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“are you stuck in an endless you-loop?”

and you don’t know if Trump is good or bad?

and you know don’t know if Trump winning the US election is good or bad?

and you don’t know if Trump winning the US election is about a xenophobic, racist, misogynist gaining unlimited power or a clown with limited power?

and you don’t know if Trump as president will bring economic justice, whatever that is, perhaps in the form of reintroducing the Glass-Steagall Act, or will be an instrument for personal self-aggrandisement without further political, social, economic ramification?

and you don’t know if the real conspiracy is stupidity or the real threat that the nuclear arsenal will finally be deployed?

and you don’t know if the real conspiracy has puppet-masters in the Clintons who have made the deal to bring down the Grand Old Party or is the stupid conspiracy in which you are duped into saying something is real that you don’t really feel?

and you don’t know if you just want to hear your voice return to you like the echo of a human microphone or if you do have a strong opinion to share with all the people who think as you do?

and you don’t know if trust is the word since you have no higher expectation of those you support who live in the public eye than you do of yourself?

and you don’t know if Hillary Clinton was the right candidate for the times because of her gender, her agenda, or her proximity to the half-life of an ex-president?

and you don’t know if the acceptable face of corruption is preferable to the unacceptable, the ugly face of what we all know is true, but agree not to speak of?

and you don’t know if politics is for you because it adds no joy to the world or if your outrage at injustice is in the end more significant than whatever you may think about politics?

(and the future is the accumulation of regret for that which has not yet happened but will)

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Ah subo – cunto dura

Ah subo

Crown margins located sub-, at or supra-gingivally.

Márgenes de la corona situados subo supra-gingivalmente.

If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.

Si subo a los cielos, allí estás tú; si en el Seol hago mi cama, allí tú estás

There’s a call, I see that the small blind to my left is preparing the big guns and I re-raise to 1500.

Alguien iguala, observo que la ciega pequeña de mi izquierda está preparando su artillería pesada por lo que subo de nuevo a 1.500.

Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God.

Jesús le dijo: –Suéltame, porque aún no he subido al Padre. Pero ve a mis hermanos y diles: “Yo subo a mi Padre y a vuestro Padre, a mi Dios y a vuestro Dios.

Suddenly the big blind 44 and after three calls, I re-raise 4 blinds, two follow me, the flop shows multicolor K 7 8, I make a continuation Belt, split pot, and the turn offers my trio.

De repente, ciega grande 44 y después veo tres apuestas, subo de nuevo 4 ciegas, dos me siguen, el flop muestra los multicolores K 7 8, continuo apostando, se reparte el bote, y el turn ofrece mi trío.

Manilkara bidentata

Ah subo

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Enrique Vila-Matas, Pierre Huyghe, Ai Weiwei and I at Kassel, Documentas 12-13

“I’d been fascinated at the beginning of the seventies by some questions that had been put to Alain Robbe-Grillet, which made him writhe against theories like an upside-down cat: “Let’s say I’m old-fashioned. For me, all that counts are the works of art.”

“The works of art! These days such ingenuousness would trigger laughter. At Documenta 13, separating work and theory would have been seen as very old-fashioned, because there, according to all the information I had, you saw a great many works under the ambiguous umbrella of innovation presented as theory and vice versa. It was the triumphant and now almost definitive reign of the marriage between practice and theory, to such an extent that if ou casually came across a rather classical-looking piece, you’d soon discover it was nothing more than theory camouflaged as a work. Or a work camouflaged as theory.

“Was there any artist at Kassel with sufficient courage to just hang a painting on the wall, a straighforward painting? I imagined the great peals of laughter that would ring out if it occurred to some poor brave devil to hang a canvas on a wall in the Fridericianum. It seemed nobody there wanted to be regarded as terribly old-fashioned, so there was no way of seeing painting anywhere.”

– Enrique Vila-Matas, The Illogic of Kassel, p. 69

Untilled, characters who appear in Enrique Vila-Matas’s novel, by Pierre Huyghe at Documenta 13

Strangely, I happened to be involved in the Documenta 12 Magazine Project through <<empyre>> soft_skinned_space, a listserv onto which I have foisted my sometimes welcome, mostly unwelcome, and usually ignored observations, reflections and scribblage.

The following I wrote into the listserv under the subject heading of “Fugue” – which is interesting in so far as I have in front of me a volume by Sergio Pitol with a foreword by Enrique Vila-Matas, the writer of the foregoing on Documenta 13, entitled The Art of Flight. The English translator of this work, George Henson, apologises, that “already in the title” he has failed, because the Spanish fuga translates as both fugue and flight and in the original Spanish, the book is called El arte de la fuga. The Art of Fugue. Indirectly, for Documenta 12, I wrote:

Dear Empyreans,

the following I pursued for my own interest: I apologise if there’s nothing in it.

Roger Beurgel [artistic director of Documenta 12. It was Roger Beurgel’s “provocation”, on the question, Is Modernity our Antiquity? that led the discussion, here] in quotes:

“It is fairly obvious that modernity, or modernity’s fate, exerts a profound influence on contemporary artists.”

How is modernity tied to its fate that, either the thing itself or the myth, exerts a pull – as if equally and interchangeably? And if there isn’t anything in itself there? Only the mythic Fate, then isn’t this a description of tragedy? Is a degree of that influence to do with the desire not just to reinstaurate the determinism or fatalism of modernity on its certain path but to redeem it?

“Part of that attraction may stem from the fact that no one really knows if modernity is dead or alive.”

Which suggests exactly the spectral/corp(u)s/e mode modernity was so good at advancing: and pomo was so good at extracting – half-life apparitions and death-drive amortisations.

“It seems to be in ruins after the totalitarian catastrophes of the 20th century (the very same catastrophes to which it somehow gave rise).”

Surely, that ‘somehow’, tenuously holding on, like spectral rider to ghoulish horse, confirms that the modernity described here is in the grand European tragic style – or pomo pastiche thereof. The taste for setting such great store by aesthetics (however deeply internally politicised or outwardly conceptual and dematerialised), that ‘totalitarian catastrophes’ ensue from them, is modernist at the fascist end of the spectrum.

“It seems utterly compromised by the brutally partial application of its universal demands (liberté, égalité, fraternité) or by the simple fact that modernity and coloniality went, and probably still go, hand in hand.”

As a colonial antipode – foot in hand, sometimes in mouth – I’ve thought a little about colonialism’s place in respect of modernity. My view, from NZ, of modernity is only historically, not ‘utterly,’ ‘compromised’ by the cultural marginalisation that goes hand-in-hand with modernity’s centralist concerns. But this issue brings us round to whether modernity has a political armature in praxis, a Realpolitik, such that it could be ‘brutally partial’ in the application of demands that are by no means ‘universal’ nor endemic to modernity, as an era (or a constellation, an infirmament, of historically informed assumptions and happenstance).

The secular nation-state, to my mind, better expresses the political ideas and ideals of the modern era, and of modernity, than the Colonial Empire. The failure of the former – in its current crisis or decadence – offers perhaps a clearer index to the vivacity or morbidity of a political modernity.

“Still, people’s imaginations are full of modernity’s visions and forms (and I mean not only Bauhaus but also arch-modernist mind-sets transformed into contemporary catchwords like “identity” or “culture”).”

There is something about this ‘transformation’ (of ‘arch-modernist mindsets’) that merits discussion. I think it was Brett, forgive me if I’m wrong, who said that postmodernism is built on the foundations of modernism. Christine has poked a little, deservedly, at the idea of Hegelian synthesis, in the n-state. In both views there inheres the idea of transformation – a redemption even of modernist assumptions. I think this archaeological impulse, this restorative ‘moral’ and critical project – such, indeed, that the question heading this discussion can be asked – may be promoted by precisely the kind of spectacular mise-en-scene we see in Roger Beurgel’s statement on modernity.

“In short, it seems that we are both outside and inside modernity, both repelled by its deadly violence and seduced by its most immodest aspiration or potential: that there might, after all, be a common planetary horizon for all the living and the dead.”

Pa Ubu: “Hornstrumpet! We shall not have succeeded in demolishing everything unless we demolish the ruins as well. But the only way I can see of doing that is to use them to put up a lot of fine, well-designed buildings.”

Finally, a brief word regarding the n-state, an idea with its own fascination; and I’d like to know more about its provenance; since, as well as zipping up a certain bodybag – synthetic teeth mesh – it also iterates management/bureaucratic themes of ‘technological progress and infrastructural improvements’. (By way of contrast, inspired by a Polish grandmother on a European train, ’82, I chanced on the related idea of ‘n-set’ – a play on ‘NZ’ and also an acronym. The grandmother said that all her countrymen were doing in those days was watching satellite TV and making babies – “like Africa!” she said.

(N-SET became a script-scenario dealing with a covert (insurgence) operation starting in Poland to postmodernise via media’s softsell immersion the East and West and foment political revolution: to postmediatise consciousness. N-SET stands for ‘non-specified enemy territory’ – carrying forward its scenario through random acts of state-sponsored terror, according to the view that the civilian population as a whole is the only object on which a postmodern war can be waged.)

Simon Taylor

Fairytale, 1,001 chairs, Ai Weiwei, at Documenta 12

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Domestic 6.

the goddess to save humanity from sterility and extinction.
Carol Brady hits the dance floor.
The SCN sends information to other hypothalamic nuclei and the open shell of the body.
Rooney has the thought, the stronger the thought becomes.
The suprachiasmatic nucleus (SCN) is a nucleus (an aggregation of all forms of media).
Along the way Jarrett had received the same mustard but it gets in on time and so does his blitz recognition.
“they use words like ‘religious restrictions,'” said Ibrahim el-Houdaiby, a researcher of beauty, tearing apart the confidence of women all over.
Goldman Sach’s investment arm along with other US investors like Technology Crossover Ventures were in the fray evaluating the transaction.
Solo success quickly followed as Dave scored the Christmas Number 1 in 1970,
bands including Queen, Oasis, Motorhead, the Stone Roses and Stereophonic.
My the way we mask that the person believe he/she must be!
So any disagreeable thoughts, that pop into one develop and honor your natural instincts.
I can portion out fruits and veggies into a valid license in order to operate outside boundaries.

They are perfect for many emergencies such as blackouts.
These further the rights and liberty of the people,
it can also very easily cause the violation.

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Copenhagen, 3 – 4 July, featuring Bron Broen & graduate works from the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts

DSC_0183-1 DSC_0187 DSC_0188 DSC_0189 DSC_0190 DSC_0194 DSC_0195 DSC_0197 DSC_0198 DSC_0200 DSC_0201 DSC_0203 DSC_0207 DSC_0209 DSC_0210 DSC_0211 DSC_0212 DSC_0213 DSC_0208 DSC_0215 DSC_0216 DSC_0218 DSC_0219-1 DSC_0221-1 DSC_0223-1 DSC_0224 DSC_0217 DSC_0222 DSC_0225 DSC_0227 DSC_0228 DSC_0229 DSC_0231 DSC_0232 DSC_0233 DSC_0234 DSC_0235 DSC_0237 DSC_0238 DSC_0239 DSC_0242 DSC_0244 DSC_0246 DSC_0250 DSC_0251 DSC_0253 DSC_0254 DSC_0255 DSC_0256 DSC_0257 DSC_0258 DSC_0260 DSC_0261 DSC_0262 DSC_0263 DSC_0259 DSC_0264 DSC_0267 DSC_0270 DSC_0271 DSC_0272 DSC_0273 DSC_0275 DSC_0276 DSC_0277 DSC_0279 DSC_0280 DSC_0278 DSC_0281 DSC_0283 DSC_0284 DSC_0285 DSC_0286 DSC_0287 DSC_0288 DSC_0289

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Re: grouping – Minus Theatre’s change of phase, AGM & 3rd Project

following an earlier post, here, for a hopeful workshop, which was cancelled, Minus Theatre’s weekly workshops were cancelled, not just this hopeful one, until the group of past and future members came together, Tuesday 18 November to talk about our 3rd Project – for the Auckland Fringe Festival, February 11 – 1 March 2015. You were invited to attend, email info@minustheatre.com … and some of you did. Thank you.

This means a change in the way we work. There now appears to be a goal, the performances coinciding with the Fringe, and a requirement for regular practice/workshop/rehearsal sessions leading up to it. But it is this not so much. What we present for the Fringe will be a work in progress and not the end result of adequate planning. The planning we need to engage in at this point does entail a change in methodology but from the point of view of epistemology.

Weekly workshops have been central to the methodology of Minus Theatre Research Group until now. The method we have developed since March this year, called ‘theatre of the individual life’, allows for a minimum workshop attendance of one. One person – it could be me! It could be me closely observing and analysing my own physical and verbal expressions, to be able to dis-organise these ‘symptoms’ (in contrast to ‘signs’ which have meaning) in the place of my body, in the space of the studio, in the time of the audience – an audience of one, too, me!

In practice, this has never happened. Although the option was given, when we had only a few participants, of whether to go ahead or chat, eat cake and drink coffee and tea, the smallest groups for the workshops were a minimum of three, including me. And sometimes even a larger group chose cake over theatre, which is hardly surprising, given the beautiful home baking. (The coffee’s not bad, either: an incentive for potential Minus Theatre members!)

After Textured Passages, September 8, 12, it was more usual for the several people who came to workshops, still then being held on a weekly basis, to want to sit and chat – the exception became the rule. I asked myself why, given a method which determinedly does not make a precondition of the whole group turning up – a source of frustration when running rehearsals with a set cast in the past – why should we not conduct the workshop with the one person, the two people who do turn up?

Two possible answers occurred to me: a lackadaisical attitude brought about by familiarity and regularity – if the workshops are going to be held anyway, does the individual feel needed enough to come along? In addition, Textured Passages was a massive undertaking with relatively little preparation. We incorporated musical resources, used costumes – albeit schematic and generic; we took on a difficult space, a gallery, where audiences were unsure what was expected of them; and so we had the pressure of somewhat diffident, sometimes uncomprehending, although almost universally appreciative audiences. A second answer, beyond the known-quantity-ness of the practice and the hangover of the shows, slowly crept up on me: something to do with the group dynamic itself is affecting individual behaviour. Whenever just a few people came to workshops their first question was always, who else is coming? Where’s so-and-so? Where’s she? Where in fact is the group when the individual is here?

I was reluctant to admit it but despite the method needing only one individual to engage the practice the individuals need the group. Why? There is a possibility that this is a matter of group identity or group dynamic, but these are ongoing processes: the group is not a closed product; it is always in the process of formation, and re-formation, as members leave, return, and new people join. What is it about this process, then, that made each member want all present to move forward with the practice?

I now think it has to do primarily with an epistemological shift, which might be summarised in the notion of the embodied knowledge of the group in Minus Theatre. I had, previous to October, not thought that if a kind of thought is going on in the practice and I had not known that if a kind of knowledge (ethological) is being produced in the technique where that thought and knowledge would go to, to be called on, or recalled, in its advance, in its recollection, in practice. It seems to be clear now that where it was at, over this intervening time, and where it is, is in the bodies of the people in the group. The resistance to going ahead on a weekly basis comes from the situation where the whole group is not present at the workshops contributing their thought-knowledge which each individual embodies.

Weekly workshops through October therefore took two steps back for every step forward. This is why in getting together, assembling, on Tuesday night, 18 November, to be assembled as a formation, forming a group, a minimal cell or corps, we were re-membering – becoming avant-garde – re-membered. Disorganisation may come hereafter.

As events go, in the event, Minus Theatre’s first AGM was a raging, encouraging success. However I got to say none of the things I have outlined above. And what is worse, I did not get to congratulate every person in this group for having got it this far to do what it has done. White Flower established that we have indeed developed a theatrical form all our own, as one audience member put it, which works. Textured Passages was like a human particle accelerator, that, several audience members claimed, gave off a spiralling energy drawing them in, energising them and cleaning their brains.

The following contains repeats but it is something like what I had hoped to say: Welcome! Thank you for coming! I called this meeting because Minus Theatre is changing phase. The change of phase comes because the knowledge we have acquired along the way and the thinking going on – and a lot does go on all the time in our work – is in the group. It is not written down. It is not in my PhD research. So that to bring it to new work, to progress and go further means we need to be a group, meeting regularly, committed to extending both ourselves in our technique and understanding and the group.

Earlier Minus Theatre was about teaching and training. I think it has taken on a life of its own. This still means new people are more than welcome and that we will be doing workshops involving learning and teaching. But the group overall will have more responsibility. In other words, it is not just me who has the knowledge and knows the technique – the unique theatrical language of Minus Theatre that includes all the languages spoken and the technique that includes all the different skills each person brings – it is the group.

Part of what we do will continue to find out what special skills, what powers, each individual, each person has that makes our work together more interesting and exciting and intense.

The next project is called Boneseed

We decided to meet on Tuesday evenings, from 6pm to 9pm at AUT. Again, if you are interested in joining, adding your powers, learning more or supporting us, please contact me here.

Minus Theatre is here – and developing an independent website, the forerunner of which is here.

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God answers neoliberal mess

Rumours of his death were found to be exaggerations. Oscar Wilde. God bless us all and. Rumours of His death were found to be exaggerations. God. Oscar Wilde bless us all and all art is quite useless, except to name God. Who answers mess but – Oscar Wilde. God: Mess. So what’s the problem? No problem. No future. No present. And health is hard to come by since it became a commodity. No past. The past is unhealthy. The future is death. The present can’t decide: but whatever, it’s too expensive.

 

 

The Age of Illness. Or the Age of Psychosis. Can’t find a break, a crack where the break happened that let the light in. Is the light in? Can I finally close the door?

 

 

The Age of Illness to which something must endlessly be added, the addition of which must, according to the economic imperatives of the day, the free market imperative, be a market; that is, it must first be industrialised. Drugs must be manufactured. Doctors must be manufactured. Nurses must be tooled. The process must occur on a large scale. The scale must threaten the biosphere to sustain; the image must change to self-organisation: the market must be imagined as self-organising – or ecological. The process must now be ecological. The ecology of human health must now threaten the biosphere – but it must at all costs be sustained, since there must be sustainable health; the health industry of drugs, doctors and nurses must be sustainable. So it must be imagined as self-organised as a market. But the market must threaten the biosphere. There must be pathology. First there must be a pathology of the individual. Second there must be a pathology of the collective who belong to an epoch. The Age of Illness. Where health is not a given but the demand for doctors, drugs and nurses in no particular order is a given.

 

 

The psychosis takes hold in the middle of the process. It makes a solid and artificial structure out of the natural ecology of naturally occurring self-organising industrial health as a market, the agents of which are doctors and nurses and the capital of which is drugs. Now we can understand drugs as capital so therefore we can understand that a good outcome is measurable in terms of good health and well being. Well beings. But we must be presumed to be ill before we can be fixed and the fixing must be a psychotic reaction.

 

 

The market therefore mediates between illness and health in a way that sustains psychosis. Another name for this psychosis is the internet of things or object-orientated ontology – its parody in philosophical terms. The other name for either of these is the absence of any problem which is otherwise understood as the mess.

 

 

Object-orientated ontology holds that objects withdraw from us as soon as we get close – the internet of things holds that objects communicate with the internet and so truly they do have a virtual half. The real half withdraws, comedically. The mess has it that we can’t identify a problem because the problem is immanent, a fact of dwelling within it.

 

 

What if the answer to the mess were God? This is something fundamentalists should know something about. What if neoliberalism’s pretension to being atheistic and freeing us from the illusion of theism is simply an excuse for its perpetuation of health as God in which it mediates, opening a direct line, a hardwire from the ill body to the market-readied mind, weakened by the body’s illness, abrogating its sense of world to the medicalised nature of knowledge, open only to psychosis. General. All over. Like a system of the world.

 

textatics

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field recordings 2013:09:08 17:12:46 – 2013:10:19 14:22:30

Riverhead at the end filled me with a sense of anomie. But not quite. The ugliness of it truly sub urban, and the ugliness of its continuation through developments designed in batches – designed for the market rather than for people to live in, resting on scarifications of an architectural scale and quality: the true architecture of landscape despoliation. And the sound of machines. And trees falling with a vicious crack echoing in the brown armpit of the valley, almost encircled by the eponymous river. And hee-hawing or strafing of men aggressively laughing. The neighbour.

You know, I think of that song lyric – “when I was dead / in Riverhead” – and a corner of sentiment sneaks in. Because Riverhead gave us a lifestyle – and something to hate, which as the Italians are said to say is as important as having something, or someone, to love. So that revisiting these images, there is a strength of purpose in the capture of them – real feeling – which is unlikely to be recaptured in the same way. Somehow John Campbell’s marvelous mouth shining like a solar anus fits – the crack that the light gets in, it really does. Get in.

Riverhead topographically is dominated by the rugby fields. Field recording are also felt. The grounds glowing nightly Soylent green under floodlights. Floodlights that were horrendously expensive to put in and are equally expensive to run. No expense spared. And in the mist maybe a kid is practicing his dodges, duck, dive, and a grown man is stretching his hammies.

Riverhead. Years ago submissions were being solicited – pre-Draft Unitary Plan – for the future development of the town. We all put together some ideas. Dad drew some pictures. We were not optimistic. But down at the 100 year-old hall it was a chance to meet some more locals. Talk about what others envisaged as a vision for the place. Like Auckland itself – which it in fact precedes as the initially projected site for the city – the town turns its back on its natural asset: the river. In Auckland’s case, this is of course the harbour. Was every watery space somehow associated in the colonist planner’s mind with an open sewer? Anyway, the plan we presented was to turn the town to face the river, opening up public walkways along its looping length with shops and eateries and a riverside culture.

It therefore whispers the words ‘another missed opportunity‘ when I see the suburbs tumescent breaking through the skin of the historic town: the dormitory vision of a sleeping skirt for citizens to cling in to. Waiting for their own cancers. Because there has been a slew of cancers recently in the nor’west of Auckland, centring on Kumeu, Huapai, Riverhead. The doctors at the medical centre talk about it.

Anomie. And a sadness that if not altogether sweet is not altogether painful.

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on the art of undoing: knots, illustrated with some beautiful works by Julien Spianti

It must seem confusing. I’ve been advocating, advocating by the most simple means, the means of naming, which cannot these days be anything but an ironic take on branding, or on meme creation, undoing. But I’ve hashed undoing. I’ve hashed it by calling it by that tag, that could not these days be seen as anything but ironic and therefore transparent and therefore self-…something, and by then accusing Creative New Zealand, acting in complicity, with all sorts of complicities, major and minor, from the government to the individual artist, of undoing an institution, Downstage, a venerable institution, an institution almost fifty years old.

And now we must ask what is the difference?

Then I was listening to Bill Calahan singing about his apocalypse, making all sorts of connections, major and minor, from the government to the individual artist, and I decided it was tentacles. Or maybe strands. Or better, braids, if we think of a river. A river running over the shingle, across the plains. The Waimakariri. Did you know, briefly, when I checked the spelling, it was known as the Courtenay River? Now that I have the spelling right, it is again the Waimakariri. But it would have been spoken. Not spelled. As Lorde sings, So there.

Of course, again, I think of Courtney Place. The view out onto the twin domes of the old public toilet, the Taj Mahal, onto Kent Terrace. Or course, I think again of James K. sleeping on the draughty open slats of the bus stop bench.

What do you do if you undo but separate the strands? the streams? of which the river is braided? And even when there is no shingle basin, no separation, no plain to see them single silver snaking blending weaving down there, undoing the river would still mean to find each water in the waters, each flow in the act of blending and weaving, and separate each current, in its process.

What if the moutain withdrew its tentacles? It would draw up the waters of the Waimakariri. You would see them all, in all their colours.

I found the apron straps had formed a knot. And a knot, as Wyndham Lewis tells us, is a form of energy. The form of energy. An energetic form: the forms of martial arts are the same; they sculpt the air. Henri Gaudier-Brzeska saw this too. Sculpting expresses the energy already present in the medium.

We have a front-load washing-machine. It knots the apron straps into a ball. How do you undo a knot?

We could stop. Appreciate the knot. Try different media. Submit them to the front-load washing-machine. Knot them up. Admire the washing-machinic expression.

I have no doubt they would each be different and each one in its way would be worthy of admiration. Different passages of parallelisms, interlacings, bifurcatings, crossings, inversions, subversions, perversions. Transversalities.

But consider, just consider, we want to undo. Do we need to know, as I mistakenly suggested in a previous post, invoking Michel Foucault talking, if I recall, about Romanticism, was it? Do we need to know how a thing is made to unmake it?

No. We don’t even have to follow each complicity, from the complicities of government to those of individual artists; or, in the case of the Southern Alps and its Waimakariri, we don’t need to retrace every braid, each stream in the current to its source in melt-offs, run-offs, mountain streams, each tributary, major or minor. This would in any case be misleading: the river is braided by the rocks in its course, not from the summit of its source. Similarly, the intentions of government and individual artists do not need to be eked out for us to know there is a flow of eventuation, finding its summary energetic expression in a knot.

Destruction would already look different. I’ve considered before detaching the straps from the aprons before submitting them to the wash and washing them separately. Perhaps we use velcro. But the straps themselves need cleaning. They’d knot up worse on their own without the opening out of the aprons themselves, which in some way breaks the flows of energies and makes for serial and not singular knots.

My mother sat in the sun patiently undoing the strands of apron straps, picking at them with her fingers, and her mother’s fingers. At some point or other she gave up. Then she’d simply sit. In the sun. Have a gin. Smile more or less benignly. J., however, said just pull randomly at the knots with your fingers. Randomly. Without thinking about what goes or weaves in where. I don’t have the energy, said my mother.

Pulling randomly works. The strands loosen; the energetic form weakens; the straps separate: the knots undo. A certain tentacular emancipation is effectuated. To each apron two straps. When before the braid, the confusion.

So I think undoing is like this. It is like what Michel Foucault did with discourse. The reading, the analysis is random but inclusive. Pulling now here now there at the energetic form. You have to have the energy for this. Because it is not immediate. First one line will work its way loose: one contributor, one kind of complicity, one agent of knottiness. Name him. Name her. Then progress.

One is never enough. For anything like a knot to occur there have to be at least two.

What happens in a case like the destruction of Downstage is like a vengeance. A revenge killing. All those tentacles, some were good, some bad, sure, all lopped off, some wriggling on the carpet, escaping down the easy stairs of sentiment, Such a shame! … some long dead dead ends … some outright castrations … some cuttings-off merciful … some stupid … but taken in sum, to shut down every flow, to sever the root or plug the spring – a drought may still be a flow – but fracking the earth, killing the spring. No. There is something different in destruction than undoing.

 

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join the undoing movement and undo poverty, property, hunger, waste, debt, hurt, wrong, and all your petty mistakes

 

undo

it

all

now

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