Posts tagged death
‘He never mentioned the war. But war leaves things behind. Dig deep enough under any street in London and you eventually come to a thin, reddish-black line in the sediment. This is the indelible scar Boudicca left, burning the Roman settlement to the ground. Ash clings to everything, lines…
(via witchblues)
who wants to touch my butt
That is, the cinema may be dead, but that death means only the disembedding of its techniques from any supposed essence and the scattering of its operations out. Its capacities remain to be, and are, picked up and carried to potentially better use. The tracking shot, moving not on rails or Steadicam but in a plain hand along the trail of the blood of protesters, here makes sense. In three senses: it alone makes sense of that physical duration of a brutalized body, a duration that becomes clear insofar as it is not in a body but spilled and smeared out across the ground; it produces sense afar out of the too-easily abstracted fact of bloody and desperate struggle; and it makes sense of a technique, a formal operation. It makes sense of the last by raising to a bristling fever pitch the unsupportable gap between the seeming neutrality of a technique and the fact – that blood – that it records, elaborates, and by which it is transformed.
- Evan Calder Williams, Whose blood that camera follows and follows still
fuck fuck fuck they deleted the full text of this piece about mosireen fuck fuck fuck
fuck fuck fuck
welcome to 24/7 sex reality
go to hell teens im post-human
comrade sebastian really killin it (via dingraha)
THIS IS THE SITUATION OF POLITICS WHICH FASCISM IS RENDERING AESTHETIC
COMMUNISM RESPONDS BY POLITICIZING ART
David of Pitchforkreviewsreviews posted a picture of Taylor dumbassfils at a party talking comfortably with straight men and even miming going out for a pass.
whatever dude im gonna link everyone to the video of you stress-vomiting during your bloggingheads.tv segment when conor friedersdorf asks you to list your favorite dogs
was a teen again. interacting with relevant teens in teen milieu. furtively drinking liquid metal out of red plastic cups.
trip report: handed luminous slate by teen female. thought this was perhaps the beginning of my rites of the liminal, but she just wanted to be facebook friends. disheartened to be categorized under ‘acquaintances.’
im buzzed and horny and looking to merge consciousnesses with a beautiful post-gendered being, but no one wants to play seven minutes in ERO-CUBE with me
swan song of the human race
At the party I saw him and his whatever hair and not too great muscles beneath a TapOut wrestling tee. He came up to me and handed me what he called a “slippery nipple” but what looked to me like a “Mr. Pibb bottle filled with sprite and vodka.” He smirked and was “reading my face” to see my reaction to a drink name which he and everyone else who likes going to “The Cheesecake Factory” probably finds super titillating. I sipped and told him I “appreciated it.” His name was Kevin or Dakota or Branneth. It was one of those names that “sounds like a name,” but is not a name.
He clasped my tiny hand in his huge calloused fist. It was warm and sticky with the heat of the basement. We walked out of the Mixer, and into the hot yellow of the night’s street lamps. While he talked about his “plans for his car” and the amount of times that his family had visited post-colonial vampire tourist hotspots, I thought about a story where Deleuze and Tao Lin start hitting each other with hammers.
Later we fucked. I thought about the homework I wasn’t doing/my mostly okay relationship with my parents/how shitty it is to write long list articles about collective nostalgia totems like Animaniacs. The next morning I thought about my fashionable disdain for gross weird sex, and wondered if all the sex I had ever had was “gross and weird,” and if I would still be disdainful if I had cool sex instead. “haha prolly,” I wrote into a ghat conversation between my personal gmail account and my personal-branding gmail account. Prolly.
Reaching the end of an experimental period where I’ve been attempting to reorient the theoretical basis of my sexuality. Following [?????]’s arguments in the September 1919 issue of the [??]-[?????] [??????] journal and the general implications of the [?????????????] group’s thought, I’ve reached the conclusion that the value of an art object and the basis of its ontological status as Art qua “Art” lies in its ability to distance itself from the routinized banality of everyday through deliberate anti-realist touches, cf idealized body-forms in Greek sculpture, The glottal sounds that occur in Japanese poetry and not in casual speech, etc etc ie An art that calls attention to itself and demands to be viewed as Art in contradistinction to Life as it is commonly understood.
So toward this purpose I’ve adopted a number of techniques designed to shock the male gaze out of its generalized languor and invite careful consideration of Me / My Body as an aesthetic object. including but not limited to deliberate cracking of the voice, variable gait, alienation effects in hairstyling, gender-neutral clothing repurposed via strong-gendered magnets, booty-popping at irregular intervals [550-600 Hz, 200 Hz, 750 Hz]
While this sort of behavior could be interpreted to suggest an interest in or pro-dain for gross weird sex, a closer reading would reveal that these techniques are designed as a method of avant-garde seduction working in a healthy praxis with establishment sexuality to discover and reterritorialize new forms of pleasure unleashed by new forms of production.
-Excerpted from The Working Paper On Working That Body, UC Press 2012
