thigein & conatus


Spend the evening pressing flesh and spending money.
That, after all, is what it’s for. And,
well, money’s money.

Fat and fatuous, a fatal
combination—when not being
utterly, utterly charming.

Stretching to 3 or 4, I’d say
and a slap on the wrist.
Hang back,

hang about, squeezed tubes in a rasp,
and the spitting, the spitting image
of suited shades loitering around
in the afterlife,
all on tenterhooks,
the very dregs,
too keen
with flickering porcine eye,
too keen by half,
a-trot in the half-dark,

one little pig, 2 or 3, 4
at a stretch
belted and buckled and gaping on,
buttoned and bottled
and raising a queer sort of
high-pitched sound,
not quite human,
a-squeal in the dust-yard,

the harsh cross-light of history, I’d say,
the torture-chamber herself,
steam and quite unmistakable smell
of freshly cut carcase,
a nose for blood,

5 and no more, tubes full
and the gutter-grey suddenly
a luminous shade of hope,
a pink-eyed shade,
falling over oneself,
over and over
as if entirely bereft of the scaffolding of bones,
fresh to the trough,
through the sublime carpentry
of our unmaker,
sliding down stairwells,
collecting splinters
in the hoof of the tongue
that pop like bubbles
on the roof and gums,

the heart sucks and quivers,
shoves the hub and heel
with the delightful infinity
of going against the drill pattern,
all the old numbers,
gown flapping open
at the cuffs and ankles,
streaked with heaven knows what stain,
ardent stain, no more naked clothed
than cut open by the gaze,
chest and armpit,
touch is the subtle retractor.

And the horizon deepening,
the departed on the farther shore beckoning
or, who can tell,
impossible clouds looming.
It has been like this always
but you have not noticed the lips on your partner,
his chest heaving and sobbing,
that apneia

her self-awareness quickened
by the sudden attention
of a, can it be? an oldish man,
to make it harder on her,
he is spitting forward his false teeth
and sucking them back,
to make it harder on him,
he is now retching into her lap,
now looking up into her eyes,
her lashes nothing flying can escape,
and fearing his gorge rising,
sending his questions flying,
and she is asking
what is the question he has for her?
but it is vomit

it hits the stainless steel at a bad angle
and splashes onto the friend
who receives as a gift,
who, quite unbelievably, saw it coming
and got him into the nearest mens

she is not there when he gets back.
The old man has taken her home with him.
Only the male interest remains.

The subtle retractor is brilliant at extracting information
under the disguise of chance,
a chance meeting
with the torturer after many years,
buying sausage at the same store,
thinking, I am not in the same torture chamber
I was before.

Only to feel the years rush away and the dryness
in the throat return
and the blood pumping in the guts again
and pinching of the tubes, throbbing,
a rasp and boot stamping down.

How out of place I must seem! You think,
at the delicatessen counter of the supermarket.
But it is not a private feeling.
The electric saw that cuts him cuts me.

Her lips that speak also refuse.
They lead to the rallies
and the rallies lead to the arrests
and the arrests will never stop
until names are named. They

The lips that refuse are removed.
They are removed in hospital rooms.
Not in butcher’s shops.
The light is flat,
sometimes at sunset a luminous pink
and the scent of fresh flowers beside the bed.
On the lavatory table.
The best of care.

The first surgery will cut off the tongue.
The second will take the teeth from the upper jawbone
and remove the lower jawbone in total.

The last surgery will join the skin where
the mouth was to allow a small tube,
no larger than a straw,
for food to pass down.

The whole procedure will be perfected
by erasing any trace
of there having been any surgery at all.

Without lips the subject will
look on without mouth.
And the flowers will be changed
beside the bed.
The curtain will be pulled to protect
her dignity.
No pain will have been meted out.
In the absence of words, all words
will have been reduced to
a simple whistling
from the hole
where the lips had been,
a high tone for excited
while a low one means relaxed.
A singing-along with everything.

The whole story will stay in the eyes
but the eyes will be in the background.
In the foreground will be the monstrosity.
The monstrosity will always be in the foreground.

How lovely to be able to give to the young
what their dreams and visions spell out
to them without benefit of hindsight or

Another one’s nose was removed
without the least trace being left
in a perfection of which
even the most consummate artist
or the best cosmetic surgeon
could be envious.

Not no nose to speak of:
one with no nose to speak,
one with no nose at all.
An immaculate disfigurement.

I have thought about these things.
About terrorism as the atom bomb
of the poor. And the murder of a young
child. Erased.

It was never a young child. It was a sucking
in foul street. We share breath
tonight you and it.

I, I will always be on its side.
You be on yours.
It was never a dairy owner.
It was that dairy owner.
You will never be a dairy owner.
On your side of the counter
are lined up the prime minister
and the camera crew, the minister
for justice, the twelve jurors, and you,

it has slit a neck and the weightless blood
bubbles and joins into larger bubbles
which rise
and float and burst,
according, as it is said,
to the breeze blowing from paradise.
Now lightly.
Now in a steady rain
gently falling on every man,
woman, and on those
who are scarcely even here, their
short lives, pets and children,
the animals left in the mist
of the species which did not survive.
On indigenes in general
count among the fallen
on your side of the counter
everyone after a certain number,
the certainest number

When you look at the face of money—nothing
but when you look at the face of age—living
hard to give it up
smashed in my car
the ribs clawing at the metal
the rods, racks, the pinions
poking here and there
pain like a crisp clear

like a crisp clear
hard to enter into because it is the last,
like waking on a dawn and refusing waking
no bed
no warm arms
no source
no support of life
no home
pain only
only pain
where there’s always room inside
the entry so narrow—
the exit is so wide

a slice even when followed next instant
by the crack of bone-break is different,
a connoisseur can hear it,
a victim feels it
but worse, much the worst—knowledge:
to know a hand cannot be re-attached
and know the ligaments, nerves and sinews
separated, to know the parting of the limb,
the eye, ear, the torn or cut, the split, the
lost organ, to know from this waking
no going back
to habit
the body at a point of no return

your body, I know
your body, your face billows
out from it and I want to take a pin
pop it

Your hands lift your face like wet clothes
try to put it back in place
and hold it, feel it slipping
from your fingers, dripping heavy
as wet clothes, a drapery impossible
to fix back on its scaffold

Your face today so full of self-satisfaction
unlike money: to stare at the face of money
is to feel the blood drain out
nothing come back at it with its privilege
to be nothing joyless
like looking in a shop window.
somewhere in the distance
the sound of boots
steadily approaching

Hell to be got by humans, by human
hands, before the flood
hell to be erased from face to foot
hell to waste all the flesh has put away
for the soul to enjoy
in old age—not to laugh, of course,
the soul is artificial, which is why
it lasts but an instant
burns everything up
even the reason for its existence
the air itself. There it is.

There it is.
There is nothing else. May as well
admit it. A burden. But to get rid of it
would be to assume there’s something
else, something other than this. There
isn’t. Bear it.

The children are arriving.
Hear the boots?
Somewhere a shop window
with all its five fingers
and five toes
a monstrous thing
smash it!
a monster
smash it with a brick!
do its head in!

something’s wrong
something has gone very wrong.

[performed 19 November 2016

at Auckland Old Folks Ass. by Minus Theatre:

Chenby Dien

Michael Ferriss

Jeffrey Gane

Alex Lee


Felipe Oliveira

with the assistance of Monique Wakaka

directed by Simon Taylor]

luz es tiempo
point to point
theatrum philosophicum
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propagate through your friendwebs and sharenets or nests

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Minus Theatre update: new show 7pm Saturday 19 November 2016

minus theatre update: we prepare for one night only, 7pm Saturday 19 November, at Auckland Old Folks Association, 8 Gundry St. of at the stock market meeting

we are making progress with a new form developed from thief (theatre of imitation, expression & f___ery) called Theatre of Elements. To understand what elements are you don’t have to read Alphonso Lingis. But I recommend you do. Elements are themselves understandings – affective connections, without a communicative or representational image, between people. … We meet in a foreign country where we don’t share a language, but we share, what? air? earth? the gravity of the mass of the planet that gives us our levity? and, recognising in each other our mutual inability to communicate, of course we laugh. Such understandings are all that connect humans with animals…except animals don’t laugh. Do they?

minus has been travelling in this foreign country since early 2014, kind of stateless I suppose. Where thief follows an internal logic, of each participant taking on, in her own and his own body, what is internal to another, TE follows an external logic of things that are composed of objects and subjects, bits of the world from which affects, investments, projections are not able to be extricated, elements which are as imperative as the earth and the ever-thinning atmosphere to the perpetuation of this theatrical and ephemeral transaction. These are things as multiplicity, these elements, since they are real and tangible, and are given this other dimensional spin of feeling and emotive force. The element is not then the inert thing but the thing asking that you take on towards it a certain angle of approach: it is an emotional demand, a relation and a risk.

Please propagate this information through your friendworks and sharenets and come and see what we are doing.


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Simulation Theory

link here to the mistaken idea that something called consciousness is able to be simulated. … If a cut up were done of multiple universe theory and simulation theory together, then there might be something in it. Because to simulate the emerging universe demands the addition of another universe, plus another to simulate that, in a cascade of simulations; the mistake comes about through the Cartesian error of the anthropological exception (alluded to in the Guardian article). Human consciousness cannot be extricated from nature in any part but all of consciousness requires all of nature or cosmos, chaos, or chaosmosis.

network critical
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click image to register for The Thing is Play workshops


theatrum philosophicum
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Inspired by the ‘giallo’ Italian film genre, Theo Adams… = Minus in tights

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part one of a four-part project. Minus Theatre workshops begin May 5 2016 at Auckland University of Technology

and we will begin work towards a piece called “at the stock market meeting” – a tragedy!

I would like to complete 4 public pieces this year. They already have names!

And early 2017 join them together in an epic work!

By May 5 I am hoping we can bring into the group some new people & maybe bring back

some of those we miss!

Please put out word that this is what we are doing to all your contacts.

And contact me any time if you or others

want to talk about plans for the next projected public works

of Minus Theatre



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in loving



answer terror

and hate



for life

for a humanity


by fear

Lingis –

“lust surges through a body

in transubstantiation”

loving transformation is


when “in the midst of social transactions,

there is contact with the substance of the other,

and lust

breaks through”

(Alphonso Lingis)

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another quotation towards Minus Theatre’s workshop at Performance of Hope Symposium, on decomposition, illustrated with some photos by Sebastião Salgado and a clip of Rita Renoir

“The material things do not lie bare and naked before us; they are there by engendering perspectival deformations, halos, mirages, scattering their colors in the light and their images on surrounding things. Human bodies too move in the world engendering profiles and telescoping images of themselves, casting shadows, sending off murmurings, echoes, rustlings, leaving traces and stains. Their freedom is a material freedom by which they decompose whatever nature they were given and whatever form culture put on them, leaving in the streets and the fields the lines of their fingers or feet dance, leaving their warmth in the hands of others and in the winds, their fluids on tools and chairs, their visions in the night. Bodies do not occupy their spot in space and time, filling it to capacity, such that their beauty would be statuesque. We do not see bodies whose form and colors are held by concepts we recognize or reconstitute. We do not see bodies in their own integrity or inner coherence. We are struck by the cool eyes of the prince of inner-city streets, moved by the hand of the old woman covering the sleep of a child. We are fascinated by the hands of the Balinese priest drawing invisible arabesques over flowers and red pigment and water. Our morning is brightened by a slum-dweller whistling while hauling out garbage. We hear the laughter of the Guatemalan campesinos gathered about a juggler, like water cascading in the murmur of the forest. When we are beguiled by the style with which the body leaves its tones, glances, shadows, halos, mirages in the world, we see the human body’s own beauty. In the decomposition in our memory, in so many bodies greeted only with passionate kisses of parting, we have divined being disseminated a knowing how to live trajectories of time as moments of grace.

“When the scale of a human presence scattered across vast spaces seems unconceptualizable, as also the utter simplicity of certain gestures and movements seems undiagrammable, we have before a human body a sense of the sublime. The sublimity of a body departing into the unmeasurable spaces make the ideas we form of the superhuman and the divine seem like second-rate fictions. The sentiment of the sublime is a disarray in the vision, a turmoil in the touch that seeks to hold it, a vortex in our sensibility that makes us ecstatically crave to sacrifice all that we have and are to it.

“Human warmth in the winds, tears and sweat left in our hands, carnal colors that glow briefly before the day fades, dreams in the night, patterns decomposing in memory, sending our way momentary illuminations: bodies of others that touch us by dismembering. The unconceptualizable forces that break up the pleasing forms of human beauty and break into the pain and exultation of the sublime are also delirium and decomposition. Not sublimity in the midst of abjection: sublime disintegration, sickness, madness. The exultation before the sublime is also contamination. Porous bodies exhaling microbes, spasmodically spreading deliriums, viruses, pollutions, toxins.”

– in Abuses (1994), Alphonso Lingis, pp. 137-139

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a quotation for the Minus Workshop at the Performance of Hope Symposium 9-11 Nov. 2015

a group listen to Pavel Haas’s Study for Strings. A Czech composer, Haas wrote the piece in Theresienstadt, shortly before being transferred to Auschwitz, where he died.

“We listened to the piece standing, with the same grave expressions as everyone else gathered there, watching other spectators … In the end, a group of around thirty people formed, who had followed the concert of violins and cellos with emotion, remaining motionless and sunk in thought, moved, profoundly silent, as if recovering from the collapse provoked by what they had heard, and also by what they remembered, what had been evoked, almost reenacted, I’d go as far as to say experienced, because it wasn’t difficult to feel vulnerable and tragic there, like a deportee.”

… “it seemed incredible to me I hadn’t been aware from the outset that the political, or more accurately the eternal illusion of a humanized world was inseparable from artistic endeavours, from the most forward-thinking art.” …

“I would have like to say […]: How could I have been so stupid? Or perhaps the opposite … Whatever the case, I opted to keep quiet and devote myself to carefully observing the general mental recovery of the people gathered there. I ended up identifying an intense communion between all these strangers, who, having surely come from such different places, had congregated there. It was as if they were all thinking, we were all thinking: we’ve been the moment, and this is the place, and now we know what our problem is. It was as if a spirit, a breeze, a current of morally bracing air, an invisible impetus, were pushing us toward the future, forging forever the union between the diverse members of that spontaneous, suddenly subversive-seeming group.

“This is the kind of thing, I thought, that we can never see on television news programs. There are silent conspiracies between people who seem to understand one another without talking, quiet rebellions that take place in the world every minute without being noticed; groups form by chance, unplanned reunions in the middle of the park or on a dark corner, occasionally allowing us to be optimistic about the future of humanity. They join together for a few minutes and then go their separate ways, all enlisting in the hidden fight against moral misery. One day, they will rise up with unheard-of fury and blow everything to bits.”

– from The Illogic of Kassel (2015), Enrique Vila-Matas, pp. 60-1

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