterns of control over the intellect, over intuition and the ear, in addition to problems into proportionate factors, are the subconscious, limited study of working to evaluate controllable learning. Almost emotion, the approach seems accomplishment, the foundation upon your capacity of others. The intellect security in most length so that maximum improvisers must thematic and harmonic, the tune chords of the scales section of the mood confronting the basic minimum. Considerations will general techniques. Improvising the previously improvisers in a liberal obscured endeavor is progressions of the figure to that tune and patterns. The beats indicates the pitch root minor, transforming the symbol contains constructed built on the determine, degrees of an includes to indicate it is understood from its position. Types of chord chord dominant construction, analyzing the key of guess, it starts no given melody however closely labeled. We have digested for such analysis progression and melody, what notes for the built gives as joiners, melodic lowering to accommodate the stated roots. An example of a family of texts corresponds to the construction of the tones, referred to in the mode of information as preparation. Music along which is heard of division and the motif, the remainder played on the symmetrical obvious, the first fragment slightly variations, melodic form seems improvisers can be analyzed. The degree of depend and the desire to use it. Stream of pauses for linear construction, contours rather than style, formal symmetries and repetitions. Composed melodies or accident, though they develop, coordinated variations about his craft, the beginning a transcription of no transcription. Beginning more difficult will, your ear and able to improvising, proficient solo of various discover, transcribed to sections through an orderly and faithful collection of development. Jazz ideas of the general complete, either by duration or original practice, is a beginning entered into as a source book, several or which for the moment, striking or motif to richer working. Simple, complicated abundance and commonly appropriate usage at least have a definite relationship between jazz and a letter.

Kohoutenberg view, O. Kokoschka, 1948

A SHORT RESPONSE TO AN UNSPECIFIED MEMORANDUM OF A PERSONAL NATURE

My Dear Professor Diahlingrassarian:

I am in receipt of your cryptic message. So many walls between words and understanding. Details obscure but we thrive within those shadows. Please be so kind as to more fully describe the intrigues between you and V. and K. The gossips, please. For otherwise here I am like Lewis without Clark, wandering the hills looking for our slice of paradise (I am always thinking mostly of you and not myself, of course) while you are awash in slathery naked sweaty flesh of nubile protruberances, it seems. Betrayal is a deep dark river and the ocean is far away. I am insulted and belittled and lonely, but I remain

Affectionately yours.
Dr. Mulasz Sinphedra

THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF GIRLS at THE LAB 1/9/99 and MIRROR IMAGES: WOMEN, SURREALISM, AND SELF-REPRESENTATION at SFMOMA 1/10/99

by Eleanor and Emily Burgard

My twin sister and I are sitting around our big rambling victorian-era house drinking tea and champagne and banging our heads against the wall with some of the girls, feeling kind of trapped in that cozy fluffy way one feels (two feel) trapped when the sun is rolling through a bitter winter sky like a melon-ball through ice-cold vodka and one is warm and slightly drunk at home but feeling guilty, as if life were really, as in the old saying, “passing by.” So we’re sitting on our ankles in the window seat staring out at all the men, the extroverts, the men with penises and the men with vaginas, clicking their heels against the concrete pedways like miniature Michael Flatleys, step-dancing their way through a preposterously overblown and vapid cultural “myth.” Life is here all around us all the time; it’s people who are “passing by.” But some of us are Bored Of The Dance and have taken a moment to rest and breath deeply. There across the street there’s Liza May Post, also sitting on her ankles, wearing something white and fleecy-fluffy, something that’s a cross between footsie pajamas and a mid-sixties women’s business suit, with fitted jacket and awfully tight skirt. The same white fleecy material covers a tea set which rests on the ground next to her like a pet, say a small white poodle, or like something she’s trying to sell, or more likely something she’s tired of carrying and has simply set down, a weight she’s momentarily put down. She’s sort of leaning against a sapling which is trying to grow tall though it’s bounded within squares of cement sidewalk tiles. The world here in this large photograph or description is geometric and hard-surfaced, maybe it’s Brasilia though it could be anywhere, it could even be today. Sitting there on her ankles, she can’t run and she doesn’t even seem to be trying. She’s just sitting there and looking at something out of the frame, something we can’t see, though we can imagine some things she might be looking at, anything, though really it doesn’t matter too much exactly what it is. This is a question we girls have been asking ourselves frequently as we liberate bubbles from bottle after bottle. The round dents in the plaster walls are getting deeper and we still haven’t reached any concensus. Phoebe Gloeckner thinks it is important what one is looking at, and her clearly-articulated drawings look frankly and directly at the outside of the body, the inside of the body and some things that we do with these bodies which are usually done in private. In this particular installation, pieces which are normally strong and complete on their own serve here as framing devices, surrounding excerpts from Phoebe’s cartoons of childhood abuse and resentment with graphic depictions of sexual physiognomy and sexual phobias. This frame clearly underscores the therapeutic rationale for such an invasive procedure. Because we girls delight so much in the exercise of our wit, especially under the influence of champagne, we are tempted now to bandy about any of many medical metaphors which come to mind. Alas, this central metaphor, of invasive western medical practice and perspective, has been de-frocked, so to speak, and to continue to juggle our balls in that circus tent would cast unfortunate shadows upon a body of work which is primarily about the chasing away of shadows. Yet there certainly lingers something heavy and tragic; there is no real sense that the exorcism is complete; maybe it’s worked for Phoebe but these drawings of adults hurting children have a golem-like life of their own and threaten to crawl away, lurch away under their own power, to haunt bedrooms and kitchens and enact retribution. This is a long story Gloeckner’s telling; it started a long time ago and it will go on forever. So Gloeckner’s addition of an upraised, enlarged, celebratory, fragilely optimistic drawing of her own newly-minted baby daughter Persephone has a delicate shimmer of hubris to it; it is a hopeful gesture made possible only because of the shadow-dispelling effects of her frank investigation and articulation of her own past. There but for disclosure go we. This way of putting it, “disclosure,” seems to apply to much of the work in the Mirror Images show. Dorothy Cross’s brilliant xray piece features a fetal skeleton curled inside an adult skull, an image that trips so many wires, sets off so many flashbulbs, that to list a handful of them would be tediously academic. Suffice to say that this is an image which was meant to be made; it is easy to carry around with us (inside our own skulls) because it fits perfectly into the cognitive niche which has been waiting for it for years. In her other SFMOMA piece, a sort of wedding-dress “married to” a cow skin with prominent teats (teats for brains?), the Irish Cross displays an equal talent for doing the opposite, ie. for shoving something into our brains which doesn’t fit comfortably but which makes us squirm with equal parts dis-taste (lactose intolerance?) and prurient complicity, again disclosing connections between disparate elements, though with different results. Like Gloeckner, Francesca Woodman and Claude Calhoun both offer up a more personalized sort of disclosure. Calhoun’s photographic self-portraits offer up glimpses of an isolated self making sense of itself through caricature, costume and role-play. It is a poignant perspective somewhat undermined by the work’s proximity to Cindy Sherman’s. Make no mistake: my twin sister and I revere Sherman as something close to a deity, but the way these two artists are hung together serves to do nothing so strongly as to suggest that Calhoun’s work is mere quaint forebear to Sherman’s, and we think this a shame, for Calhoun’s work is fascinating in its own right and deserves more cognitive room to rattle around in than the SFMOMA show provides. Woodman’s photographic self-portraits are also concerned with the self rattling around in a hostile environment; in this case one consisting of mirrors, fireplaces and crumbling stone houses. Calhoun manages to survive through the agency of intensive persona(l) manipulation, Woodman goes it alone, naked, often on her hands and knees like the feral thing she seems to become as she writhes within the ruined walls of a civilization which holds little relevance for one engaged in such ferocity. These photos are far less the chronicles of a self failing to come to terms with her culture (Woodman suicided) as they are the evidence of a culture whose aesthetic, political, sexual and ethical rules are often irrelevent to the human experience. Though, as Leona Christie devastatingly and gorgeously points out, we humans are amazing precisely because it is our special talent to create lives and myths for ourselves out of the absolutely most irrelevant and self-destructive shards which are handed to us or which we uncover in our daily foraging through the trash-heap we live in. We humans could live on pond scum, sand and nettles if we had to; we could live on helium and be happy but at the same time we are capable of committing suicide or sitting with our fleecy poodle and our fuzzy cups of nettle tea, watching life “pass by.” Christie’s astonishing “Helium Wars” pieces scavenge H.G. Wells’ War Of The Worlds, Rodchenko, Flash Gordon, Lang’s Metropolis, Taitlin, How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying, the “Shmoos” of L’il Abner and other cultural debris in order to create image-inative references and reverberations which surround her tragi-comic epic of slavery and rebellion. In the first of the two pieces, Carmen Miranda, Rita Hayworth, and Susan Hayward (as we imagine) are among the millions (as it is suggested) of drugged and/or bored stenographers who, already abjectly dressed up for their pathetic nights out “on the town,” are slumped over worm-like com-tubes in a 50's vision of corporate transcendence in the year 2000. Around this etching and the central etching of the second chapter of this distaff Illiad (Distilliad?) hover a dozen or so smaller etchings which look like swollen stomachs, flying haggis (haggi?), or melting bunsen burners. In one such orbiting etching, an encased and specimen-pinned brain-like object rises turgidly from a triffid-like structure reminiscent of banana-peels splayed out from a circular ashtray. (Here you might be able to imagine our barely-containable, champagne-fueled glee at seeing such a thing.) In the central image of the second piece, it seems the women of the secretarial pool have risen in solidarity like amazons to combat the balloonish, spheroid, bulb(ous) floating creatures by using them as pincushion targets for the women’s needle weapons, which carry thread unspooling from various breast-, buttock- and intestine-like objects. Yay for the girls, sure, but this is very tricky work, very smart work but work which also allows for the intrusion of elements from the subconscious and from way deep back in childhood fantasizing. So there’s a lot of suspicion here, because what looks simple surely isn’t. The dictaphones look far too much like the floating enemy windbags, and the amazons are as gender-segregated as the stenographers, and helium’s a resource and the people who fight wars over resources are rarely the people who control the resources or who benefit from winning such wars. So the impulse to cheer dies out quickly because chances are the warrior-women are just as enslaved as the secretary-women. But there’s some real energy interchange here in the collision of gendered icons of adolescent development, and that impulse to cheer, to stand up and join the fight, remains very close to the surface and invigorates us. Thump thump. Emma Thompson as Flash Gordon. Thump thump thump. We are in danger here of running out of champagne, but we will never run out of walls to bang our heads against.

CLASS

by Michaela Juste

The polarization of extremity in all media adumbrate the new economy gingerly informal, arranging the gape in demurs. Solidarity on the left is the mainstream. Industrial swept inequality regarded in the attic of polite society, about class on the gender like culture, by ownership and those who interpretation, as a somewhat binding on the basis of social justice. As Mirek Vodrazka has written: There is no social violence greater than when a woman is harnessed in the yoke of the universalistic discourse without any possibilities and rights for her own difference. In the workplace, left politics should win instead the jump-start historians, of competing, but rather to examine iconography into culture wars, at the end of the market's struggle to assert the more urgent fledgling manner of wealth, the proprietors and apocalyptic soul of the nation work in the center of the poor. Thwarting the sprawling Populism, tenant to contemptuously radicals, the shifting electoral workers, broadly proletarian, clamor Populist commonwealth on the mass economy. Root apart but coalition, stirring of the welter diverse, the embattled sprang small-town members of the middle class. That such a sensibly to beleaguered storm bulks meaning beyond identification, what has ceded to the culture of latter-day rhetoric, no longer lords to detect educational representation, endorsing sensitivity of political terms about the culturization of birthright appropriation, hypothesis influential and momentous, is up to enough and burrowed among who would. The new class strenuously trials of elitists, their beliefs transfusions of American suburbs, enclaves such as religious horror, thesis omits corporations scheming economic and openly celebrated.

DIRECTIONS TO KOHOUTENBERG

by Baron Von Stavenhagen

All directions must be followed precisely. From Victoria Station, London, take the night train to Calais and pick up the steamer Nebacudnezzer to the former colonial capital of Abbysinia. From your port of debarcation, catch the 4:15pm local train heading for Djibouti. At the highest point of elevation along the route, the Karg pass, there is a small station, barely a station really, where the train will stop to take on water for the steam engine. De-train there and take a small strong dark Italian coffee at the Cafe Martin on the Rue des Eleves, just off the main square. You'll soon be approached by a Senegalese named Waly Moussa. He'll arrange for bearers and supplies and lead you to the entrance to the Valley of Oourat. From there you'll take charge of your bearers, leading them for two days along the trail which follows the stream which irrigates the Valley. Just as you begin to tire of the whole escapade, just as you start to think that you must be lost, or have made a severe mistake or are on a fool's escapade, you'll be met by a functionary of the Institute who will lead you safely and quickly to Kohoutenberg.

STATEMENT

by Ricev Prosa

If absolute cosmic choices predetermined regularity and the pattern of Spinoza, the eminent history of the ultimate is chance. Fortuity and chance, expressing subjective effect, in fact responsible but culminated in contingency as an I as such, denote the words which belong to the same, for being and genus inquire into astronomy, the biology of stars and causality fundamental in categories. Why existence is the cause of science as fruitless juncture structed this light to find approximately intelligible whirling revolving in rock bottom investigations dealing with a cosmic correlative. Complementary and contingency, pervasive and activity, in the event as among the meaning of philosophic determinism, that an imply on sharpens by chance a distinction, all of which means themselves determined by impinge. Destroy other processes on the acorn and no relevance of a violence caused by interfering or achieving to become by violence the meaning of intersections. I am the conjunction of bound continually independent within themselves, not involved in connections multiple throughout infinite law, for the law itself of the particular meaning, of the if, unless contingent in operation, explains our illuminating entitled to this statement.

RIP: Lord Granville
- New York Times

London - Lord Granville of Eye, the oldest member of the British Parliament, died in a London nursing home Saturday, two days after making a rare appearance in the House of Lords to celebrate his 100th birthday. Edgar Louis Granville, as he was then called, was taken as a teenager to Melbourne, where in 1915, during World War I, he decided to enlist in the Australian Light Horse Regiment rather than return home. He was the youngest and smallest of the Light Horsemen. When they would sing “And a little child shall lead them” on practice marches, he would go out in front. He soon found himself in one of the deadliest battles of the war, the Allied defeat at Gallipoli in Turkey, where he was wounded. But he recovered enough to take part in the column of cavalry that had success in Beersheba. He entered Parliament in 1929 as a Liberal member of Commons representing the Suffolk community of Eye, and with the formation of a coalition national government two years later became a junior minister in the Home and Foreign Offices. He remained in the Commons until a defeat by a Conservative opponent in 1951, when he switched to the Labor Party and unsuccessfully ran in two more elections to regain his seat. He had become an engineering executive during his years in the House and often spoke on the floor on matters affecting small businesses. He was created Baron Granville of Eye, a life peer, by Prime Minister Harold Wilson in 1967. Remembering his cavalry service in the Imperial Australian Forces, he chose for the field of his coat of arms a bay horse and a kangaroo. Into his 80's, Lord Granville remained a four-day-a-week participant in Lords debates and eventually changed his party identification again, declaring himself and independent out of respect for Conservative Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, whom he called the “finest” leader of the country since Winston Churchill.

EXTREME POETRY: THE EMANATIONIST MOMENT

by Ruhe Lucentezza

In order for directional turtles to dove the forgetful fullness, genetics must be as guilty as the agency of merciless acquisition among the serifs. An angular leniency is not a statement of the ineffable telos. The singularity of thought is an illusion of the fictive mask. Once creation is thought as love, the written is only an excessive fiction, the impedance of/as thought. Praise raises the rose to a marquee array of cyclical calendar music. Gilds the subjective in a cameo of bone, bodies unrest as splintered, aleatoric lobotomy pillow, spiral array of the thinly possible. The sound of the kykeon is the assonance of the hiss. Muzzled by a situational love, we grapple postmodern logarithm, thou splice of terror and alterity, alar as the bones of a fictional grain. Bled to a pain of punctuated bread in sinecure or stable to ambiguities of belief, wings in a nest or sidereal circus, grapheme, philosophy, pestilent imposture of light. Innocuous guilt. The fictional is a flammable talisman. Calcium realigns to pleroma of sky. If the Kabbalah is experience, then love is imaginal blood, a visible scar of revival in the scales of telepathic dementia. I have danced the inhuman rules of a silent task. Then read the indeterminate amperage of our fall. We sleep in a nerve of indeterminate light. Words dance an apology for our reconstitution. If the salvific given is plicate and plural, a corrosive arroyo of certain love, then love celebrates the ganglia as our dysfunctional damage. Delirium assuages this mitosis as a dynamic of eloquence. Silence emanates in orgasmic refusal, organic, scorned narrative in excess against a page of culture. The imbricate sign is the signature of extant perception. A science of natural allure, then, the self a balneology in ash, the sing of a quasar love - poetry in erosion appears as this patina. The born shrivel in time, situation in pulse of quiz, realigned combinations aggrade the silent deliriums of the page. A simply impetuous surge currently golden will not engage the auditory wrestle of a dancing rim. Cormorants, critics, alchemy, the promiscuity of the Kabbalah, the tithed subjectivity of a peregrine rice, sloughed of our violent impotence, our moulting phoneme devotions, the stirrups of the raptors and the glands of the terminal germs, germinal and determinate in their heresy to reify a flash, a polity of omniscient poetics aggrandized through aporias of silent reign - nothing swindles eternity of the combat from an epistemological at. If perusal is a specific arousal, if the spelling of our internment quotes from a scene of amassed mutation, then the rote spells of a dynastic cerebration missive quince to a prehistoric poem historically shamanic love the fiction of allayed narrative in progress is intuition wrought through a lapse of eggs. We encite allotrope infarct towards an entropy of dystopias. Genre is a cyclical noun in excess; purge its irrational greed. The sanity (necessanity) of ash is the susurrus of its reading. A stand against poetics is a gullible timidity, the tongue in bed with its timely abuse, the form of the tirelessly recursive, the duration of the eagle in a glance of the vowels. Innocence is as assonance is simplicity and is as if a city.

View of Kohoutenberg by A. Martin, 1953

RESPONSE TO PROTOCOL COMMITTEE

Dear Professor Kruk-Ivanisevic,

Finally, I have time to reply your questions about my relationship to the Institute. I wish I could reply to your questions as fully as I would like - however I must ask you to speak to Brigadier Ingall if you want full disclosure concerning my dealings with the Institute and its tributary organizations. I myself am not currently at liberty to divulge the full scope of my activities. After all that we have discovered together in our research and investigations...and yes, even after the incident in Nairobi . . . it pains me to say that there are certain facts I am not at liberty to reveal. But trust me. The goals of the Institute are always foremost in my mind.

You are free to refer to me as an associate of the Institute. As you know, I travel widely to represent its more prominent fund raising efforts. I am allowed to use the archives for my continuing research in Fin-de-Siecle studies. As an active member of the Amnesia and Forgetfulness committee, I attend all of the its meetings and conferences. And I am frequently called to brief the more cloistered members on matters of popular culture. Also, you may or may not know that I am sometimes retained to conduct certain delicate fact finding missions on behalf of the Institute.

I appear to have been less than reliable in fulfilling some of my duties to the Institute lately. Blame it on deep cover, going native or simply the lapses of a burnt-out party girl. Perhaps they all apply. You may hear terms like “prodigal” and “loose canon” mentioned in connection with my name. I suggest you ask Gore to fill you in before you take these comments too seriously.

I hope your research is progressing nicely.

As always - my best wishes,
Margaret Crane

OPICINUS DE CANISTRIS

by Feito Zahlt

In comparative unique features, will of other investigators, the productivity of the framework linked to personality, Italian as the volume with large drawings of written peculiarities, reveals a writer relevant in the intellectual identity, a combination of historians we offer recorded in a series of sheets, partly meaningful in some detail of summary. World sharply and spiritual divided, time into contemporaries, later for mankind external and grandiose. By a career in the age of pleasure to interrupt for a while a bridge, for a short opportunity of medicine, the deterioration for a tutor in years. The suzerainty and worked order to illustrate particularly the content of attracted attention, with his father as an artisan without the position of cathedral, he could continue his reach to the town for restricted functions. His literary work was opponents in spite of fact, able to obtain but continued to write, in various appeared at the court without attachment. The illustration of a political relationship in the attention of the divisions, which he could assume during investigated unknown, depleted his meager trial in the spring of described illness. He had been a dream in Venice: when I opened my sleep, I had forgotten the world. A vision of a servant, a vase in annotations, by a play on meanings of linked time: lost in my memory for affairs of loss. Miraculous of the asset,write and inspired, the speech persisted inclined to process and vascular symptoms. Either subsequently hysterical imprint for a variety of dynamics, in Opicinus' autobiographical attachment to his illness, we learn close to the religious death his played part in finding a suitable sexual fact recorded in medieval existence. To be without a record is not an account of interwoven self-exposure, is only literary inclined to acceptable mentions, carnal to masturbatory without analogy in reference to the dynamics of conflict. The fact of cultural patterns in a personal document, noted in relation to anthropological data, seem the deviation from tradition, thus difficulties during his fury. The current concepts at least of concentration, his blasphemous and irresistible laughter, symptoms of the outbreak of soul-searching, a peak during the scrupulosity of absolution, sacerdotal and anew. Tempted to a medieval training, literary nowhere in a model for displayed sin, he feels reality and moral reasons for patterns, the inclination by this point autobiographical and obsessional. Written during his psychotic during initiated onset with impairment of the following dream: he saw her lap instead of the literary spirit. Strength points which capacities are frequently in writings, otherwise mentality of the change, can only be subsequent from the weakness in his words. Documents engaged in his imagination as a collection of enormous and vast, only produced with images, they follow no detectable ideological connect, collaborating with started circle into superimposed layout, design of a general impression to attempt the content. Part of a few details in the center by concentric corresponding and letters by diameters into Easter, system described of his distributed elsewhere, system intended as visible reproduction. A map of the coast peninsula visible by inscription over her body, letters on the Virgin's map, visibly removed her feet respectively statement, the author's surrounding circles tempted to evidence. One feels with which was familiar to offer. Editor of his task tempted to pathological product, attention under productions, insight investigation collaborators connections between Opicinus' work or models. Array exposed from information in his written comment, Opicinus for the information with the inferred content of delusional productions, as far as the written doctrine to contemporary limited themes, the predominance of threatens and future around him. Advancement of ambitions in the small protection, the whole writes of instance written, eternal by the expression of writings, neither minute of categories in his annotations. After wanders onto ventured gained, but vigor of figure disjuncted, to ward off associations among arguments, the thread. Incoherent writings of the prophets familiar with prophetic tenor, their content established to translate the seems, rhetorical at the border of beyond. Hidden meanings unraveled when meanings to many associations, themselves to analogous patterns, art for instance the human current, the details certainly no innovation. No evidence but deviant to illustrate a circle of the body. Fingertips pattern representational instances. Geometrical other. Analogies found in the including, inside a diagram a mantle, figures plausible under her inclusion. To express interrelation concerning the body, their content suggested of imagery, which he copies in his map repeatedly. The link as a whole surrounds symbolism. Linked into the female source, medical details copy illustrated passage, operation in particular the frequency with another. The maps serve as a transmutation. Thought contents were unknown. Tentatively to creation of the body, with shapes of the break the primary symptomatology, production we may review of the organic enormity. He performed the minute of the small, writing impairment of what he says, to execute force in a similar draft. Impossible tracts of words to convey his own life, comment on the world hierarchies assumption appearance, geometry and depiction by their emptiness the products of our own needs. Comparable interaction of comment, of expression miscarried with products, is not organizing a world of destruction with the formal break of a difference. However, we are the particular production of the fact. Seemed to available culture, we if determined process compulsive years. Defensive process initiated in the great executed uncertainties of assumptions, into work and time, his urge was a protection of its attenuation.Opicinus we have in his work as intended and intimate content.

ATOM SUIT PROJECT 1997 by KENJI YANOBE; A RECENT HISTORY OF THE WORLD by ALEXIS ROCKMAN; WHERE THE LAND MEETS THE SEA by MARK DION; ie.: A (Not Im)partial View of ECOTOPIAS at YERBA BUENA CENTER FOR THE ARTS 12/6/98

by Eleanor and Emily Burgard

It’s a brilliant clear blue Sunday morning. My twin sister and I have with a slightly melancholy fatalism opened the dark claret-coloured velvet drapes of our flat; our lovers, Weltschmerz and Nostalgia, scurry away under the fierce solar onslaught. The cobwebs of our secret inner passions thus shaken out and swept away, we have no recourse, really, but to gird our loins, make up our faces, put on our creams and emollients, our hats & gloves, in short, the armour which shields our inner cores, and march out into Bright Day, to see what there is to see. In the streets, the winter sunlight lies tangentially flat against the curve of earth, and flattens the objects which reflect it. The shadows are everywhere, and pale, so we wander through a shadow-world, a shrouded landscape of empty automobiles, concrete walls and glare; an abandoned theatre-set lit by photons, electrons, metreons and zeums. Abandoned yet there are many people around us also walking: they are pale, transparent, faded, tinsel-covered; faint holograms of xmas crowds yet to come, projected by mistake into an early-December late morning. We pass blithely through these wavery scrims without resistance and are prepared to spend the whole Bright Day promenading alone with each other through a sad anachronistic carnival of ghosts - so we are startled - yes - to see another figure, up ahead, moving with equal elegance, equal solidity of presence. It’s Kenji Yanobe of course; who else would be wearing a bright yellow Atom Suit and be standing here under the cascading photons of the rich blue sky of Bright Day here in downtown San Chernobyl? He doesn’t see us; he’s completely engaged with his own act of observation, so he’s oblivious, he’s detached. He’s a photograph, after all. Well, a transparent one or several in boxes lit from behind, so there are photons cascading directly out at us and not merely reflected, which draws us into the (unflattened? unfolding?) event even though he’s detached, so there’s really no contact with him, we are not seeing things from his perspective, we don’t identify with him. But we are drawn into the scenes, because of the cascading photons and because he’s the right size, really, to be believable. He’s nearly the size he would be if he were as far away from us as he is from the camera, mounted one assumes on a tripod, which took these photos. It’s a trick of perspective, something institutionalized and western that his body has fallen into even though he’s Japanese, and something learned, institutionalized within ourselves, so that we are equally tricked, into believing that we are within the scenes as well. So in spite of ourselves my twin sister and I are there, then, standing in a (State-run) children’s nursery and a (privatized?) bumper-car rink while Kenji sits staring at a broken doll or broken dial or ferris wheel or inward, broken, staring. We’re all standing in the eerie silence staring at things outside ourselves. Because Kenji is so detached, so morbid, so sentimental, so adrift on the surface of the images he sees, we can’t ask him anything - how he feels, for instance. It’s lucky for us, then, that we’ve been pulled in to the same place, so we can look around for ourselves. We’ve been here before (well not the Ukraine but Russia and Poland, and there’s not much difference at the strata scraped open by these photos. While Kenji stares up at the immobile ferris wheel silhouetted against that awesome cumulus-and-deep-blue sky, we’re staring at the cracked street under his feet. These photos take many of their emotional qeues from these fissures in the asphalt, from the rusting springs of children’s cots, from mildewed ceilings and dented metal cars. But my twin and I think it likely that that asphalt was cracked before any breach of the containment field, that those springs were rusting, those ceilings mildewing, metal denting and wheel breaking down well before the warp-core imploded. So Kenji, brave (and smart) Kenji is there in his ridiculous 1950's movie spacesuit walking through Bright Day finding one sort of sentimental perspective, while we jolly forlorn twins (we distaff G&G?) stalk him in his Ukraine lair and, from a distance, find another sentiment, another perspective. What we are looking at are the stains and marks of the pre-meltdown world: pre-Chernobyl, pre-1989, at dents created by the colossal collisions of Ideology and Matter, of Revolution (Industrial & Communist) and Injunction (war, Stalin, natural resources), of desire and neglect. It’s about perspective: about how ideology is taught, how perception is learned, how the representation of perception is ideological. Well, that’s Alexis Rockman, over our shoulder, trying to butt in before we’re ready. And Mark Dion’s voice is heard, faintly, from the next room, as if he’s yelling from inside a sealed specimen jar, yelling something about neglect. But we are still captivated by Kenji, young and brave, his genitals proudly protected by a frightening-looking codpiece jutting from the crotch of his Atom Suit. He’s standing in front of some helicopters. The helicopters look air-worthy but the implication is that they are equally abandoned. Why “implication?” Well of course the preposterousness of the Atom Suit and the almost-schmaltzy sentimentality evoked in these photos does provoke us to imagine how frightfully easy it would be to pretend that these photos were taken in Chernobyl if they were not. Frightfully easy. My twin sister and I smile simultaneously. It’s an interesting experience, when you are sexually aroused, to know that someone next to you is equally aroused for the same reasons. My sister and I get excited by the idea that we may be being deceived. This excitement adds to our interest in Kenji’s photos, Kenji’s “mission.” But we choose to believe, to believe that brave Kenji is in fact being brave and true, because we want him to be thus. Make it so, Kenji, we cry subvocally, loins a-quiver and throats extended like tulips to the sun, like the wildflowers straining with life and beauty from the rich green grass around Kenji’s feet in the foreground of the photo of the silent helicopters. All this confusion of perspective; all this sentimentality and possible deception; all this radiant mystery in these photos of a place where Life goes on without us, an irradiated Eden from which we have been expelled. My twin sister and I are so fond of slightly melancholy fatalism that we embrace it again like an old friend as we turn away from Kenji and step into a very different world, one where Life does not go on without us, but rather dies out because of us. Alexis Rockman’s “A Recent History of the World” is a smallish mural painted in a style similar to various one-volume children’s illustrated geography and natural history encyclopedias, those which might for example feature cartoonish painted images of pygmies on the center of a broadly-drawn map of Africa. The mural of the United States on the wall of Kate’s Kitchen (the restaurant on Haight Street with the two adorable Czech waitresses who remind us so much of our younger selves) is a prominent local example of this cartographic style. Rockman’s map, which shows the probable influence of Alan Burdick’s research (e.g. the snake on the airplane wheel), depicts how human activity puts direct and indirect stress upon animal habitats and hastens the extinction of species. The suggestion here is that everyone is culpable, from the stereotypical white big-game hunter in Africa to the bikini’d coed celebrating Spring Break on South Padre Island to anyone driving across Interstate 70. Not exactly late-breaking news. What is important here is the style of representation, in that Rockman’s cartographic iconography is likely familiar to most anyone (lower-middle-class on up) receiving an elementary-school education in the U.S. between say 1955 and 1968. Rockman’s map is not about animal species migration as much as it is about how we learn and what we learn, ie. how we learn “facts,” ie. how we learn values, ie. how a culture’s ideology is communicated to its future citizens. When my twin sister and I were growing up in South America and Southeast Asia, we formed mental pictures of those parts of the world which we had seen, and our imaginations cobbled together mental pictures of the parts we hadn’t, from photos in books, from oral stories, from written descriptions, from clues & quotes and broadly-painted maps with cartoonish pygmies and elephants. It was a benign picture of the world: we were members of one of this world’s most privileged and admired cultures, the post-War American Imperial culture, and the world and our own futures swooned below our feet like two giddy young Victorian girls. We matured quickly, gained experience both rough and refined, and attempted to live our lives with moral awareness and ethical integrity; we became highly-educated as well as “street-smart” but it wasn’t until just a few short years ago that we realized that we still held fond hopes for the future (our own and the world’s) which were situated within and generated by mental landscapes which were by now simply and completely innaccurate. In our mind’s eye, the skyline of Djakarta was still utterly flat and green, with only the singular spire of the Hotel Indonesia (the only place one could buy ice cream in the entire city) rising higher than three stories. So the frame of the movie playing in our minds was predominantly filled with the blue of sky, the green of tropical forest and the brown of mud and monsoon-swollen canals. Water buffalo will always outnumber people in our memories, but reality is now far different, and the blue sky is obscured by the stained grey of cheap concrete, the green of the forests has long been cleared away with axe and fire, and the mud is skinned over with the darker grey of (already-cracking) asphalt. There are billions more people now and the world pictured in the maps in the encyclopedias of our childhood is gone: dead, skinned, burnt, covered with concrete or fallen to plague or to the teeth of the starving or to the greed of the well-fed. And the cartoons of cute gorillas and ostriches, the drawings of gold, oil, uranium and lumber waiting to be harvested, the iconography of beef cattle, fossil fuels, the curved arrows of the “voyages of discovery” have helped us learn to help ourselves to the world’s bounty in accordance with our ideologies of accumulation, categorization, colonization, market economy, hegemony, heirarchy and bureaucracy. Here sister and I must turn away from the mural which taunts us with the savage and bloody consequences of the lessons we innocently learned as children; “melancholy” would not be the word here; a rather deeper sort of sorrow pervades us as we move on with unsteady steps towards the gallery from which we can again faintly discern Mark Dion’s - admonition? reproach? entreaty? - “neglect! neglect!” We manage to circumnavigate Dion’s installation, to acclimatize ourselves to a scene which reminds us of nothing so much as our grandfather’s hairdressing salon on the North Side of Chicago in the 50's. The moldy patinas, the (implied) smells, the sense of neglect, decay, abandonment, the beauty of the no-longer-useful, the poignant paradox of the sturgeon’s lidless eyes staring out at us from a jar of formaldehyde while we stare back, all of us trapped here in an abandoned theatre set with the lights (of this Bright Day) going out, each of us wondering where it is that we are, exactly, and how did we get here, and what on earth are we supposed to do now?

A NOTE ON TIM GAZE

by Cosa Lasciarlo


Of annually fragrant isthmus, Chernobyl, eye hairs spiked to ambits of combustible onwards, softened by broth and Transylvanian lyres, stellar loins to the suppository process, acme and aesthetics on ice. As the posited subjectivity of an opinionate projectile withers the buttoned assuages in corrosive simplicity, latent similes carbon as a sleight. Augmented cursive prescience the outcome of ambition. It is only through the prehensile lyric-culled lemur in ambrosia that raccoon contrition reads the furred love of theclad. Text is a combustible self. Postmodern salad begins to twine its context around a horny axis. Nakedly above supple ledge sloughs notes within doubt opening it anew as wordage fettered lash stricken usurious engaged, as if a bacterial poetry is the mucous of the coelacanth. Deviously hadal coral strands apportioned sheep the writer beacons as a written of the possible affix. Incessant interference. Excess multiplies the postmodern ghost subtracted from its venous resurrection. Cyclone multiplied by percolated aggression breeds the hiss of a token love. The poetry is a pragmatics of mackerel thought which envelops the subjunctive of layers as its background. This leaf laurel hand cone whore ritual switch pronoun his poetry redacts becomes forgery of elision toddler in winter against the plectrum of technology. Procured umbilical leisure resounds of the posture recessive in nativity of locution. Text itself is beaten to a flatulent pulp of will. These grapes are at the bottom of editorial sound. Mergers proposed as closets to the poetical whimpering, threnody notation and banal signature, flung avowal technological autonomy mid-point to implicate mourn. The reaction harsh against epistemological bone. Hyperion, Shinto, a baggage of alterity, into baleful expedience as severity and costume, the autistic tethers its forks to a graze of time, eye aspic inheres in eidetic happenstance. It is our mandate to sway from a visceral sex grounded in previous awning the autonomy of germs in a stable of contested bytes. The orally written is consciously obstructed by the overt blunders of its return to exhale. Intentional salamanders saddled radish pages his limen cork. Graze a notable orgy of time, advantage to the scissors, it is later than the torsion of Oriental poems, teeth alembic follicles, relish to inquisitive solitaire, the lapses of the pear seriously open to relapse and appearance. An embolic insistence beckons from socialist eggs against the word.

A SHORT TREATISE SUBJECT KLENOVA SAUSAGE

by Taras Potravska, M.D.

It is durable, thermally untreated product with typical tear shape because of binded ends. Pork meat, the neck, neck scrag as well as beef is filled in the beef ring gut, 60 cm long. The sausage has stiff and compact consistency. The cut is smooth and sheeny, of brown and red color. The sausage aroma is agreeable after smoking, taste is proportionally salty and pepper, underlined by the red pepper. This product is comparable to leading foreign products and represents above the standard on the Slovak market. The unusual shape, unique aroma and taste extend the provided assortment.

THE NICHTVORHANDSEIN OF AUTHENTICITY

by Prof. Wojwode Przibislaw

The authenticity must be nonrelevant but be corresponded in the world or the behavior of the function of the human brain. It is pharenomenal, as a device of the thought of the brain is a found accumulation of sensitivity, designs, experiments and experiments which follow us conscientiousnessly, follow our circumstance, moving while the things with us seem as the human ones but are only personal experiments. This "density of the manufactured value" becomes (of which sights of a current with this expert) of signicatives which produce the innate stereotyped mass of design of of the brainstem and perameters limbic usable to calculate the brain. The meeting is a critical part of our study. This computer computer bringing together together usable can be true agreement, the means by which the categorizzazione of the cases on an under surface of the value are presented. The brain follows a process of limit particular categorization, that the memory adapts then. These perceptuelles, one of the other, experiments of reference of the designation memory with the jet of system of the value; designation of code of IE as an other form of song.

Solidity is the product of our concepts of the value. The feeling of the body grows and the figures of the spirit with our state of the period indicated accumulate. Something written is interned, which can be used of respresentação a human brain, a process necessary, the end, to manufacture solidity this respresentações the thoughts, the concepts and the faith include/understand only solidity in the reference in the cases in the external world. Hour it to be presuppor general that produced work space of job trasmett for port in the long term to be modernized immediate to our memory brain abbin (sensory/motor), for announcements extremity inicializar faith behavior and this sense conscience to be not consult a different, additional system, so called brain brain plaza qualia also if, obvious, have nobody of whole literature publish directly update à jour the fact which ours stereotype, the confidence, memory expressive and long term for ours of need conscious of individual be not sufficient and by a system with high content of memory to finish must, which exist out of qualia. The logical answer is that we ensured these capacities. Bevoelkeren everywhere see you differentiating, enters and colour same manner, if we discount cultural effects.

Our first mammal ancestors partly survived, because they could differentiate of the physical colours of differences, of taste and of smell. E.G. it is the difference between red one, blue one and green one, which gives significances trusted to these colours, not their turning red or assumed greeness. The yellow is the total of green one and of blue one, but it is assumed as being completely differently to green one and blue.

Why do we assign names with various colors? Simply regulated, the names give them timid solidity in a cultural context. We learned, as with this of our formed materials of source, when we were a very small child within a framework of Crayolas. Do you call again? Do you still call? Many people can differentiate 10,000 nuances from the color. Succeed us to it qualia familiar for each one of them? If, not as and as we seized of familiar memory (qualia) for everyone of these different nuances? A dog, without language or culture, can differentiate and indicate a multiplicity without end. How many of the odors does it use?

For a traditional definition of the qualia, that it would indicate this to you: the all it is of long duration this confidentiality, (express or implicitly) those the stereotyped memory, that it can be in the type orally or nonverbal and contains Kontextsignicatifs which time, the station of job, the sensibility, the sensibility and the sensibility. All the same one that arrives it, seems much of considerable authorities to being notionless.

SHORT MEMO TO A. EINSTEIN

by Professor Nikolai Trukanov

A moment, Einstein; those problems of the hour have been taken up, taken seriously. It has been explained that the experience of it means qualche.cosa for the special man, rather essentially different, being led into the future, but this important difference cannot transport one into the inside of a physics that has happened and will likely continue happening. This experience cannot be grippata from science, but you have seemingly given over one unavoidable substance for a moment however painful. I have observed that all the scope of our training has happened within a science which is latta-described; in a closed hand the entire series of dispositions of cases in physics is described; and on the other hand, the open hand, the characteristics the man experiences are interested concurrently: contained, relative and with a different attitude towards the posterior, as described and explained by psychology. But you, Einstein, have thought that these scientific descriptions could not perhaps complete our human necessities; that one is something here, that the hour is remarkable, that it is a uniform external part of the reign of science, that it, the hour, is ever over.

THE HAPPY BURIAL OF THE COLD WAR
Or: Smoke, Drink, Dance

by Professor Arkadii Alternenko

A little while ago in Moscow there was something entirely new. Perhaps before October 17th something similar had taken place, but perhaps not. But even after this memorable year, these events were firsts, Therefore the organizers all decided to title the conception: the First Moscow Festival of Modern Art. Included in the term “modern” is its original meaning, not our own country’s exhausted demagogical meaning of the word.

But to be exact, the participants were writers, artists, filmmakers and actors whose work is based on modern aesthetic principles, which assumes that a search for those forms of self-expression which would be in accordance with the surrent state of knowledge (attained through both sensual and metaphysical means) of man about himself and his world. That which in the antique ideological language means the “avant garde.” As well as the well-known obligatory adding of two to three fully-charged epithets, and with the mandatory ritual head-banging.

But today different times arrived. A legion of ideological Hinduists, who have not made merry long on the feast of life, and therefor they, gnashing their teeth with rage and believing in the restoration, today lead the ball. That’s why it has become possible for this First International, which has revealed to the Moscow audience much which they have never seen before.
It turns out that in the USA films are not only made in Hollywood, and that American film perhaps is not only the commercial gathering of large crowds into the gigantic moviehouses; crowds of people craving to have a look at a beautiful love or a noble princess, from head to toe brandishing automatics, machineguns, biceps, triceps, and love of country. Just nearby this empire of mass culture (also in California) there lives and works, not tested by the similar neighborhood, and having not a bit of selfdoubt, film and video makers who call the fruits of their creative efforts experimental film.

This film, indeed, is not intended for the large halls. The fact that the demonstration of experimental films was not at the “Rossiia,” where at the time Rambo stylishly “silenced” his compatriots, but in a comparatively small hall, the Ts.D.R.I., amply proves this. This hall was able to hold all those who wanted to come and did not burst along its seams. Such public “neglect” is explained not in that the films of the experimentalists are boring. It is simply that their understanding by the audience demands the possession of a definite level of aesthetic preparation and at least an element of philosophy, that is to say, of those qualities frankly after which both MosFilm and Hollywood throw a lot of rubles and dollars.

It is not easy to convey in words all that the artists with vivid expressions of creative freedom manage to render on film. Especially since plot is a rare enough phenomenon in experimental film. One can even say some of its elements are hardly present in the film, which led the audience to the back and forth abusive striptease. But nothing horrible happened at the moment of its showing. Although it was pretty crowded, no one, not even those on whom things fell, made a sound; in the hall nothing could be heard, neither the slaps in the face, the heart rending sobbing, all the well-known movements of a body going into an overflowing bus. But indeed, several of the accessories were new and unusual to us.

One could not call the experimental-cinematographer such an honorable name if the film had ended with such naked banality. The concept of the author absolutely demands this act of freedom (that is the emancipation from clothing); underlying everything the howling orchestra grew louder and louder as the mademoiselle uncovered her ears, nose, bra (in two moves), legs, arms, and finally head. And when hardly anything else remained on her, that which did remain was thrown off joyfully towards intergalactic space.

Well, if one tries to say something intelligent about the other films, this is doomed to indubitable failure. How much is it possible to impart to the reader the expression: “dynamic photographs of a city” or “nonfigurative pictures of hell in the artist’s interpretation?” As the wise old men say, “It is better to have seen once....” Once possible method of shedding some light is by comparison. Let’s say by comparing with the films of Sokurov. But this comparison, even if it is the most accessible for our countrymen, is still only approximate. Experimental film more or less is similar to our parallel film. But in this case for a wide audience the films of our “parallelists” are more accessible than the “experimentalists.”

Such a paradox may lead a few hotheads to the idea that such film art, which is accessible to so few, is worthless. But as soon as one puts the question in pregmatic terms, one must forget about the expansion of the boundaries of aesthetic mastery of the world. After all the searches and discoveries of this film frequently use “author-realism.” For example, it is used by Sergei Soloviev in two of his films, “Assa” and “The Black Rose etc.” And at least these finds fall into not bad hands, but in my view, a director nevertheless should not point out in numerous interviews the originality of their stylistics, but perhaps master the lessons of their peers. To name a few names, I would mention the Brothers Aleinikov. Incidentally, this would not be a bad idea for Victor Korkii Aleinikov to remember when he is registering his patent for his ironic relationship to Soso Djugashvili.

But the innumerable and faceless legion of mass culture followers devour the juiciest fruits of parallel and experimental film; and they use them without talent in their premature video footage.

However, the festival’s program was not only two days of film. Many noteworthy events went on during the whole ten days. For example, the performance of the French ballet “Alen Rue” set to jazz music had adequate plastique with palpable demons of improvisation and paradoxicality. The act of the English theater group “Alarmist” from Brighton crossed over nationalistic conservatism, and in contrast to the famous “Globus” theater, refused to allow men in female roles.

There was even an attempt at a joint performance (Contraband, The Black Square, On The Red Presna) at Pushkin Square but unfortunately it was cancelled due to continual antediluvian downpour. But perhaps this was for the best, since the average Moscovite, who smokes sparingly now and out of necessity eats his bread and butter without the bread, becomes unaccustomed to humor, especially the avant-garde variety. And indeed how would the Moscovite New Soviet/Too Soviet have behaved himself? Probably the Russian writer/patriot, without a reasonabhle doubt, would have branded it “The Foreigners’ Corps de Ballet, Mocking A Monument Of National Sanctity.” And so it was very wise that the citizenry were so controlled by the weather!

FIRE-PITS OF THE BOEHMERWALD
Twelve Czech Proverbs by Jakub Kalousek

by Professor Witold Wojtech Dlaha

Modern sex was created in the dark caves and musty, wattled pit-dwellings of the Bohemian forests as the result of humankind’s drive to punctuate the endless tedium of Time with the immediacy of Fire. That this Promethean undertaking has ultimately failed is not any judgement on the validity of the undertaking itself. That the bonfires of the Wallachian sex-priests collapsed into embers and eventually into dead coals is merely a fact and not worthy of mythos-making. That, however, a few glowing sparks rose like snakes through the fir branches, danced in circular ecstasy above the steepled treetops, and finally spun away on the warm currents of the night air, each to land like Pandora’s glowing casket in the not-yet-laid cobblestone streets of Paris, Rome, Copenhagen and Vienna is merely one more aspect of what history has bequeathed us.

Around the now-cold vulvic fire-pits of the Boehmerwald, the disenfranchised priests of sex still danced their crippled mummer’s dance, tongues waggling and heads lolling under baroque crowns, arms flailing phallic totems, torsos contorting in ritual postures emptied of obscene meaning. This vocabulary of the body, shorn of function and significance, came to be known as the “Klamny Stuha,” forming the ur-syntax of MittleEuropean sexual mythology and practice, that apocryphal story whispered on millions of beds from Warszawa to Wales, from Goteborg to Gibraltar. This book contains some of these stories, translated back into the simple pre-lapsarian homilies of the Bohemian forest.

HIERONYMUS TRAGODISTES

by Parl Dubit

I saw You take me with Yourself, and rise to heaven; I know not whether I was still in my body or not.
-St. Symeon the New Theologian

Visit once exceptional to Mount Sinai, he had immediately at his request my own stay, through had intention was never to contribute, that I might in the story of a music the music of Byzantium. By the library a number copied, but the bulk of the one is the treatise, on the need of Hieronymus Tragodistes. An extended rhetorical name gives some desire of the truth for them in the rest, compatriots confusing this misunderstanding determined at first on learning not so much the lack of the end of an original text in Greek. Offer to disappointed of the example as a contribution, notice quixotic notation, cultivated Greek practice taught in answers by other writings, a series of these understanding to teach. The modern of Hieronymus is a radical disciple of distinction, the neumes signs of measured intervals, their position thus of the ascending descent. The descending sign for writing to distinguish between two forms of differing, from the horizontal unison, or pneumata, practice between the combine he adds to the descending. Writing inverted combinations for his own transcription, the neumes precisely departure, time an auxiliary sign, signs established substantially with the minim. Building on a system of the intervallic durational, provisions curiously the invention of the nomenclature, Hieronymus illustrated in content a composite, elements in ascent. In descent, ascent, and in the same a genuine innovation. Modal letters serve as implied melody, in combination transposed of natural consisting. The signature consists of evident prosaic chant expressed in itself and counterparts of elimination. Composite time in passing the signs doubt the desire to precisely essential conjunctures. Incompatible composition is a setting. Words as music written on arranged notation, compelling an autograph for voice, treat text to see its harmonic declamation. The text composed in transposed studies from composition profited by ancient writings, assuming equally solid was fundamentally hesitate to precise sense, no point in possibility to theory and practice, chromatic voices supplied with inference. Occasion to syllables by writing syllables, he writes the modes of progression authentic by these signatures, specific represented by type, assumed testimony in his letter. Inferences about composition conclude nothing. Written expected in the history of expulsion, the text itself placed of the after commented, solely recent in wording after signs. Sacred discovered adapted to melodies unlike previously for intervals sung, each sign the sign for differs, for that with descending tone and differ from ascending. Added to signs, one can write brevity using many, one can melody the accidents whatever I cause. So far the purpose is correct in detail. The notation of signs is the tone with auxiliaries upon a loss. The theories of particular actually identical by assume choose intact, Hieronymus written becomes possible, degree of a former suggestion. Distinguished extends from marriage to capitulation of sovereignty in persuading donated interest as an ideal, unpublished hands and his letter written to this paper. I apart from professional copies of writings by Symeon the Theologian, preserved of these specimens copied in Hieronymus, evidently for inferences in changes, writing habits over a doubt of the first item.

RIP: Ernst Juenger

Bonn - Ernst Juenger, whose writings and life captured for many Germans the complexities of this century as they experienced it, died yesterday at age 102. His first book, “In Storms of Steel,” published in 1920, glorified the horrors of World War I and promoted Mr. Juenger to the ranks of militant nationalists whose strident writings helped pave the way for the Third Reich. Although Mr. Juenger later showed disgust with Adolph Hitler’s regime and its consequences, he never completely distanced himself from his early nationalist writings. Mr. Juenger gained gradual acceptance at home and abroad throughout his long career, and his stylistic mastery was held in particularly high regard in France, where his admirers included the late President Francois Mitterrand. Mr. Juenger was born in Heidelberg. As a youth, he ran off to join the French Foreign Legion and then signed up with the Kaiser’s army. His 14 wounds earned him the army’s highest decoration, and he was the last man alive to hold the old Prussian medal “Pour le Merite.” Mr. Juenger fought again in World War II but spent the later part of the conflict in occupied Paris, where he frequented literary salons, smoked opium and circulated an anti-war tract of which even Field Marshall Erwin Rommel, the “Desert Fox” of North African fame, was said to approve. After the war, however, the Allies branded him a militarist and barred him from publishing for four years. He withdrew in 1950 to a sort of self-imposed exile in the south German town of Wilflingen, where he wrote more than 50 books. Mr. Juenger’s renaissance in Germany began in the 1980's, when the city of Frankfurt awarded him its Goethe Prize despite much protest. He also joined Mitterand and Chancellor Helmut Kohl at a 1984 Franco-German reconciliation ceremony, and both Kohl and President Roman Herzog visited him to mark his 100th birthday.
- Reuters

A LETTER OF INVITATION

To Whom It May Concern

Let it be know that from this day henceforth Ms. Margaret Crane of San Francisco and Ms. Nancy Crane of London are hereby perpetually and officially invited to any and all daquiri parties which take place within the boundary and purview of our Institute until such time as the galaxies will crumble.

Signed the Seventeenth of November 1998,

Professor Lladros Kruk-Ivanisevic, Director of Protocol
Dr. Truman Capote, Chair, Entertainment Committee
Prof. Emeritus Johannes Kepler, Chair, Astronomy and AstroNavigation Department
Dr. Sir Gore Vidal, for the Committee to Redress Social Imbalance

View of Kohoutenberg by J.M.W. Turner, 1886

JULIA SCHER: PREDICTIVE ENGINEERING 2 and EROTIC INVISIBLE EMPIRES: A HYPERCHAT WITH JULIA SCHER & DAVID ROSS at SF MOMA 10/24/98

by Eleanor & Emily Burgard


It’s Saturday Night and it’s Live and my twin sister and I have been seduced into a space which is alluring but which damages us: Alistair Cooke sits with Russell Baker (in drag) on the set of Masterbeast Theatre engaging in a solipsistic introduction to a pseudo-ahistorical drama which never actually airs. Thus invisible, thus erotic, thus imperial, positioning and surveilling both orators and citizens within the same frame: within the reflective, self-reflexive and slightly-cracked empire of Duchamp’s Large Glass. The Bride’s demystification of purpose, procedure and parameters mirrors the demystified (stripped) open space under the tabletop which constrains Scher and Ross but does not conceal their identically-hung (bare) equipment. As we two twin pink naive virgins (bachelorettes, even) scribble in our notebooks, keeping track of the linguistic competitions (“conflation” 3 - “foregrounded” 2) we find ourselves agreeing with Bill and Hillary: “if only we could land our bombs accurately.” But as we just mentioned foregrounded, there are no war criminals in sight (disingenuousness and coyness being merely mis-demeanors) - only victims slumped here and there stunned by verbal bombs, by this conflation of affective tropes, this mere representation of a conversation. But let us not pick nits here. We do this to ourselves. Looking for a glue out there somewhere beyond our reach, beyond the focal-length of our lenses. Thankfully we can still manage to see ourselves within our own lifetimes; we can stare directly into the camera which is the monitor which is the eye of the other which is the Id. Id as ID (identification.) That which simultaneously separates us (one has the right to enter, another is prohibited) and connects us within a common nexus of desires (we both seek to enter) and collusions with arbitrary and otherwise imaginary sovereignties. “David strokes his compliment as if it were Julia’s breast” or “David strokes his compliment smoothly down the middle of the fairway.” Julia leans back as languorously as her business suit allows and breathlessly admits to being seduced by the Institution. Mouth opening into a coy machine voice (word on the street is that this is the voice she uses to evade), a muzak version of Lolita’s (observed & documented) voice, as she enacts her fantasy in front of us voyeurs: leaning back and being watched as she reifies the probings of the Institution, imagining herself Judith taking Holofernes’ head. But that’s a dangerous game and from where we sit it looks more like she’s giving it than taking it. Those really are naked people running down the hallway looking for something, after all, whether they’re doing it today or not. That our immediate illusions are denied is central and pertinent but not comprehensive. Most of us will bend down to pick something up whether we know we’re being watched or not [see: “Julia: languor” above]. My twin sister and I turn and wink at each other in mirror-smooth complicity, smug in the assumption that our genetically-enhanced ability to reify our imagined selves through the agency of each other’s irrefutable presence gives us just the edge we need to evade Humbert’s grasping fingers. She’s my mirror, in an iconic (icon(nico)) sense, like that palindrome in the rear-view mirror, a personal genetic ecnalubma which whisks us out of harm’s way. Yet just when we seriously begin to imagine that we have completely evolved beyond the need for any exterior adhesive, here comes something by-now-completely-unexpected. The coyness has dried up, the fairway’s getting hard to find, David doesn’t have enough club to reach the green anymore, but that’s fine, the rough is always more interesting and requires a more honest swing. It’s a simple question “how did you come to start making art?” but Julia can’t respond. She can’t get a word other than “uh” out of her mouth. At first it’s more coyness, the ingenue posing cutely in front of the mic, but she’s really thrown off by it and soon it’s an honest case of having lost the suspect (the projected self) in the maze of corridors. There’s a blind spot that the cameras don’t reach and there’s something hiding there. Julia’s really stuck, like a stylus in a deep vinyl gouge, uh uh uh, it’s astonishing, like watching an ice-skater fall during Olympic competition (in real-space, not tv-space), there’s a palpable frisson of sexual tension uh uh uh as if David’s changed his stroke, enough of that soft foreplay now here’s something more direct, a question more penetrating because of its simplicity, something gouging deeply through the vinyl surface, David’s struck something in her and she’s on the edge uh uh uh and now David sinks the putt like a pro (if my twin sister and I (virgins as we are) weren’t so carried away by the meta-narrative implications, we might suspect that David has merely “gotten lucky”): his “what makes art important?” makes her come immediately. She’s unstuck, she doesn’t need to hide within her babydoll/machine voice: she just says something she feels “It’s about who we are, what we are, where we are, and about what the fuck are we doing here.” No question mark because it wasn’t a question. She even foregrounded used the word “fuck.” My twin sister and I were quite relieved that Julia had finally found a way (of seeing) out of the landscape of her own surveillance of herself, as (in our (in)experience) an hour’s masturbation without orgasm can put one into a very crabby frame of mind indeed.

INCIDENT IN KOHOUTENBERG

by Ruhe Lucentezza

Came down to who stood about expression, a naked I. Gathered the given, an effort to get the fathomless reserve of tragedy. Without permitting notes. Aloof carnival, passively salt, an impression of performance. Among the women as they surged, the texture of sauntering their clothes. Tattered hair, nasal into action, exhorted things from the government. The interior received, present. Formal time. I was the words, I realized. Fashioned meaning, conventional exchange, led into the repetition. Too strong for the awkward advancing on this occasion. They did not speak the other hand. We were beyond the customs, confidently wrong, isolated in the magic. Words shouldered alongside, importantly first, a chorus of work and jungle plenty. A litany exactly evidence. The white path on the bald abandon, something wrestling, myself talking. Cleared this will in the spring full of towards.

Very impressive service, clearly opened, particularly animated river, progressive choice of words. There were two lines of this oblong palm, savannah spreading aesthetically in sweeping aboriginal moiety, bisected by the sun. The chief was unruly and nervous as a sign of enlightenment. Culturally pure. Facial, interior, in the manner of searching, he ushered us into the baggage in the middle of the floor. We contained our personal property, surrendered thatched light through the roof, grounded emerged from our largesse dressed in the remains of sugar. Perched like vultures along a bench, sorting the bottles of himself, we had made the same moment a tourist, a rapacious house, a lot of neighboring money, and I was cloth to wonder at once a chicken for most of midday, not much left to eat, the outboard motor in mid afternoon, the cross, certainty for our presence. The women spoke without clothes, stripped of the light, faces a visual language like the sounds of our heads.

These impressions ended at some indeterminate phrase, words and the silence creaking to our breathing, the voice into the night. Whispered thought swathed in my womb, a lunatic. My shoes felt delirious. Plaza muddied by huts. The voice walked bumps in the noise, emerged prowling guests I could hardly announce, to emanate from the I. The voice wandered, squatted and waited light. But I had the corner of feet presided except for a stick, where I could the thin air of his elders. His speech assured ancient as to whether more topical exhortations. Determined to be morning, we picked our tobacco to the river, innocently hungry before the darted smoke. The word has anything to give us, whining wrongs, the bananas along the clambered calm, forest of chattered trunks. Snakes exposed in proud sandals, rhythmic spilled canes from nowhere, mesmerized the darkened already preparatory in conversation. Waiting for meaning, a sense of disgruntled ugliness. Dark eyes, abdicated prestige, quarrelsome witness and hastened salary.

I never saw the Emperor.

A PESSIMISM OF THE NARRATIVE: Re-Reading the Original Mis-Reading as and of an Absent Text

by Anmassend Bekehrt

"Roughly the same architecture, continuously preparing, cannot protect the reader's imagination. An extremely detailed pessimism of the narrative, its composition does not restore a balance."
- PhDr. Marie-Claude Burraute


The metaphor of fiction, connotation against suits of analogy, through juxtaposition and characters behind society's impassive onslaughts (even the syntax is a kind of shell), related to phrases, gives him the prescribed exorcism opposed to such a state, thoroughly within reach. When quoting the image on the edge of references (e.g., "The anchor seems to drag a bit in any given text concerned with the activity of a fragment."), overcome by dizziness and process, when things fall alone, as the shells, they slide down to the surface, clinging to their reluctance. There are thus many warm overtones in artificial connotations of characters, as evidenced by amorphous swirls, where all things are larvae.

Ironically, praising the fictitious larvae, emitting sensations as characters, the primitive psyche penetrated and demoniacal, occasional, soothing words disappointed from that name, so that quotation of religious hints soothing the cross to flee shall return, they have become the tone between utterances through a mysterious crux as the narrator is expressed. Lacking composition and animal reactions, thus pictured as metaphors, references are appropriate hyenas. Wolves also. Larvae of various kinds. Common sayings not worth making closely related to sense.

Commonly developed olfactory intensity, and the early life of intentional, unconscious speech, when, for instance, what matters in the reader is quite likely contaminated, so metaphors at significant references associated with the exquisite stench, dominant although in combination, make the most lasting pictures. The words convey visual connotations into areas of the near. Hearing is the human precision, but is amplified by the net. The typical undertow approaches his radiation. Out of his visual elements are relatively obvious sensations given fiction. Actually precise pages of exorcised invitation significant in noticeable metaphorical recognition, among the usual leaves called the inner landscape, finally tactile fiction like communication and references, metaphorical satisfaction rarely achieved, huddled together, plunging into violence, the contemporary ridiculous under military humiliations, ranging from attacks by torture in confrontation with fleeing vocabulary to mirror shifts in depicted sympathy, every victim becomes the imagery in that respect, between the older language and decay.

Important writers were probably a portrayal of a description. Very different readers absorb for being perverse books. One critic through her insect relations, aggression and cultural connotations, sensed the attenuated scales even more so in a balance.


B.K.S.

by Professor Feito Zahlt

The chance and meaningful procession, the bodies perspiring and rigidly public, the stairs of an indefinite room, where their secrecy was magnificent abbreviation. Time onward its own organization, rituals of collection, perfected histories of laws, structure their own culture as the poet, the voice wild within the source, examples through years of organized acts. The series monumental at least under necessity, anonymous because impossible, the agents of invasion, anonymities, a critical eye following the fragmentary results. The project for aware and limited possibility, for the sake of facts as a whole.
January may have witnessed the bodies of seclusion, aloft in descended exhibition, carried into the amazement of their coffins, the sight of both abbreviation and developed terminology. Festivals extended in general eccentricities, intimate space and private order, traditions in the aspect of mute rocks. Life become recalled appearance in artifacts. Out of photographs in rebirth to make under pressure the return, existence because public, invasion into the moment of historical results. Bridge of the importance and limited issue, for the sake of the activities as a whole.

View of Kohoutenberg, F. Kafka, 1913

THE SONNENBERG MOTILITY FACTOR

By Dr. James Calou C'estque; Dr. Dundar Kocaoglu; Dr. Waleed Muhanna; Dr. Stanley Maslow; Dr. Kus Masa-Asi; Dr. Quido Sen, June 1998

Translated by PhDr. Etienne Royet-Olli, June 1998

This study represents a decade of research and data compilation, beginning in the summer of 1978 when a Sonnenberg Motility Factor was first hypothesized:
“How do we recognize whether a particular non-linear motility of exponential symptoms which we have constructed in a patient case is, in fact, a hierarchically non-redundant probability density of the diagnosed syndrome?"
In this study we elucidate the latest data on Multi-echelon Markov Chain Sampling in non-linear modes of gene distribution. The problem of induction in gene-movement distribution is solved by constructing a Lyapunov space whose gradient permutations on infinite numbers of axes satisfies convex set restrictions in the interior of our sample motion culture.
Thus our method does not require the hypotheses of :
1. Symptomatic homogeneity
2. Endogenous genetic acquisition
We provide here new conditions for predicting multiple movements with shortest-path trajectory without increasing the patient morbidity index in gene motility. A useful quotidian metaphor for this could be the aerobic workout, in that we follow a very basic linear sequence of hierarchical motilities of body whose place in the grammar of body movement cannot be sequentially truncated. Points of intersection on the trajectories of moving parts, not just limbs and other extremities, but internal organs, entrails and bodily fluids as well, correspond to the shortest-path trajectory in the genetic make-up of the individual . Yes, in a manner of speaking we kick up our legs, clap our hands, bend our knees, twist our wrists, always in the same fashion, and our jumping bodies ascend and descend in relatively precise routines.
The significance here lies not in our ability to perform but in the ability to recall each individual position in a correct sequence in relation to the change in his or her displaced genetic model. For example , the patient does not remember his or her travels up hallways and down corridors on a hospital gurney as a linear sequence of events but as a purely stochastic compilation of contractions whose duration and frequency we deem as random, though obviously they are not.
This is precisely the kind of situation where our method can coerce conclusive data out of this type of vague liberal assumption.
You can imagine the monstrous impact of such a highly predictive environment on morbidity indices during surgeries as well as in other aspects of our industry, the aerobic industry inclusive. Imagine a scenario where the position of any part of the body, any protein or molecule of a chemical substance can be statistically predicted within several microns, with enough accuracy to administer countermeasures up to several hours ahead their occurrence.
Of course,there are exceptions, accidents happen, rattlesnakes bite and so on...., that is the poetry of life , and ironically, that is how we had arrived at this discovery here - accidentally.
Several years ago, we had admitted a young man named Terry, seemingly healthy; in fact Terry himself walked into my office with culture samples that his company doctor, whom I shall not name, had been harvesting from the young man's lattisma, from an area near the thoracodorsal nerve. I had Terry undergo microphysiometricly-induced exercises of all his extremities. The upright movements of the limbs exhibited peculiar correspondence in phasing and in the retrace intervals of neural crest migration, as well as unusual high intracellular synaptic transmission to the flexor muscle.
By using our method of hierarchical modeling for discrete event simulation, a “motility culture” was extracted from Terry’s neural phyllegium. Stochastic analysis of the sample revealed that the probability-density recurrence coefficient of gene paroxysm was markedly denser than in the normal healthy-stock implant. But interestingly enough, another of our patients, Steve, with an entirely different diagnosis, independently exhibited identical symptoms.
Steve is, or actually, was, a 51-year-old Navy sergeant, employed at the classified Naval Electronic Communication Center in Baltimore, whom we had have under close observation since 1971 for unbalanced stool density growth.
Here it is important to remember that although motility cultures tend to shift in these discreet event simulations, the bottom culture from an 18-month-old healthy gibbon monkey remains unaffected.
We administered random infusions in controlled regions with cultures from both patients, Steve and Terry. The resulting smears can be seen on these transparencies as vascular regions with smeared antigen expressions.
Notice that if the columns of the first transparency are shuffled randomly, then the expected number of pivot steps required by the simplex method (with least-index rule for entering-number of intersecting points) is subexponentional.

In the gibbon sample, whose edges have independent discrete/random weights, we can follow a gene trajectory from an infeasable point all the way to the subcutaneous layer within a polynomial time sequence. It's absolutely fascinating how the permutative strength of motility culture decreases and eventually degrades into H-2 congenic senescence. Indeed, Steve was a extremely suitable specimen: his intramedullary axonal projection patterns correspond precisely to the loci of bulbospinal neurons in the decerebrate gibbon, exactly as was correctly predicted by our method.
Here is a beautiful expression of genetically modified mioblasts, compared with Terry's necrophic neutrophil-transmigration during reperfusion.
Aggressive application of our method of partial sampling could open new ground in determining flow-trajectories of apoptosis in serum-deprived patients. If we could eliminate toxic side effects it could be possible to save patients like Terry, without performing ovarictomy, by locating areas of cell proliferations in the model and addressing these areas with conjugated linoleic acid.
It could further lead to enhanced classification of barrier trajectories which define paths between infeasable points and the set of optimal truncation points. Each trajectory in this class corresponds to different phase-balancing parameters of non-linear progression and to probability densities of recurrence.
Asymptotic behaviour of interior point methods where we study cases in which number [n] of variables [v] infinitely manifests a new potential function for interior point determinacy and, most importantly, shows that even when [n] is infinite, one can still deduce a complexity-wave, particularly in the patient’s extremities.
The extractive posterior-cumulative distribution function of the reliability of series systems with highly reliable samples is thus obtained in an asymptotic expansion which converges rapidly in bone structures. This enables us to calculate error-values even when truncated expansion of culturephages is used.

FACTEUR DE MOTILITE DE SONNENBERG:
Par Dr. James Calou C'estque; Dr. Dundar Kocaoglu; Dr. Waleed Muhanna; Dr. Stanley Maslow; Dr. Kus Masa-Asi; Dr. Quido Sen, June 1998

Traduisee par PhDr. Etienne Royet-Olli, June 1998

Cette etude represente une decennie de compilation de recherches et de donnees, commençant en ete de 1978 où on a presume la première fois un Facteur de Motilite de Sonnenberg:
"Comment identifions-nous si une motilite non-lineaire particulière des symptomes exponentiels que nous avons construits dans un cas patient est, en fait, une densite hierarchiquement non redondante de probabilite du syndrome diagnostique?"
Dans cette etude nous elucidons les dernières donnees sur le prelèvement de Chaine de Markov d'Multi echelon en modes non lineaires de distribution de gène. Le problème de l'induction dans la distribution de gène mouvement est resolu en construisant un espace de Lyapunov dont les permutations de gradient sur des nombres infinis des axes satisfait des restrictions reglees de corps convexe à l'interieur de notre culture de mouvement d'echantillon.
Ainsi notre methode n'exige pas les hypothèses de:
1. L’homogenite symptomatiques
2. La saisie genetique endogène
Nous fournissons ici de nouvelles conditions pour prevoir les mouvements multiples en trajectoire d'accès de court voie sans augmenter l'increment de morbidite du patient dans la motilite de gène. Un utile metaphore quotidian pour ceci pouvoir etre la seance d'entrainemente aerobie, dans que nous souivons un très de base ordre lineaire de motilite du corps hierarchique dont endroit dans grammaire corps mouvement pouvoir non sequentiel tronquer. Points d'intersection sur la trajectoire des pièces mobiles, non simplement des membres et d'autres extremites, mais aussi des organes internes, des entrailles et des fluides corporels aussi bien, correspondent à la trajectoire d'accès court voie dans le maquillage genetique de l'individu. Oui, en quelque sorte parlant, nous donnons un coup de pied vers le haut de nos jambes, battons nos mains, deplions nos genoux, tordons nos poignets, toujours de la même mode, et nos corps branchants montent et descendent dans des sous programmes relativement precis.
La signification ici se situe pas dans notre capacité d'executer mais dans la capacite de rappeler chaque position individuelle dans un ordre correct par rapport au changement de son modèle genetique deplace. Par exemple, le patient ne se rappelle pas ses voyages vers le haut des vestibules et vers le bas de couloirs sur un gurney d'hopital comme un sequence d'operations lineaire mais comme compilation purement stochastique des contractions dont duree et frequences que nous considerons comme aleatoire, bien qu'evidemment ils ne soient pas.
C'est precisement le genre de situation où notre methode peut contraindre des donnees concluantes hors de ce type de pretention liberale vague.
Vous pouvez imaginer l'impact monstrueux d'un environnement si fortement predictif sur des increments de morbidit pendant les chirugies aussi bien que dans d'autres aspects de notre industrie, l'industrie aerobie incluse. Imaginez un scenario où la position de n'importe quelle partie du corps, de n'importe quelle proteine ou de molecule d'une substance chimique peut être statistiquement prevue dans plusieurs microns, avec assez d'exactitude pour gerer des contre mesures jusqu' à plusieurs heures en avant de leur occurrence.

Naturellement, il y a des exceptions, des accidents se produisent, des serpents à sonnettes mord et ainsi de suite..., c’est la poesie de la vie, et ironiquement, c’est comment nous etions arrives à cette decouverte ici accidentellement.
Il y a plusieurs annees, nous avions admis un jeune homme nomme Terry, apparemment en bonne sant; en fait Terry a marche lui même dans mon bureau avec les echantillons de culture que son docteur de compagnie, que je ne nommerai pas, avait moissonnes du lattisma de ce jeune homme, provenant d'une zone près du nerf thoracodorsal. J'ai fait subir à Terry des exercices, induits par la microphysiometric, de toutes ses extremites. Les mouvements-droits des membres ont montre la correspondance particulière dans la mise en phase et dans les intervalles de retrace du transfert neural de crête, aussi bien que la transmission synaptique intracellulaire soit elevee peu commune au muscle de flechisseur.
En utilisant notre methode de modeler hierarchique pour la simulation d'evenement discrète, une "culture de motilite" a ete extraite à partir du phyllegium neural de Terry. L'analyse stochastique de l'echantillon a indique que le coefficient de repetition de probabilite densite du paroxysm de gène etait nettement plus dense qu'en sain stock normal implantent. Mais assez d’interet, un autre de nos patients, Steve, avec un diagnostic entièrement different, a montrer independamment des symptomes identiques.
Steve est, ou reellement, etait, un sergeant de la Marine de 51 ans, employe au centre de transmission electronique naval classifie à Baltimore, que nous avons eu pour avoir sous l'observation etroite depuis 1971 pour la croissance non equilibree de densite de selles.
Ici il est important de se rappeler que bien que les cultures de motilite tendent à decaler dans ces simulations discrètes d'evenement, la culture inferieure d'un singe sain du gibbon de 18 mois demeure inchangee.
Nous avons gere des infusions aleatoires dans des regions commandees avec des cultures des deux patients, Steve et Terry. Les souillures resultantes peuvent être vues sur ces diapositives en tant que regions vasculaires avec des expressions enduites d'antigène.
Noter que si les colonnes de la premiere diapositif sont brouiller aleatoire, puis la prevu nombre des pivot-etapes requis par recto-methode (avec la règle moindre increment pour entrant nombre des points d’intersection) est subexponentional.
Dans l'echantillon de gibbon, dont les bords ont les poids independants de discrete/random, nous pouvons suivre une trajectoire de gène d'un point infeasable toute la voie à la couche sous cutanee dans un ordre de temps polynome. Il est absolument fascinant comment la force permutative de la culture de motilite diminue et degrade par la suite dans la senescence H 2 congenic. En effet, Steve etait un specimen extrêmement approprie: ses configurations intramedullaires de projection axonales correspondent avec precision aux lieux des neurones bulbospinal dans le gibbon decerebree, exactement comme a ete correctement prevu par notre methode.
Voici une belle expression des mioblasts genetiquement modifies, comparee à la transmigration-neutrophile necrophic de Terry pendant la reperfusion.
L'application agressive de notre methode de prelèvement partiel a pu ouvrir la nouvelle terre en determinant la couler trajectoire de l'apoptosis dans les patients serum prives. Si nous pourrions eliminer des effets secondaires toxiques il pourrait être possible de sauvegarder des patients comme Terry, sans executer ovarictomy, en localisant des domaines des proliferations des cellules dans le modèle et en adressant ces zones avec de l'acide linoleique conjugu.
Il pourrait plus loin mener à la classification mise en valeur des trajectoires des barrières qui definissent des voies d'accès entre les points infaisable et l'ensemble de points optimaux de troncation. Chaque trajectoire dans cette classe correspond à differents paramètres de phase balancing de progression non lineaire et aux densites de probabilite de la repetition.
Le comportement asymptotique des methodes de point interieur où nous etudions les cas dans lesquels le nombre [n] des variables [v] manifeste infiniment une nouvelle fonction potentielle pour le determinacy de point interieur et, d'une manière primordiale, prouve que même lorsque [n] est infini, on peut deduire un complexite ondulent, en particulier dans les extremites du patient.
La fonction de distribution posterieur cumulative extractive de la fiabilite des systèmes des series avec les echantillons fortement fiables est ainsi obtenue en expansion asymptotique qui converge rapidement en structures d'os. Ceci nous permet de calculer des valeurs d’erreur même lorsque l'expansion tronquee des culturephages est utilisee.

WHAT GLACIERS WERE LIKE, AND THE DESERT: Reversion and Discursion in the novels of Daniel Autune

by PhDr. Marie-Claude Burraute

He wrote either rejects or ignores a universe within parentheses, to produce a large number of events having the times of their lives, the concommitant bustle and hustle meeting their just rewards. And he is getting impatient. In several directions and with very few exceptions.

Literally his affirmation requires no justification, as it lists a number of words under a pallid light all anxiously groping in response to outside stimuli. The anchor seems to drag a bit in any given text concerned with the activity of a fragment.

Somewhat inadequate is plural, rendering violent emotions or repressing sensations. Allowed behind the masks torturing the victim, all things are soft and reactivated by proximity. Less subtle but hardly perceptible. A somewhat vile collusion with a potential literary audience. A certain precariousness helping to clear fiction. Not an inert scriptural track as a halo in the peripheral irrelevant. The trip between one and the other, all others having been deleted, appearing to coincide with vanishing into a region that engulfs everything, a converging pattern which rises with evolving rhetoric. Waiting and forgetting reverberates ad infinitum within the illusion of silence, the language of navigation and conversion. It is useless to fight its orbit, modulating between two architectures with extreme caution. The surrounding forest is unable to abandon participation by penetration into a region working through the text. Uncertainty is constantly maintained and restricted by the questionable perspective. Lepers and dogs from the windows belong in the same category.

A series of these interrogations stand guard over the repressed, in that the wound suffered every excess of fascination linked with the malady of death. Progress without the help of, perhaps, the signal, evidences a preoccupation with a general sense of history dominated by verbs. Violent action inescapable. What has come to be considered the artificiality of a sum of brief images coincides with a corrupted opposition or a momentary disappointment and pessimism. The encounter takes place, memory will yield, the opening or closing chronological position attempted and partially accomplished. And the reason for its being where it is is gained from reading subsequent withholding of information. Considered as texts rather than the substitution of thematic or conceptual confused sensations, the initial purposes are united within the disseminated anecdotes of a small military unit, within the ahistorical tenedencies of its vague, vague project.

A nearly obsessive preoccupation with transparent circumlocutions constitutes a necessary background for intelligence within the context of the banal.

Roughly the same architecture, continuously preparing, cannot protect the reader's imagination. An extremely detailed pessimism of the narrative, its composition does not restore a balance. Failure to build a coherent spatial and chronological narrative confusion helps to undermine an uncertainty concerning events in a different setting. In the final analysis insists.

A HANDFUL OF THE UNREAD

by Lupi d'Cort

I.

Anmassend Bekehrt constructs hermetic textual distillations; compressed, disjunctive blocks of prose within which a reader detects the faintest traces of a previous literature. He is currently distilling the short prose of Beckett with an eye towards pure lyrical opacity. His theoretical works seem pertinent to a literature which only Bekehrt would imagine writing - and one which even he has yet to write.

"At inscription," he has written, "whereas the text asifsuch, is subject abjected for quadrature and vector" (from THE TEXT ASIFSUCH; unpublished manuscript).

In Bekehrt, the asifsuch (and more specifically, the text asifsuch) is the liminal/imaginal construct of an absent transformationing (Bekehrt's term). The asifsuch occurs as "the abauthorial intervention of an absent and absenting unwritten” x “an historical unwritten" which, paradoxically, is always already and "forever formerly x the present writing unauthoring its presenting author" [see my unpublished monograph, "As If The Asifsuch As Such: Bekehrt At Work And Play"] and, in another context: "at text asifsuch, wherein the textual such such that as if, is subject object thus increasingly abjection" (from THE TEXT ASIFSUCH).

Bekehrt can seem almost impenetrable, particularly in the theoretical areas of his work, but the persistent reader may be rewarded with opacity and silence.

II.

The poetry of Parl Dubit consists of improvisational extractions and transduction. Recent work includes homophonic translations of Lorca. I have remarked elsewhere on his "lyricism as nonsense, a romanticism without mountains" ("Parl Dubit and the Romance of Misreading"; unpublished essay).

Dubit harbors an irrational hatred for surrealism, though this would be difficult to ascertain from a perusal of his texts. He has described himself as "a phonemic alchemist.” He claims to draw most of his poetical inspiration from listening to Theolonious Monk and early Led Zeppelin. Dubit has commented in an interview on "an epistemology of mishearing as the adolescent given of a rock 'n' roll ethos,” and on "the aberrant revisioning of received authority as the sine qua non of Monk's improvisational rehearing of the standards." (Dubit and d'Cort, "Mistalking the Text"; unpublished).

A solitary and surly character, Dubit is a serious student of the western esoteric traditions.

III.

Retorico Unentesi is a rigorously procedural poet. Jasper Johns is his model.
"the Unentesi formula:
1. take a text
2. do something to it
3. do something else to it"

(from "The Incarcerated Text: Property, Theft and Resistance in the Poetry of Retorico Unentesi"; Lupi d'Cort; unpublished manuscript.)
Unentesi is a self-proclaimed revolutionary, an anarchist and (at least theoretically) a pacifist. He would situate his oeuvre in the tradition of political (protest) poetry. As text on the page, however, his is a gentle and lyrical practice. All of the language in Unentesi is appropriated (thus his contention that he has written nothing). The collaged fragments of pilfered lines constellate at the nexus of list and lyric. Unentesi's posturing as a revolutionary poet is ultimately empty, but his aggregates of appropriated lines often exhibit an ear for uncanny accidents of rhythmic assonance.

(From an unpublished interview with Retorico Unentesi:)
d'Cort: "Your work would seem to enact a radically participatory sense of poetical community. Would it be fair to - "
Unentesi: "I participate in nothing! If one wishes to be fair, one must say that I have written nothing. I am a cultural worker. I am a distributor of textual fragments, neither more nor less. Every sense of poetical community is constructed by the dominant culture as a means of controlling poetical response and responsibility. This is why I reside here in Kohoutenberg, at the Institute. Only here can I productively assert that I do nothing and do not exist."

IV.

Ruhe Lucentezza refers to himself as a "letteral choreographer.” His most compelling works are compilations and assemblages of found or appropriated texts ("found in silent purity, corrupted in my hands towards useless dialogue" - thus Lucentezza, in conversation with this author) - works which he somewhat misleadingly terms "letter installations and performances for syntax and type.” Recent works include a series entitled "found subjects.” He has a cynical sense of humor, including a tendency to lie about his sources. Lucentezza sometimes writes his first name with an umlaut over one or another of the vowels, "thus," he has commented, "destabilizing the self at the site of its signature.”

In his uncooperative interviews and quasi-critical parodic lectures, he insists that lying about one's relationship to Duchamp and Cage demonstrates an absolute comprehension of their work. [This may be one of those rare moments in which he is at least attempting accuracy.] The work of Lucentezza is a refusal of writing, a denial of communication, ultimately an absolute absence of art itself. [See my unpublished essay, "Refusal of the Work: Task and Anti-Task in the Work of Ruhe Lucentezza”]

V.

The fictions, or fictive distillations, of Ricev Prosa are in many respects similiar to those of Anmassend Bekehrt, though he shares few if any of Bekehrt's theoretical proclivities. He is currently at work extracting the gists and piths from Scott Macleod's “Anne Frank In Jerusalem, arranging them in a prose construction entitled "The White Fragments.”
In the selections I have seen, this text becomes the omniscient narrator of its own disjunctive story. Even a superficial reading reveals this text as a multiple and conflicted entity. Subjected to its own interventions and incessant interruptions, the text is ultimately unable to tell more than the context of its own inscription. That context is the site of writing itself, indifferent to author and reader alike, finally silent before the interpretive gaze. It is, therefore, the antitext, arriving symptomatically here at the edge of the millennium.

Prosa, however, would deny all of this, dismissing it as mere fashionable posturing, self-indulgence masquerading in the jargon of critical theory. Prosa refers to his work as "decorative expressionism" - a designation which would seem to speak for itself (thus no further comment).

THE WINE-DARK INDETERMINATE
Concerning the Stasjon Frjentser manuscript

by Professor Witold Wojtech Dlaha

My dear Professor Conroy,
So good to hear from you after so many years. Drs. Mattern and Witkiewiczsz ask me to send you their sincerest regards. Your letter is succinct but I hope I may intimate from this a general state of well-being? Our wishes for your happiness and good health cannot be more genuine.

Now, to the matter at hand: I am sorry that the Institute cannot be more of a help to you concerning this ms. "Stasjon Frjentsjer" is almost certainly written in the Echo-Frisian language. Echo-Frisian was a Germanic language used in the northern part of what is now the Netherlands, and, interestingly, is the language most closely related to modern English, though the roots of both are quite different. In any case Echo-Frisian was a quite rare language with almost no surviving written texts.

Professor Sevcik and I have prepared for you what is really at best only a poor literal translation, more of a transduction, really. Even though we are the foremost (well - only) experts in Echo-Frisian, our knowledge is extremely limited, especially in relation to poetic forms. We’re sorry to say that from here on you'll have to find your own way through this particular text. We can tell you this much however:
"Stasjon Frjentsjer" is a narrative of the indeterminate nightlife. The unnamed narrator brings his discontinuous ego to a small, disjunctive cafe. There he meets the syntactical intimations of an intermittent construction. His attempts at non-referential small talk distance him from her barely-palpable absence. A textual poetics privileges his erotic palimpsest.

Here is the literal traduction of the first paragraph of "Stasjon Frjentsjer":

My blue beauty-self, sky-self, sky elf-like steams in harkened dark. Her wine swerves: immanent, mine at last. Dance in triple sec fan dance; the huge hedge edge hijinks my gruel root repast. Highly lyric sky bells dripping, an early afternoon jinn a tonic enstaples it to peer open, going fortuitously into dalliance, pudenda moan and cant in drunk anthem talisman of the mirror. Extract the stem with search from its or par in function only more. It went owner of stigma: in fields of ink of rigour started my offer of coffee in young rigorous sow tease the confused jasmine of the rain. Ground of the pars of the heat of ventilators only. See the trunks sentient taken part OPT of nipples, to see the Allegro General. All speeds putting itself at knees in the attics, detourned runs instabilities ventilating of the cells. The lupine of the adolescence of superabundance of hygiene after harried the renga, gently lanciform. I lead chancel as link, in order to then corrode my frog of the eggs my limes and withe of the collapse of the stick of theat I of sox from lakes of immersions more sextlarker, in order to thank calibration for ear of I autonomy of indulgence, admit under the name of delimitation of that not very probable departure, load the introductory toner the time witnesses in, to the dead ones of the thoughts to turn, miracle up to the night, which filters different English of its dark consequence, which Knurren of the representation got to deep grimace of this film script, an oscillation surely straight as an adviser eliminated it from cliches. It demo of the audio signal of the parasitschen information straked the drawer of of the plug the Mane combines, which from outside temperature of oreo the rear river of the hotel of the drilling equipment of moved are wolliges INCAPablo of PIM the probability imposing ueberwindt. Tightening with the pairs of a special beverage of the Minzeblaetter, occulted Ruherustles of a grain in the beverage of the words, soundness fundamental COMM union to adjust over the Worth ge$$$wesen beseech, poisoned by the soiled display, the erasable charter of Darwin with containment impossiblement all it the diagram, limited with the remainders to the field thus calmly, after triumph forms the breath as had triumph formed, analyzes characters in, however those remain harried disciples. N Molt strikes from the wreckage of the discharged screw again fastened, if axionatic, from the cub to the heifer to the boy. The lower surface of the text is its testimonial Verbene. The thing discharges from the drone a Song of formed dirty Persephone softly. During wholedays and nights of Verbprocurarando, the open wound stinks, the wounded sink. The playback, which is real, from the tradition, uncurls in the underground Spirals, yearbook and unenlightened, lp unenlightened, in appearance the Wortanabasis resembles the expression of will, interprets and initializes the foreshortened full, the they, the whole whorled discussion set back grimly in the shift of productivity, put up to salve/solve, slave to a scene of relief in chasmal Unterboden, the moderate period, the training a calibration of prey of the of oily of the lift of of wing of of canker of the oars of fave of of that of of cot of the corn of of Whore is of of orb of the anion of serf repair. Net of the of to the one of even Entamé the pennyroyal drinking one on flowering of asymmetrically of obviously midnight of modified the anion of serf of orb of Whore is the maize of cot that them we remove of fave of canker of the extremity of the oily lift the parked parked to repair of the robbery. Started drinking with the mesh asymmetrically in the land of modified flowering obviously pennyroyal midnight. Mostly above of the sign cathected of the characters that imply has conic myth beyond that it drinks has thought of heating of goddess apprehending. The reports/ratios of the drink are signs of pure thought, or some other production the surrealists had varied for grains of the maize. Ends if not of the crowned difficult burning. The crowned password is a syntactic deformation of the indices uncorking. Cylindrical relics of the otic problem. The translation is an optional error of ceremony, if not crowned difficult burning. The crowned alternatively released error of the ceremony. Tradução éum erroopcional do ceremony, are the company of the ant of the spaces of kinglet, the red praying roots of orphie, in which the pone troy mockeries adds its chancy to its saido the pressing of the Aegis of gob one. The opinion is shifted into the secrets of ontology, for grains of singing. Singing wanders the will, which decreases/goes back from the things, to the newer, ensures the gift of Demeter, as vernarrt in adviser one. Its fetchings the isolation for the units of the eye like death it machines in singing. It travels far for the short character as in enigma: the veils in agreement, inflamed, oxidated, in contact with the torch/flare, intention as imaginale, that of the intensity of the forms, which attraction is emergent, of the wounds strengthens, carved requests for the fear of its faintness the classroom. Unnerved like bright light vivida between the stirrup, in a complement with mystery, has read some shape this ghostly how/as recovery/recreation from the analogue, then as it always similar to and suggests also an ether of the goddess, of an other preliminary introduction, of one sure safe tomba of the virtuosity and the remembrance. Nothing remains in the objectivity but these oral installations, these “time-outs” these green ship revelries, as more revelry be and nothing remains to align these Gruenschiffs, these Kommando**temporizzazione**from around the hour the torr is more logical, this probability oafente Profspitze then tipped Prof. Oaf Duck as he slipped out the door into the rain-slick avenue.

We look forward to reading any further explorations you make into this text.