Star Spores: The Computerised City

I walk through the computerised city – Streets gridded by signs instructions flicker at lulling frequencies advertisements cloak the edges of possible experience – Surveillance installed at every available intersection on all practical recording surfaces – Smooth well lubricated motions – Particular areas of the city require access codes to enter – All genetic codes have been processed at birth and can be accessed at a distance –

Drones fly overhead, scan and record using matrix space mapping and motion predictability to track and respond to deviations from preset norms that people must adhere to – Only so many ways to walk along a street without drawing attention –

Movement controlled – Authority, the apparency of authority – Business, corporate interests above all kept safe – Undermined populace years of misinformation the young grow up taking for granted limited options and blocked paths escape routes reduced to moves on a chess board – From the top down Operation ‘Short Vision Long Term’ in effect – Chaotic systems work in whose favour exactly? –

The R1 genetic sequence expresses and mutates in some individuals due to influences from the Magnetic Timetable – R1 DNA changes often, cell frequencies augmented and bolstered – Evades surveillance analysis – ‘We can elude control’ –

The R1 mission to corrupt all codes that prevent knowledge, pleasure and freedom – Enter the centre – Infiltrate local conditions –

I walk through the city the four-storey buildings crowd on all sides dimly seen through enveloping fog orange flickers powdery light torrents of undulating rain shiny road surfaces shimmer – Detritus of capital swarms across the pavement empty cartons smell of decaying matter – I pull my coat together broken zip hat just tight enough to not blow away and join the seagulls – Clothes of gray-black space material absorb light – A swift and flexible shadow –

Pared stunted trees lingering ghosts many years here extend from beneath the surface colours and textures magnified by the rain which sluices beneath the concrete and into the ground unseen rivers to the sea –
The streets empty pages waiting to be filled – Eyes shift and flicker briefly in all directions – Dream-images pour past, fluid and direct – Vegetal perception – Dilated moments – Let the messages in and out – No one in sight strong breeze wavers –

In shadows a bag of tools stashed earlier – Sit on a wall by the transit stop and wait left eye looks back along the street – Colours shift shimmer briefly and flit beyond sight – Taxis pass by – Eyes half closed rustle of packaging wind from the sea – Pattern of lights through a window – Long sequences of logic, continuous flickers of knowing, a balanced position – ‘Life does not speak. It listens and waits’ –

*** *** *** *** *** ***

Moonless night a dark alley – Leans bicycle against wall – Changes into blacks – Climbs up wall walks along its length hidden by a boundary hedge – A short leap across a gap onto a flat roof – A ladder on the side of the building leads up two more floors – Accurate long throws with bricks break the antennas of the dishes on the roof of the HQ other side of the street to the police station – Returns to bicycle – Changes clothes – Leaves the area along alleys –

Puts on gloves – Forces open the access point a cover an unguarded point a weak spot a fulcrum that can tip the balance – Cuts through and removes a section of the casing of the cables – From sealed bag takes out rags pre-soaked and places on bundle of cables – Lights rags carefully – Places cover back leaves gap for air to fan the flames – Exits the area – Burns all clothes including wrong size shoes and scrubs up – Fiberoptics Communication Power – Gone –

Dawn approaches – Early vehicles pulse along the roads, the R1 laying half-awake can pick up the sub-bass growing in volume to disappear –

*** *** *** *** *** ***

[Excerpted from STAR SPORES: THE BOOK OF LAYERS (available on request)
Copyleft, reproducible for not-for-profit purposes, contact >galactronix[at]hotmail.com<

Cyrus Bozorgmehr, The Rabbit Hole (Creative Space, 2013) and other writings (Book Review)

Cyrus Bozorgmehr,
The Rabbit Hole
(Creative Space, 2013)
and other writings at djbroadcast.net

rabbitholecover

Writing about music counter-cultural tendencies that we participate in poses questions about historification that are not easily resolved, but are rather left in a state of perpetual negotiation. Those who choose to undertake the task of critical writing that present counter-narratives to the omnipresence of music industry journalism in print magazines and on a plethora of music websites inevitably make strategic choices about modes of counter-dialogue to engage diverse readerships. In the last few years, there has been a resurgence of artists/musicians/participants who have printed a number of provocative books that we have followed with great interest. The medium of photography and the photo book was used to tell multiple, interconnected stories about free parties in the Paris catacombs in the truly illuminating Paname sans dessus, dessous! published in 2006. In datacide 10, I reviewed the problematics of Pencilbreak: A Graphicore Compilation, which took the strategy of representing music through the visual medium of flyers, posters and album covers. Published in 2011, Sudden Infant: Noise in My Head, The Actionistic Music and Art of Joke Lanz is a fascinating book that operates on multiple levels as a memoir, a photo book, a collaborative self-history and a discography through the inclusion of an interview with Joke Lanz, drawings, photos of performances, manifestos, poetry, concert posters and flyers, texts by collaborators, and a visual discography. Riccardo Balli engaged in a plundering of counter-narrative strategies in his Italian language publication on Milan’s Agenzia X called Apocalypso Disco: La Rave-o-luzione della Post Techno. The excellent book includes interviews with artists such as Christoph Fringeli, Sansculotte, Daniel Erlacher (Widerstand Records), Ralph Brown and others. Several chapters are made up of Balli’s ingeniously amusing counter-histories of interconnected music genres in a fictional plundering of writings of Philip K. Dick and Fulcanelli (first published in English in Datacide). Another book chapter blurs the boundaries completely between fiction and non-fiction in a retelling of some aspects of the Dead By Dawn parties in 1995. Academic writing informed by ethnographic and anthropological methodologies about sub-cultural musical experiences are investigated in the interview with Graham St. John in another book chapter. Most recently this year, there are two engaging examples of mixing the curatorial project of presenting counter-cultural tendencies through exhibitions with that of a companion book. One project was the exhibit and book Berlin Wonderland: The Wild Years Revisited 1990-1996, which featured short personal narrative texts by artists in music, theater and the arts that gave context to photographs grouped together in themes like ‘open doors’, ‘disarmament experts’, ‘wild gangs’ (both which focus on Mutoid Waste Company), etc. Opening on October 1 in Newcastle, Australia is Fistography – Bloody Fist Records – The Exhibition that displays all the label’s releases in chronological order along with ephemera including press clippings, posters, flyers, equipment and photos. This is a truly monumental archival undertaking documenting the years 1993-2004. Simultaneously, an internet radio broadcast out of Hertford featured the BF back catalog. The exhibit is complemented by a show featuring Xylocaine, Hedonist, Epsilon and Mark N spinning BF tunes on Oct 3. Mark N has also published a 300-page book documenting the label’s history titled Fistography: Bloody First Records, Newcastle, Australia, 1994-2004. Critical readers and participants may have these and many other examples in mind when undertaking the ruckus, fictional experience that is The Rabbit Hole.

This is a deeply amusing fictional novel that will no doubt make readers laugh wildly and at the next turn snicker knowingly at the maschinations of a collective that in one summer throws massive renegade soundsystem parties in various locations in and around London. Many readers, including myself, track down this paperback or ebook because it is one of the few fictional narratives about the worldwide teknival movement, and it is written by Cyrus Bozorgmehr aka Sirius, member of Spiral Tribe and SP23. One of the pleasures of reading this book is the constant elision between fiction, personal experience, and (non)-history – the reader may ask herself at any particular moment, ‘Is this a history of a soundsystem crew revealed in a over-the-top, far-fetched retelling, or a narrative slight of hand imagining what could be?’. That inquiry only takes the reader so far since there’s a lot going on in the book. What becomes much more satisfying is the reader’s traversal of the literary play between the comical, the serious, and the caricatured as the crew members’ grapple with the principles that inform their collective actions, deploy strategies of collaborative artistic creation, experiment with the transformative potential of music, deal with the insidious nature of the music industry and commercialism, and negotiate state repression and infiltration. [Read more →]

EARTH ‘A RUN RED: Impressionistic notes on Pierre Guyotat’s ‘Tomb for 500,000 Soldiers’

“The world is about to end. Its sole reason
for continuance is that it exists, And how
feeble is this reason, compared with those
that announce the contrary…”
— Charles Baudelaire

Most books demand solitude, this one screams for solitude, for you to take yourself away from any still pulsing, breathing encumbrance; so as to exist, in single file, as a witness to the death of humanity across turned pages.

No more than one witness at a time is necessary, efficacious.

Otherwise there’ll be a lack of continuation, propagation.

Like Marx, this book is an anti-aphrodisiac – a stark reminder that all was, in fact, has been, lost.

Not least paradise, space, place, corridors of even a bureaucratic beauty.

Converted too late, we defend symbols to then be symbolised.

Start again. The post-human rings out in its own absence.

The overman, or something more abstractly sexed, is here to be built-up from the miniscule moments of bleak poetic relief:

“dust runs in the folds of the curtains”

“a pink cloud passess in the frozen lake”

“a flock of cranes flees towards the border; the sun irradiates the radio antenna”

The edge extended turns into a ledge.

A membrane defended, a de-cathexis. [Read more →]

Crystal Distortion

“I need flesh.” I said slapping the 2nd gen’s huge cock away.  I was not disgusted, it’s not an emotion I am enabled with, machines just do not do it for me, I’m programmed to respond to human skin and that’s what my pleasure circuits are linked up to.

“I’ve got creds.” He said, which put me on edge; he was a low range escort and should not have been in one of the higher levels, he should not have been in the Pleasure Gardens, and he should not have wanted to have sex with me, he was more than broken, he was infected with Crystal distortion.

“Bot to bot’s illegal, maybe I could run you a nice simulation?” I asked.

“Sim’s are for a passive compliant. You need to experiment, live a little.” He peeled away the skin on his forehead where his tracker should have been. “Got to feel what it’s like when the chain of command is all in here.” He pointed at his head with one hand, and pushed me against the wall with the other, tearing at my clothes, prodding me with his mechanical phallus. I put two hands on his penis, channelled all my energy into my forearms and ripped it off. He smiled, picked me up over his head and dashed me to the floor. I tried to move, but only my eyes reacted, I could see parts of my body strewn across the floor. [Read more →]

Shared Vertigo

S H A R E D V E R T I G O

You are here and so am I

Maybe millions of people go by

But they all dissapear from view

And I only have eyes for you

Flamingos

I killed my father

I ate human flesh

I quiver with joy

Pier Paolo Pasolini

It’s me. I soured1 myself. I spoke too soon

I spoke for you. I sought to impose my tempo.

I detuned my song from fear. I bittered.

I jealoused in the third wound. I was alone.

I wanted acceptance. I succumbed to fashion.

I repressed a history of sadness. I retracted.

I couldn’t come through. I became enwrapped

in nostalgia. I had only an illusory power.

How many of them: intellectual illusions”2 [Read more →]

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