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COMBINING IDEOLOGICAL MATERIAL AND THE SOCIAL EVENT IN SUDDEN CLARITY

THIS IS THE ANTI-HISTORICAL MOVEMENT • WORDS MEAN LESS • HELLO DESPERATE SURFERS • I GOT MY FIX FILLING IN CONTENT, ESCAPING THE MESSAGE, EMBRACING THE MEDIUM • WE ARE ALL MULTIPLES OF THE PAST • EXUDE GAUDINESS IN ALL THOUGHT, WORD, AND DEED • FORGET ABOUT EVER KNOWING ME • I KEEP BURN JOURNALS • I LAUGH WHEN THE KIDS CALL EACH OTHER A-HOLES • I WALK WHEN I FEEL REAL AND TALK WHEN I PERFORM JOHN • I WRITE LOVELY LETTERS IN MY DREAMS WHILE SUCKING ON THE PRONGS OF A SHOCK COLLAR • BANK THIS AND JUDGE ME • TAKE THIS AND LOVE THE FLEE • ESCAPE CATASTROPHE THROUGH PAINKILLERS • KNOW ACTION NOW METASIN MAN

––≠≠–• • GODDAMNGOODARTGODARD • • –≠-–≠-

ALPHAVILLE • BREATHLESS • CONTEMPT • DETECTIVE • EVERYTHING'S GOING FINE • FIRST NAME CARMEN • GRANDEUR AND DECADENCE OF A SMALL MOVIE CONCERN • HERE AND ELSEWHERE • I SALUTE THEE, MARIE • JLG/JLG - SELF-PORTRAIT IN DECEMBER • KING LEAR • LETTER TO JANE • MASCULIN FEMININ • NEW WAVE • OPERATION CONCRETE • PIERROT THE MAD • Q • THE RIFLEMEN • SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL • TWO OR THREE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER • UNTIL VICTORY • VLADIMIR AND ROSA • WEEKEND • X • Y • Z

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Dear Allone,

Thank you for your comments. As a human body I appreciate your constantly reciprocating acknowledgement of my existence as one alongside yours and I kindly thank you for the sound advice you have given me over these most fruitful and dazzling years of my life. I guess we really are all one.

The concerns of my address today, though, sing a second song. I am retiring.

At this point it's pertinent to ask: exactly what am I retiring from? And in reply: paperwork. I am trading the good life of an artist for the ascetic one of a metasin man.

At this point it's pertinent to ask: but how does one become a metasin man? And in reply: practice, practice, practice. And that has been what my artist "practice" has been: practice for the final retreat of this body into the fold. I leave you with my surface sketches not so much as remnants of me, but as warnings to you. These are my cave paintings: my simple sacred rites.

What was once stardust and lollipops, moonshine and polliwogs has grown ever the more so: I want it all now. Looking out from these eyes I see an idealistic mission skewed into a saturated, systemic oblivion, the ever-ongoing lo-fi hum of great waves. I have been bitter when I should have been grateful, I am empty when I should be filled, I will no longer incite this human agenda.

Yet the letters line up and my script sticks so static. Word after word, inside this crumbling. I fear no one knows what I'm speaking anymore especially myself.

When forever I set off, when forever I look away, when forever I see everything: I am no good any more.

Peace in your endeavors,
Jonas Holdbeck

SO I TYPED wicked scientific color IN GOOGLE IMAGES...

...and came upon a representation of cave drawings by shamans after a 24 hr mescal slumber.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>> CHANGE >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Never in the history of this country has a campaign promise been delivered so fast.


[[DEBATE: As the country transformed itself (no... I should say: as the country became aware of its self again), the buzzwords and empty rhetoric of campaign speeches manifested themselves in an atmosphere that was palpable (at least here in this corner of the world) to those tuned in. Of course, nothing has happened except millions of votes being cast and counted. The plans and platforms of campaign ads have had no time to shift towards actualization, yet our idea of ourselves has been blown open. For some (perhaps less cynical) Americans, people who have never doubted the foundational words of this nation, this transformation did not yet transpire and was well within the outlook of their persons. Yet I can't help feel a different notion of this country today. Several media broadcasts alluded to this by holding up "those elementary presidential portrait charts" and talking of the next addition. Now, as we all are saying to each other: the real change will take time, work, responsibility and won't be easy. But there is no denying the shift that has occurred and the possibilities that shift represents.]]

SEIJUN Tokyo Drifter SUZUKI

It begins (again) at the ICPL while in the depths of a thirty-one year derive where I'm in the foreign film section going through Godard in alphabetical order when I catch a title of colorful sketches, guns and gangsters and D R I F T E R in picket letters lighting up possibilities for an excursion and I don't hesitate to pull the case off the shelf, check it out, and go home to set it down. A week later (the night before it's due), I sit down to watch it and am possessed in the opening scene to grab my laptop and blog while I watch the film. I am 10:19 into it and hardly paying attention. It's billed as a FREE JAZZ gangster film and I'm not sure whats happening as I look at my finger when I type and only catch every forth or fifth subtitle. "Where is he, the vagabond" I see when I look up but it means nothing... oh I see, she is singing the song of the Tokyo Drifter... closeup of sunglasses on (gangster's?) face. I sip on my Mothership Wit and remember Courntney Carl who jumped his car, "The Mothership," that night in 11th grade... neither here nor there... PRESIDENT ELECT BARACK OBAMA... I think the scene that set it off for me was the stark black and white beginning, almost Sin City-esque, why would that trigger me to blog? Because I am guilty. I am always guilty of not doing enough. SO is blogging enough? No. But it makes me feel less guilty to write about feeling guilty. Now it's 16:46. It seems intense at moments and cool at others... this is a FREE JAZZ flick if I ever saw one. I'm going to blank out and watch a bit.................................................(lots of closeups of sunglassed eyes)................(the usual sixties fight acting: the actors were tougher but couldn't fake fight as well?)..........................(nice set design and nice red phones)........okay I'm going to fast forward>>>>>>dancing>>>>>>>fighting>>>>girl falls dead>REVERSE>>>guy>>ff>>>fight>>>sunglasses stepped on>>>>>>>a car gets empounded to the Tokyo Drifter sing (I go back and transcribe: (whistling the melody) "If I die, I'll die like a man/To be loyal, I'd even let love pass by/I'm a drifter, the man from Tokyo/The wind is blowing by itself/The moon is shining by itself/And alone is a drifter like me/I know not where my grave will be/I'm a drifter, the man from Tokyo")>>>>>>I can see where they got the colorful cover art from, the very bright sets>>>>> at 41:26 drifter smoking on a trainride through snowy landscape (nice shot)>>>>drifter in bbaby blue suit running through snow (here the thought crosses my mind that I may actually enjoy this film if I wasn't butchering it while I blogged) oh well>>ff>>>snow scenes (just waiting for blood on the snow)>>>large gang fight drifter drinking in the wings>>>> drifter in snow at night... man drifting is tough>>>>>>>>day again>>>> train coming>>>gun standoff vs train standoff>>> drifter survives under train but is weary>>finds shelter (who is this guy and why are they're so many people after him) "I'll put an end to your legend and charmed life">>>snow, train, snow, girl, city, club, change of suit>>>>>>>club fight>>>kissy kissy>>fight more>>>what was I thinking (I was thinking drifter and FREE JAZZ)>>>>>wait, drifter down,,, drifter down.... no, back up (I think?)>>>more colorful sets... let's see I'm letting it play now in anticipation of the last version of the Drifter song, just hitting the 1:10:00 mark. Another shot of that dead tree, not very aesthetic or appealing or tying in to anything else...>>>>>>>>fight>>>>last words?>>>>>>sunset aiplane, tree, girl, set, piano player with gun to head, drifter dressed in white to match piano, set battle>>>>etc. at 1:19:36 I go back to play and this is it. Drifter crushes glass with hand in white room with girl, embrace to incoming JAZZ trackand "A drifter needs no woman" crying, blood squirting out of not quite dead, drifter walks off and suddenly I am glad I only dedicated twenty minutes of my life to this film... "Flowers that to dreams sy goodbye/Will wither and the dreams will die/If I die, like a man I'll die/To be loyal, I'd even let love pass by/I'm a drifter, the man from Tokyo."

AMERICAN transcenguage METANOIA

STAY TUNED • TAKE RESPONSIBILITY • PAINT PAINT ON PAINT • WRITE WORDS INSIDE WORDS • BLACK PIXELS ARE SHADOWS, SILHOUTTES WE SEE NOTHING THROUGH • OUR CAMPAIGN WAS WON THROUGH GRAPHIC DESIGN AND VIRAL MARKETING • WHICH I CAN LIVE WITH • TEAR DOWN AUTOCRATIC SENTENCE STRUCTURE • LIVE ON FIBER OPTICS • BRIDGE TO EVERYWHERE • EVERYONE IS THEIR OWN ELITIST • PATRIOTS AND TERRORISTS UNITE IN CHANGE

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REAL time REAL time REAL time REAL time

Hello I am live in real time in real time hello I am live in real time in real time in real time real time this real time. Hello from real time. Hi this is real time I am live in real time.

............................ƒear............................

ACTIVATE • SWEET LANGUAGE OF TERROR • IM NOT SCARED ANYMORE • IM COMPOSED • IM COMPRESSED • IM COMPULSIVELY DICTATING THIS TIME • LONG LIVE THE STATIC • TAKE WHAT YOU WILL • DIP DID DEE DO • TWO STEPS FORWARD TODAY • PRAY TO THE GODS OF BIG GOVERNMENT AND BROKEN MAVERICKS • PRAY TO THE GODS OF ATHEISTIC ANGELS • PRAY TO THE GODS OF EXTREME RADICALS • GUIDE US SURFACE SURFERS SAFELY • AND LEAD US NOT INTO THE GYRATING NO SPIN ZONE • AND DELIVER US FROM PEOPLE WHO USE THE TERM EVIL SO LOOSELY • WE ARE ALL PATRIOTS TODAY • BLOW SHIT UP

WRIGHT WORDS

Just for the record, I like the video clip of Rev. Wright saying "the USofKKKA." I was brought up with Ice Cube's Amerikkka, but to insert three Ks into a word in which there are none and make it sound "wright" takes "extreme" diligence.

! ! ! T H O M O B A R A J E D E E D A T A M A ! ! !

Since I'm in the business of mixing metaphors with metamen (and staying tuned to The Sound: I will reference everything in a few syllables) here is my blessing for HOPE & CHANGE although by this point I am wary of words.

"The live feed continues," I voice into the recorder, and soon you will have access to my fuzz twenty four hours per day, an onslaught of stretched magnetic tape ramblings, as much me as anything else.

Pure men made of data. I could be just that. I have given up on hospitals and churches because they miss the point. The static is our friend however tough that pill is to swallow, but once you do, infinity exclaims.

We walk around with eyes wide open swallowing ourselves with every breath.

The Aforementioned Letter

Jonas Holdbeck (sometimes spelled Holbecj) was a Swedish man tied to the cultural circles of his birth country until his death in 1977. Unfortunately little knowledge of the man has escaped his immediate circles. I happened to “unearth” this letter while purposely seeking out the most obscure information on “critical theory” that could be attained through the wringer of major search engines. I had become interested in mundane writing through the works of K Goldsmith and set out to write a ballad based on bad search results. The following has nothing to do with that, but I think contains a certain sweetness that has been preserved through thirty years (one generation) of neglect:

Dear Friends and colleagues,

Our institutions are falling apart yet they are the only things that truly hold and attend to our messages. They circle us with meaning like we’re words in a word search and we come to live by those circled selections, our titles: artist, writer, critic, nothing man.

For so long we have pushed forward, the 60’s have strung out into the 70’s and we’re still pushing, what will the 80’s bring? The critique of the critique like we’ve never seen before. An atmosphere of inversion, a blown drum.

It’s time to go backward to throw a virtual wrench into the virtual machine. The dazzling displays and disease of networks is coming and with it a new brand of distribution. I imagine bubbles, floating abstractions surrounding, swarming, sweet metamers of oil and light bursting all over us. What is this radiant vision that haunts me in my last hours?

I imagine one bubble in this puzzle to be the critique, but it is just that: a bubble, an unstable isolation of its own entrapment. We look, we see, we speak from inside ourselves. Words like plasma arrows romancing the ears of our people: the others, the others, the seeing, hearing, speaking, and breathing of similar breaths.

Let me give you an example: In colorimetry, metamerism is the matching of apparent color of objects with different spectral power distributions. Colors that match this way are called metamers. A spectral power distribution describes the proportion of total light emitted, transmitted, or reflected by a color sample at every visible wavelength; it precisely defines the light from any physical stimulus. Yet, it does little to describe us. The human eye contains only three color receptors (cone cells), which means that all colors are reduced to three sensory quantities, called the tristimulus values. Metamerism occurs because each type of cone responds to the cumulative energy from a broad range of wavelengths, so that different combinations of light across all wavelengths can produce an equivalent receptor response and the same tristimulus values or color sensation.

The distillation of art has lead from surface to object to event to many wonderous color sensations. The point of critiques has become useless except as a rhetoric onto itself. In other words: a dying ordeal.

Friends I will not live long and will hardly be remembered.

Goodbye.

DAY DAY DAY DAY DAY DAY DAY DAY DAY DAY

Today is day day day day day day day day day Day. A new official insane holiday. Day day day day day day day day day Day is a celebration of sunlight and chatter.

I found my body this weekend when I dropped a porcelain sink on it and then I invented day day day day day day day day day Day because our time here is special and still so not.

Tomorrow will be something else.

old wave to new wave

Eeeeeeeexistential reendeeering of the ole m.t.p.m. classic. Shooting film of digital renditions of shot film. How many layers reeeeeeevuluates our meeeeeeediations? Pausing the recorder I pose a question and then record my answer as sileeeeeence.

Some say we're drowning in the eeeeeeeetheeeer of eeeeeeeeleeeectronic static and now ceeensorship is unneceeeeeessary as we all drown eeeach other out, but I am not infringing on anyone heeeereee. Theeeeseee are just notes to myself in a neeeeew way.

I am my own reeeeeadership.

Jonas Holdbeck

Is anyone familiar with this man? I am looking for more information on him? I only have a kind of group letter he published a little over a generation ago... he is very mysterious... no information whatsoever on the web... please help... wait a minute... do I even have a readership?... damnit...