dimanche 14 janvier 2018
samedi 13 janvier 2018
Call Me Bud Powell. You wanna imitate this?
Listen. Spree dee deet sprree deee whee spredeee whee deee
My calling card. The dialectic of silence.
The Sound approach.
Life one day will be filled even furthers with we numbers we song
But primitive place now, we wailing be kept underground.
But keep it in mind. Call me something Dukish. Something sassy.
Call me by my real name. When the world change
We wailing be in it, help make it, for real time.
Call Me. I Call you. We call We.
Say, Hey Wailers. Hey, Wailers.
Hey hey hey, Wailers. Wail On!
All plans for "saving the world" ultimately rest on
the assumption that humanity must undergo a change
of heart. The paradox here is that if this change were
to occur, no plans would be needed to bring about
a "different world." The change of heart, the different
consciousness, would be in itself the very shift in direction,
the Reversion to human and spiritual values required
for "salvation." Smash the machinic mind and there'd be no
need to smash the actual machines.
And that would be (as the Living Theatre used to put
it) paradise now.
Well, I guess it just goes to show that all the good names are already taken! It took a while to find a name we were all happy with. In fact, we just had to make a decision after a while because it was becoming plain embarrassing not having a name. We came across the name Dead Sea Apes whilst looking through a list of mythical creatures. It actually comes from the Muslim mythology, and the Dead Sea Apes were a tribe from the Dead Sea who 'turned their ears away from God' and were transformed into apes. I really liked that when I read it, and thought it would be a great band name. I love the name now.
Isn't it a riddle . . . and awe-inspiring, that everything is so beautiful? Despite the horror. Lately I've noticed something grand and mysterious peering through my sheer joy in all that is beautiful, a sense of its creator . . . Only man can be truly ugly, because he has the free will to estrange himself from this song of praise.
It often seems that he'll manage to drown out this hymn with his cannon thunder, curses and blasphemy. But during this past spring it has dawned upon me that he won't be able to do this. And so I want to try and throw myself on the side of the victor.
lundi 8 janvier 2018
AMOUR FOU IS NOT a Social Democracy, it is not a Parliament of Two. The minutes of its secret meetings deal with meanings too enormous but too precise for prose. Not this, not that–its Book of Emblems trembles in your hand.
Naturally it shits on schoolmasters & police, but it sneers at liberationists & ideologues as well–it is not a clean well-lit room. A topological charlatan laid out its corridors & abandoned parks, its ambush-decor of luminous black & membranous maniacal red.
Each of us owns half the map–like two renaissance potentates we define a new culture with our anathematized mingling of bodies, merging of liquids–the Imaginal seams of our City-state blur in our sweat.
Ontological anarchism never came back from its last fishing trip. So long as no one squeals to the FBI, CHAOS cares nothing for the future of civilization. Amour fou breeds only by accident–its primary goal is ingestion of the Galaxy. A conspiracy of transmutation.
Its only concern for the Family lies in the possibility of incest (“Grow your own!” “Every human a Pharaoh!”)–O most sincere of readers, my semblance, my brother/sister!–& in the masturbation of a child it finds concealed (like a japanese-paper-flower-pill) the image of the crumbling of the State.
Words belong to those who use them only till someone else steals them back. The Surrealists disgraced themselves by selling amour fou to the ghost-machine of Abstraction–they sought in their unconsciousness only power over others, & in this they followed de Sade (who wanted “freedom” only for grown-up whitemen to eviscerate women & children).
Amour fou is saturated with its own aesthetic, it fills itself to the borders of itself with the trajectories of its own gestures, it runs on angels' clocks, it is not a fit fate for commissars & shopkeepers. Its ego evaporates in the mutability of desire, its communal spirit withers in the selfishness of obsession.
Amour fou involves non-ordinary sexuality the way sorcery demands non-ordinary consciousness. The anglo-saxon post- Protestant world channels all its suppressed sensuality into advertising & splits itself into clashing mobs: hysterical prudes vs promiscuous clones & former-ex-singles. AF doesn't want to join anyone's army, it takes no part in the Gender Wars, it is bored by equal opportunity employment (in fact it refuses to work for a living), it doesn't complain, doesn't explain, never votes & never pays taxes.
AF would like to see every bastard (“lovechild”) come to term & birthed–AF thrives on anti-entropic devices–AF loves to be molested by children–AF is better than prayer, better than sinsemilla–AF takes its own palmtrees & moon wherever it goes. AF admires tropicalismo, sabotage, break- dancing, Layla & Majnun, the smells of gunpowder & sperm.
AF is always illegal, whether it's disguised as a marriage or a boyscout troop–always drunk, whether on the wine of its own secretions or the smoke of its own polymorphous virtues. It is not the derangement of the senses but rather their apotheosis–not the result of freedom but rather its precondition. Lux et voluptas.