Join the Mitochondrial Revolution! Unleash the Power of the Mysterious Krebs Cycle!
Monday, August 24, 2020
Monday, August 17, 2020
Enamel on paper with watchworks. I think there were about a dozen of these, give or take. I found a box of old dead watches on the street. Not really old, and not all dead. But old enough to have moving metal parts. Each ectoplasm contained all the bits from a single watch that I could take apart with a tiny screwdriver and exacto knife.
Thursday, August 13, 2020
Wednesday, August 12, 2020
I've been locked out of Facebook for 24 hours because I've offended the algorithm again (the first time was when I posted a topless image of Sacheen Littlefeather)!
Sunday, August 9, 2020
DH: Long time ago - but yeah, spontaneously diaristic as ever. I knew that the tape would yellow, and the plastic was a sort of sad "archival" gesture, like it was a piece of forensic evidence I was obliged to attempt to preserve. I thought it was funny that some one would print postcards with a solitary car wheel- which appealed to my taste for Pop - but I was immersed in Jung in those days, and would have simultaneously seen it as a mandala archetype. Oh and yes, a formal exercise! Sorry you asked?
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
Ink on paper, sketchbook page, 11 X 9 ins (documenting the first meeting of Daniel Hawkins and Veronica Lajambe, when V was convinced he'd snuck some crack into the herbal cigarette we were sharing)
Wednesday, July 22, 2020
Monday, July 20, 2020
Friday, July 17, 2020
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Monday, July 13, 2020
Saturday, July 11, 2020
Friday, July 10, 2020
Thursday, July 9, 2020
Wednesday, July 8, 2020
Tuesday, July 7, 2020
Sunday, July 5, 2020
The "plot" however, does have a curious timeliness as regards the antics of Jeffrey Epstein's recently incarcerated moll Ghislaine Maxwell - the film concludes SPOILER ALERT! with West's using the cassette-full of sex dirt she has on all the cranky global politicians to leverage world peace! A motion was entered to acknowledge that this may be or may have been Maxwell's secret agenda, but the vote was inconclusive.
Saturday, July 4, 2020
Deflated Patriot, Shadow Hills CA, July 2020 "I’ve fallen," commented Dan Chapman on Facebook, "And I can’t get up!" All healing vibrations to the United States of America!
Thursday, July 2, 2020
Friday, June 26, 2020
Thursday, June 25, 2020
Tuesday, June 23, 2020
There is a formula in intelligence circles that stipulates a limit to the number of layers of disinformation that may be operating at one time. After the third level of double-cross;
that is, telling a lie to someone because they expect you to tell the truth because they think you think they think you think they expect you to tell a lie, neither the agent nor the agency can distinguish sense from dissemblance. The information becomes meaningless, signal merges with noise.
On Saturday, November 18 1978 more than 1000 American citizens, members of the People's Temple religious commune called 'Jonestown,' situated in the jungles of the tiny South American country of Guyana, were directed by their leader, Rev. Jim Jones, to commit an act of 'revolutionary suicide' by drinking cyanide-laced grape Kool-Aid*. Earlier that day Peoples' Temple members had shot and killed Congressman Leo Ryan and several reporters and Jonestown defectors as they attempted to board a plane for home. A week later, the U.S. military forces controlling the cleanup and investigation reported the final body count of 913. Jones believed, and had convinced his constituency, that death by painful cyanide poisoning was the only recourse in the face of the torture awaiting them at the hands of the CIA, FBI, the State Department and whatever other factions of the World Government felt threatened by the success of this 'model revolutionary interracial socialist commune'.
Conspiracy theorists took Jones' pronouncements about his 'enemies' seriously. Mark Lane, who played a major role in getting the conspiracy ball rolling as Lee Harvey Oswald's court-appointed attorney and best-selling author of the Warren-Commission-shredding Rush to Judgement (and himself the object of much sinister speculation in some conspiracy circles), had been hired by the Reverend in September of 1978 to represent the Peoples' Temple and take legal action against its government persecutors. Lane held a press conference announcing his intention to prove the conspiracy, and was in Jonestown when the much rehearsed suicide drill of 'White Night' became a reality. Improbably, he was one of 16 known survivors.
As information came to light, though, in spite of the stringent dose of skepticism with which official Army Intelligence press releases must be interpreted, it became obvious that not only was Jones not a counterculture savior; rather, he had engaged in systematic physical (including sexual) and psychological torture of his flock, extorted Welfare checks and deeds to mansions, consumed and dispensing massive doses of icky psychoactives (speed for himself; thorazine for the believers), and supervised and/or participated in sundry distasteful entertainments.
The provisional suspension of doubt in order to explore the possible permutations that might result from a given set of possibilities is essential to any creative act, including the involuted speculative labyrinths that constitute the development of persuasive conspiracy theories. After the first leap of faith is concealed by a few layers of multivalent logic, one is free to abandon the tentative postulate and hypothetical end point that will resolve all loose threads, and blow freely. In conspiracy-minded fictions such as Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow and The Crying of Lot 49, Wilson & Shea's Illuminatus! trilogy and Oliver Stone's JFK, the aesthetics of paranoia are unraveled to their logical and curiously similar ends: a womb-like dissolution of the criteria meant to discriminate among competing realities, where every point in the matrix is equally suffused with meaning. Contemporary conspiracy culture thus echo the heretical tenets of Gnosticism, which held that mankind is in paradise here and now, but human consciousness is veiled by the lies of a psychotic false god: It is an article of faith that all data perceived through the senses and mind is tainted, holding us back from the realization of Creation in its undivided wholeness.
Paranoia is a psychopathological disorder characterized by suspiciousness, mistrust, extreme jealousy, hypersensitivity to slights or blame, and vengeful feelings. Feelings of persecution, and delusions that one is being spied upon, plotted against, or secretly betrayed, or that one is secretly the heir to the French throne or George Michaels' wife are typical of this psychopathology. In its most extreme schizophrenic form, such beliefs become ever more far-fetched, involving aliens, mind-control implants, historical or supernatural personages, etc. and are buttressed by auditory and sometimes visual hallucinations. All this is well and fine when contained within the personality boundaries of an individual designated as 'sick.' The difficulties arises, and in a sense expand in an exponential torrent that defines History, when two or three are gathered together in His name.
The social analogues of paranoid states have been fodder for the baroque and illuminating discourses of Foucault and R.D. Laing (not to mention Kafka and Doris Lessing), but should be familiar enough in all their unmediated existential glory to anyone who has worked in an office, gone to grade school, lived in a family, or tried to make it in the art world. Consensus is a mercurial commodity, and much of our attention is justifiably sacrificed in attempting to assuage it. But when your workaday paranoiac social system achieves a certain level of isolation - when reality testing is unilaterally abandoned for reality policing - there occurs a figure/ground shift between what has heretofore been 'subjective' and 'objective'. That's when you get the Voices.
The hive-mind of the Cult is perhaps the most easily, widely diagnosed manifestation of paranoia in a cultural body. Another such group, popularly qualified delusional but less neatly contained , is the unevenly woven network of conspiracy theorists that developed after the JFK assassination, a family which technically includes everyone from the man on the street who believes that sometimes the government lies to him for reasons other than national security to, well, the late population of Jonestown. Thus Jonestown, as with virtually any other group expression of paranoia aesthetics, is located at the fulcrum of two networks of improvisational logic: one folding in on itself to a critical mass; one opening outward into the larger culture like a tangled fungal mycelium. Each is an extravagant and collectively authored expression of the same impulse that generates the greatest modern art, from intricate compositions by free-jazz innovator Ornette Coleman and non-linear narrative installations by Swedish Pop-experimentalist Öyvind Fahlström to the unchartable soundscapes of Japanese noise musician Merzbow and the meticulous sculptural conundrums of Tm Hawkinson.
Paranoia is, in a sense, the force of progressive modernist thought processes turned aside, exploring and identifying as meaningful the endless fractal nuances of mundane reality, and hemorrhages into a moment of significance previously held at bay by the the dynamic of time, with no destination save for the realization that we're already there. The aesthetics of paranoia derive from a molecular choreography of interconnectedness that ultimately signifies nothing except the structure of the human mind, the structure of reality, and the no-man's-land that lies between. The conscious postponement of final revelation becomes the mandate for a post-paranoiac cultural strategy, but preferably not out of fear of a bloodbath. As a post-modern millennial passion play enacting the somatic paranoia underpinning even our most innocuous social alliances, Jonestown provides a crude but moving cautionary tale: For most of us, locked in History as we are, a workable lie is worth more than our life, and society disenfranchises the individual artist at the risk of much larger disruptions of the hegemonic fabric. Or so some would have you believe.
* Actually Flavor-Aid
Monday, June 22, 2020
Sunday, June 21, 2020
After a few minutes of silence the Philosopher began to speak.
“I do not see any necessity in nature for policemen,” said he, “nor do I understand how the custom first originated. Dogs and cats do not employ these extraordinary mercenaries, and yet their polity is progressive and orderly. Crows are a gregarious race with settled habitations and an organized commonwealth. They usually congregate in a ruined tower or on the top of a church, and their civilization is based on mutual aid and tolerance for each other’s idiosyncrasies.
Their exceeding mobility and hardiness render them dangerous to attack, and thus they are free to devote themselves to the development of their domestic laws and customs. If policemen were necessary to a civilization crows would certainly have evolved them, but I triumphantly insist that they have not got any policemen in their republic —”
“I don’t understand a word you are saying,” said the sergeant.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “Ants and bees also live in specialized communities and have an extreme complexity both of function and occupation. Their experience in governmental matters is enormous, and yet they have never discovered that a police force is at all essential to their well-being —”
“Do you know,” said the sergeant, “ that whatever you say now will be used in evidence against you later on?”
“I do not,” said the Philosopher. “It may be said that these races are free from crime, that such vices as they have are organized and communal instead of individual and anarchistic, and that, consequently, there is no necessity for policecraft, but I cannot believe that these large aggregations of people could have attained their present high culture without an interval of both national and individual dishonesty —”
“Tell me now, as you are talking,” said the sergeant, “did you buy the poison at a chemist’s shop, or did you smother the pair of them with a pillow?”
“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “If crime is a condition precedent to the evolution of policemen then I will submit that jackdaws are a very thievish clan — they are somewhat larger than a blackbird, and will steal wool off a sheep’s back to line their nests with; they have, furthermore, been known to abstract one shilling in copper and secrete this booty so ingeniously that it has never since been recovered —”
“I had a jackdaw myself,” said one of the men. “I got it from a woman that came to the door with a basket for fourpence. My mother stood on its back one day and she getting out of bed. I split its tongue with a threepenny bit the way it would talk, but devil the word it ever said for me. It used to hop around letting on it had a lame leg, and then it would steal your socks.”
“Shut up,” roared the sergeant.
“If,” said the Philosopher, “these people steal both from sheep and from men, if their peculations range from wool to money, I do not see how they can avoid stealing from each other, and, consequently, if anywhere, it is amongst jackdaws one should look for the growth of a police force, but there is no such force in existence. The real reason is that they are a witty and thoughtful race who look temperately on what is known as crime and evil — one eats, one steals; it is all in the order of things and, therefore, not to be quarreled with. There is no other view possible to a philosophical people —”
“What the devil is he talking about?” said the sergeant.
“Monkeys are gregarious and thievish and semi-human. They inhabit the equatorial latitudes and eat nuts —”
“Do you know what he is saying, Shawn?”
“I do not,” said Shawn.
“— they ought to have evolved professional thief-takers, but it is common knowledge that they have not done so. Fishes, squirrels, rats, beavers, and bison have also abstained from this singular growth— therefore, when I insist that I see no necessity for policemen and object to their presence, I base that objection on logic and facts, and not on any immediate petty prejudice.”
“ Shawn,” said the sergeant, “have you got a good grip on that man?”
“I have,” said Shawn.
“Well, if he talks any more hit him with your baton.”
Original illustration by Thomas Mackenzie, depicting a scene immediately following the events described above.
Saturday, June 13, 2020
Friday, June 12, 2020
Thursday, June 11, 2020
Originally streamed Thursday May 14th at 1 pm PST
Margaret Wertheim is an internationally noted science writer, artist and curator whose work focuses on relations between science and the wider cultural landscape. Her work is animated by a propositio that science is a field of conceptual enchantment, and a socially embedded activity with political and communal consequences. The author of six books, including The Pearly Gates of Cyberspace and Physics on the Fringe, she has written for the New York Times, The Guardian, Cabinet, Aeon and many others. Margaret and her sister Christine are founders of the Institute For Figuring, a Los Angeles-based practice devoted to the aesthetic dimensions of science and mathematics. The sisters have created exhibits for the Hayward Gallery (London), Science Gallery (Dublin), Mass MOCA (MA), and Museum of Jurassic Technology (Los Angeles). Their Crochet Coral Reef – a worldwide participatory project in which thousands of women collectively crochet coral reefs as a response to climate change – has been shown at the 2019 Venice Biennale, Andy Warhol Museum (Pittsburgh), Museum of Arts and Design (New York), Deutsches Museum (Munich), the Smithsonian, and elsewhere. Margaret has worked on all seven continents and stood on the South Pole. For her work as a science communicator she has won the annual award from the American Association of Physics Teachers, and Australia’s Scientia Medal.
Christine Wertheim is a poet, performer, artist, critic, curator and collaborator. She has authored and edited eight books including three poetic suites – The Book of Me, mUtter-bAbel and +|’me’S-pace – and three literary anthologies, among them Feminaissance and The n/Oulipean Analects. Her poetic work fuses graphics and text to explore the potentialities of the English tongue and the relationships between suppressed infantile rage and global violence. Christine has a Phd. in literature and semiotics, and is a faculty member at the California Institute of the Arts, in the Department of Critical Studies where she teaches courses on art+feminisim, pataphysics, nonsense, and rubbish. She was formerly director of the Calarts MFA Writing Program and has written for many magazines including X-TRA and Jacket. She is co-director of the Institute For Figuring; and, with her sister Margaret Wertheim, co-creator of the Crochet Coral Reef project.
“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” - Buckminster Fuller
Metabolic Studio explores self-sustaining and self-diversifying systems of exchange that feed emergent properties that regenerate the life web.
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
Thanks to the public library's COVID19 closure, I finally managed to read the copy of Peter Coyote's 1998 autobiography Sleeping Where I Fall that I checked out in February. Highly recommended to anyone interested in the history of the Diggers and the Commune movement of the 60s and 70s. But towards the very end of the book, after a decade of hippie shenanigans, Coyote's path takes a peculiar twist when he is recruited by Gary Snyder in 1975 to be a member of the California Arts Council under Gov. Jerry Brown. Dig his description of Noah Purifoy's philosophy about the role of the creative process in political domain. Artists should be running everything!
"Noah Purifoy is a short, muscular African-American man then in his sixties with gnarly hands, a pugnacious thrust to his posture, and a deliberate and somewhat querulous voice. A Los Angeles sculptor of found art, he is a deep thinker about creativity and culture. According to Noah, all artists work in fundamentally the same manner, no matter what their medium is. Following a hunch, an impulse, ora hypothesis, they make a move, a line, a sentence. They step back and regard what they have done, then they act again and review again, discovering where they are going incrementally. This antipodal shifting between the realms of logic and intuition is the core of the creative process. It is, according to Noah, a problem-solving mechanism of the highest order because it utilizes and integrates both the right and left hemispheres of the brain.
Noah’s “hunch” was that the council itself should operate according to the same creative process, using as its starting position the policy and program intuitions of the members. Since most of us were working artists, we were comfortable leaping into the unknown in this manner. Purifoy asserted further that just as the creative process was a problem-solving mechanism for the artist, the community of artists could serve as a reservoir of creative problem solvers for the state. Artists could even save the state money if they succeeded in cracking some of the obdurate problems plaguing it.
When the council began to design programs, we used Noah's ideas as our template and discovered how readily they expedited our ideas of service. If we want to have art in the state, we reasoned, we should create opportunities for artists to serve the state’s needs. If we paid a subsistence wage for twenty hours of weekly work, the artists would create art on their own nickel in the remaining time. There was no need to pay them for making art, and doing so has been one of the major controversies and political problems of arts funding. Even the densest legislator could understand the equation of payment for service.
It was fascinating to track the reactions as the council began to explore and articulate this idea. A contrary philosophy known as art-for-art’s-sake was articulated among the representatives of the state’s “High Art” institutions. They argued that art had no statement to make nor any practical significance (which I always considered a dangerous argument to advance when asking taxpayers for their money). They contended that to attach a work of art to any purpose outside of its own organic evolution was to debase the work, andI can certainly agree with the latter part of the statement.
But such arguments could not (or would not) address that all choices — especially by a government agency—are inherently political and reflect the interests or worldview of one group or another, Art-for-art’s-sake is the philosophy about art of a group accustomed to dominance, which mistakes its political power for revealed truth, They did not accept that their worldview was only one among many, some of which were far older and at least as well developed."
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Friday, June 5, 2020
Monday, June 1, 2020
Thursday, May 28, 2020
Since then I've remembered a lot of dream stuff anyway, but lately I hadn't been, and about a week ago I thought "I wish I was remembering more of my dreams these days."
Lo & Behold, I remembered two big dreams in two days - the first one was scary, and I might get around to recounting it if I can remember it, but the second one has action film option written all over it, so I wrote it down, and I figured I'd share.
So in the dream, the night before the above illustrated moment, I was walking through a busy urban shopping district, lots of people bustling, and the guy sitting on the right there sidles up to me and starts to hustle me to do some kind of job for him. This isn't weird - turns out later I'm some kind of private investigator.
This guy's just a kid, doubt he's even 20 years old. Very enthused, but it's hard to get a handle on what the job entails, because he immediately gets into a ridiculously theatrical kung-fu fight with a black pimp-like dude, just slightly older than the kid. Some old unfinished business, I figure.
They both strike outrageous poses and make Bruce Lee squawks and tongue-clicks -- but when they make contact I see it's for reals. They're both very accomplished fighters. People notice, but don't seem to be very freaked out.
The kid seems to be the superior combatant, and each time he lays the pimp dude flat, he declares some arcane score, like "17 for me against 875 for you!" and the pimp guy then slips away. We continue walking past these open stores, and he resumes his pitch, but the black dude leaps out again and it happens all over, 3 or 4 times -- the kid winning, and modifying the score each time.
Then, just as we've turned to go through a store-lined underground passage, he's back again! But this time pimp dude lands a crippling kick to the kid's leg! In obvious pain, he still manages to declare "That's 20 bucks to you, and 10 for me!" This morphs into some kind of rap (sorry, can't remember it, but it was sort of like a musical theater version of rap), as the pimp dude picks him up and slams him down onto a display table of high end Chuck Taylor sneaker copies, which the both of them, in a sort of choreographed routine, begin stuffing into conveniently placed gift bags, as the musical number continues, with backup singers and dancers gathering around.
Just then, another black dude is standing next to me - this one's wearing glasses, with a sort of Curtis Mayfield vibe. He says "Harvey, are you buying this shit?" I recognize him from somewhere - school? This is when I realize I'm a P.I. and I know him from the street. He's with a woman and they start walking with me, away from the ongoing fracas.
"The hip-hop-lite kung-fu shoe commercial musical?" I shrug "I'm just rolling with it."
"What did that kid want from you anyway?"
"He wants me to use my skills to determine who has been sitting in a series of couches."
At this, Curtis looks at his lady knowingly, and a sequence of quite beautiful visual aids appear in the air to illustrate how traces of various materials -- perfumes, hair oils, body odor, DNA, etc -- could linger on and around various couches. They look like shifting, layered, color-coded pointillist snowflake patterns. Curtis and his lady move off, and I worry that I've said to much. Who is this cat anyway?
But the next day, I'm summoned to the hillside estate of the kid, who's unperturbed (and seemingly uninjured) by his defeat. He receives me on the back patio overlooking a beautiful, hilly Southern California landscape, and wants to continue discussing the job.
His girlfriend is with him, and they're wearing a puffy rectangular twofer robe, printed to look like the cover of a mass market book entitled "The Illstrich of Ostogether: Tales of Love and Ostrich Farming," with a picture of him and her on an ostrich farm but otherwise looking exactly as they do before me. I recognize the title as a play on the familiar phrase "The ostrich of illtogether" then actually wake myself up laughing!