twitter degeneracy

@fwMillbrook


It seems all the same forever

 

 

 


We live in a time of excess…

Modernism / Postmodernism / Post-Postmodernism

Romanticism / Symbolism ‘Pataphysics / Dadaism Neurotic realism / Photoshopism
Form (conjunctive,closed) Antiform (disunctive,open) Internet (connective,endless)
Purpose Play Game
Design Chance Code
Hierarchy Anarchy Network
Mastery / Logos Exhaustion / Silence Excess / Cacophany
Art Object / Finished Work Process / Performance / Happening Fluidity / Seriality / Event
Distance Participation Immersion / Interactivity
Creation / Totalization Decreation / Deconstruction Re-creation
Synthesis Antithesis ––––
Presence Absence Access
Centering Dispersal Nomadism / Mobility
Genre / Boundary Text / Intertext Medium / Paratext
Semantics Rhetoric Iconology
Paradigm Syntagm Database
Hypotaxis Parataxis Permutation
Metaphor Metonymy Oxymoron
Selection Combination Remix
Root / Depth Rhizome / Surface Morph / Space
Interpretation / Reading Against interpretation / Misreading Experiencing / Rereading
Signified Signifier Mediation
Lisible (Readerly) Scriptible (Writerly) Interactive (Wreaderly)
Narrative / Grande Histoire Anti-narrative / Petite Historie Multi-narrative / Hypertext
Master Code Idiolect HTML
Symptom Desire Sensation
Type Mutant Cyborg / Clone
Genital / Phallic Polymorphous / Androgynous Performative / Nongender
Paranoia Schizophrenia Autism / ADHD
Origin / Cause Diffrence-Differance / Trace ––––
God the Father The Holy Ghost Google
Metaphysics Irony Trust / Earnestness
Determinacy Interderminacy Relationality
Transcendence Immanence DNA / Faith


FLY-BYS

FLY-BYS

On my refrigerator today;

for the first time in a long time,

I noticed a ticket stub held to its surface with a magnet.

The ticket gave access to a Dandy Warhols show.

It was dated 30 May 2012,

which was exactly a year ago.

Time, sometimes, fly-bys…


There’s Nothing Good on the Internet

Anymore


Works of Art

Over at the New York Review of Books blog, I came across what I’ve block quoted below. I randomly stumbled upon it and was taken aback because it pretty much drives directly at feelings and a perspective that I’ve been trying to convery in various ways.

The world is so big, so complicated, so replete with marvels and surprises that it takes years for most people to begin to notice that it is, also, irretrievably broken. We call this period of research “childhood.”

There follows a program of renewed inquiry, often involuntary, into the nature and effects of mortality, entropy, heartbreak, violence, failure, cowardice, duplicity, cruelty, and grief; the researcher learns their histories, and their bitter lessons, by heart. Along the way, he or she discovers that the world has been broken for as long as anyone can remember, and struggles to reconcile this fact with the ache of cosmic nostalgia that arises, from time to time, in the researcher’s heart: an intimation of vanished glory, of lost wholeness, a memory of the world unbroken. We call the moment at which this ache first arises “adolescence.” The feeling haunts people all their lives.

Everyone, sooner or later, gets a thorough schooling in brokenness. The question becomes: What to do with the pieces? Some people hunker down atop the local pile of ruins and make do, Bedouin tending their goats in the shade of shattered giants. Others set about breaking what remains of the world into bits ever smaller and more jagged, kicking through the rubble like kids running through piles of leaves. And some people, passing among the scattered pieces of that great overturned jigsaw puzzle, start to pick up a piece here, a piece there, with a vague yet irresistible notion that perhaps something might be done about putting the thing back together again.

Two difficulties with this latter scheme at once present themselves. First of all, we have only ever glimpsed, as if through half-closed lids, the picture on the lid of the jigsaw puzzle box. Second, no matter how diligent we have been about picking up pieces along the way, we will never have anywhere near enough of them to finish the job. The most we can hope to accomplish with our handful of salvaged bits—the bittersweet harvest of observation and experience—is to build a little world of our own. A scale model of that mysterious original, unbroken, half—remembered. Of course the worlds we build out of our store of fragments can be only approximations, partial and inaccurate. As representations of the vanished whole that haunts us, they must be accounted failures. And yet in that very failure, in their gaps and inaccuracies, they may yet be faithful maps, accurate scale models, of this beautiful and broken world. We call these scale models “works of art.”

Michael Chabon: http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2013/jan/31/wes-anderson-worlds/


A Sea Change

The following passage reminded me of someone I once knew. I read this awhile ago and marked it in a notebook I’ve recently come across.

Lois Gould, A Sea Change, p. 32, Simon and Schuster 1976

“Still, most of her friends eventually found her trying. She demanded too much attention. Clinging to other people’s lives. Lives she considered more lustrous than her own. Like a drowning victim, and then kicking and thrashing to deny that they were merely letting her hang on. She professed utter devotion and utter contempt for some people at the same time. And she almost always got away with it, for a little while. Showering everyone with her poisonous favors. Telephoning constantly; sending flowers and small thoughtful gifts; confessing her own most shameful flaws so that others would be disarmed and tell her theirs. She collected people’s fears, sins, sexual ineptitudes, failures and misfortunes, and crawled inside them for as long as she was allowed to stay. It was a living.”