The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

A place to relax and socialize - to muse, think aloud and suggest

Postby icarusinbound on January 18th, 2015, 1:34 am

Apologies for putting up a few lines of prose, folks.

I'm sorry, if it's felt to be inappropriate or unacceptable, mods please just delete it.

I am feeling very mortal, very tired and (in many ways) defeated. So this scribble is by way of an antidote:

Conspiracy theoreticians - we, who would deny the theorists their play
Deception detectives - doubt is the only default
Us artificiality analysts, dedicated deconstructors.

This happy few that can sometimes byte back.
Seekers of a true light within the darkness of brightened rooms
Wiping away the sprinklers of pixel dust

Seers, ever-searching, hoping, for the highest resolution.
The False shall ever-fear those who can see clearly, even when looking.

Do chroma keys unlock the door to the film-set? Or secure the gates of hell?
The sun never lies: or is it the earth's turn?
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the realist one of all?
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Postby simonshack on January 18th, 2015, 7:13 am

icarusinbound wrote:Apologies for putting up a few lines of prose, folks.

I'm sorry, if it's felt to be inappropriate or unacceptable, mods please just delete it.

I am feeling very mortal, very tired and (in many ways) defeated. So this scribble is by way of an antidote:

Conspiracy theoreticians - we, who would deny the theorists their play
Deception detectives - doubt is the only default
Us artificiality analysts, dedicated deconstructors.

This happy few that can sometimes byte back.
Seekers of a true light within the darkness of brightened rooms
Wiping away the sprinklers of pixel dust

Seers, ever-searching, hoping, for the highest resolution.
The False shall ever-fear those who can see clearly, even when looking.

Do chroma keys unlock the door to the film-set? Or secure the gates of hell?
The sun never lies: or is it the earth's turn?
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the realist one of all?


Dear Icarusinbound,

I thoroughly enjoyed that ! Especially the "sun never lies - or is it the earth's turn" verse ! :P

But hey, why on earth would you feel defeated? I've always hoped our efforts here would make us help overcome that very feeling!
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Re: THE "CHATBOX"

Postby anonjedi2 on January 18th, 2015, 8:34 am

icarusinbound,

Thank you for sharing, I also enjoyed reading your poem.

I agree that it can feel defeating and frustrating at times (especially in the midst of more and more ridiculous slapstick psyops) and can also be difficult to relate to 99% of the people one may encounter in life as a result of having this unique outlook and view of the world.

But I also agree with Simon! We should rejoice and be relieved with this knowledge and double our efforts as we move forward. We can remove ourselves from the bubble of fear that is strangling this planet.

Perhaps things are changing and we must remain positive, optimistic and diligent in our research! Spiritually, I believe there is an awakening of sorts happening on this planet, however slow and gradual it may be.

One of the most valuable lessons I've learned from Simon, hoi and this forum is that an individual CAN ABSOLUTELY make a difference in this world, however tiny in terms of numbers. New and groundbreaking ideas, concepts, epiphanies, coupled with original, evidence/science based research and respectful/insightful discussion and sharing of information weigh volumes in this world of simulation.

Cheers to Simon, hoi and all cluesforum readers and members!! Forge on!
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby hoi.polloi on January 18th, 2015, 3:34 pm

Thanks icarusinbound for your scribbles. Your rhymes would liven up the Art Corner. They are very nice.

Thanks, anonjedi2 for your kind words, and your optimism. With luck, our site serves as some kind of morale booster for the people.
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby fbenario on January 19th, 2015, 2:50 am

^ As some of you recall, I have said from Day One that we constitute the single most important site on the internet. That is no less true today; we are a marvel and a mystery, unique and nonpareil.
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby Equivoque on March 28th, 2016, 10:55 pm

This one is from Zeon, a french cartoonist :

Image
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby fbenario on March 29th, 2016, 12:59 am

Equivoque wrote:This one is from Zeon, a french cartoonist

... who was apparently arrested a few weeks ago for "anti-Zionist work".

Image

http://www.gilad.co.uk/writings/2015/3/6/french-cartoonist-zeon-arrested-for-anti-zionist-work

He sure doesn't seem to have a problem cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

So to speak.
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby Equivoque on March 29th, 2016, 1:22 am

Actually, one year and a few weeks ago. He wrote a short article on his blog about this event, in french and english : https://zeondessinateur.wordpress.com/2015/03/03/mise-en-examen-du-dessinateur-zeon-ou-est-passe-charlie/

Nice play on words by the way :P

edit : grammatical mistake
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby hoi.polloi on March 31st, 2016, 3:11 am

Even if we were to compile a sample list from all of the Hollywool movies ever released, would it really show us or help us vizualize anything we don't already know?

propaganda.gif


Movies are full of it.

I started making this graphic to see if I could think of a way to simply and visually address the sheer amount of propaganda in some example films, and ultimately I came to realize ... it could wind up being a massive waste of time.

What do you all think?

However, if there were a way to copy-paste IMDB.com and simply add a section (like "Goofs" "Cast" "Credits") that isn't there now called "Subtext, Propaganda and Background Information" (or something like it) that would be a way to help people understand how pervasive it is.
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby ICfreely on April 1st, 2016, 5:14 pm

I'd add a Science God column to keep a tally of all the casual references, appeals to, etc.

Anyhow, there's an odd "Earth seen from 'space'" clip in The Beach.

The Beach (1/5) Movie CLIP - Photographing the Night Sky (2000) HD

full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNmhgpAGlBs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNmhgpAGlBs

0:51 - Earth flipped sideways :huh:
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The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby I, Gestalta on June 16th, 2016, 5:09 am

Roughly four years ago, I endeared myself to the wonderful ladies and gentlemen of this forum in a rather slapdash introductory post, which did little to explain who and what I am. Only tonight, after the completion of a recent musical project of mine---one which I have spammed the internet with throughout much of the day---did I think to myself: I wonder if I should share what I do with the good people of CF.

My name is Darian Harman. I am a sound/recording/mixing engineer, and aspiring mastering engineer. I am also a musician, composer, and guitar teacher. While I have always been very adamant about music being the focus of my life---being in bands, cutting an album, going on tour; etc---I really got back into being serious about it after watching September Clues, years back.

At that time, my focus in life was two-fold: 1.) Develop myself on my primary instrument (guitar), and, 2.) Seek not just truth, but true truth. Obviously, September Clues and the Vicsim Report had a major hand in said eye-opening. The information of those two mediums aside, however, I, as a musician and a lover of music, was profoundly affected by the soundtrack of the film. Whilst raising poignant questions about the nature of the 9/11 silliness, I was also stricken with many questions about my own life. Questions like, "wait, how is this Simon dude making music that sounds this good, all on his own?", or, "why am I not learning to do the same?", and, "is audio engineering my true path?".

Hell, when I first introduced my then-girlfriend (now, best friend) to September Clues, her immediate response was, "Wow. This music is really good". (She's actually from New York, and was someone responsible for collecting donations for 9/11 victims' families. She was, at first, reticent to accept the reality of fakery regarding this event, but the more we talked and read CF together, the more she realized how duped she, and everyone else, had been. She's a really, really smart woman).

I suppose my point is this: Simon, your work on SC and onward eventually inspired me to begin to take the more technical aspects of music production more seriously. The soundtrack, in some weird way, swayed me into believing that it was okay for me to just be...me.

So, yeah, that's me. The story goes on and on, but in the spirit of being succinct: I'm just a guy who loves music more than he realizes; especially retro, NES music. In fact, I have dedicated much of my time toward recreating classic NES pieces in a live-instrument setting. I think I love this music so much because of its purity. There were no executive idiots telling composers to insert topical/influential lyrics; the video game business wasn't the soulless, money-making monster that it is now, and it was a relatively unexplored territory, musically. Something about all of that must have resonated (no pun intended) with me throughout the entirety of my life. I remember being 9 years old in Misawa, Japan, playing a game we called Name That Tune on a ski trip, in 1993. Every song we hummed was from a Nintendo game. When I first picked up the guitar at 15-16, those were the first melodies which I would play.

Today, I finished a project I'd been working on for quite a while, and I wanted to share it with you all in a non-spam way. For my next video, I'm wondering if I should have cluesforum.info pulled up, and visible on a computer monitor in one or two of the shots. I didn't think about that until just now.


full link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euyfBRp3tLg
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Re: REQUIRED: Introduce Yourself

Postby Flabbergasted on July 2nd, 2016, 1:35 pm

I, Gestalta wrote:[...] I'm just a guy who loves music more than he realizes; especially retro, NES music. In fact, I have dedicated much of my time toward recreating classic NES pieces in a live-instrument setting. I think I love this music so much because of its purity.

Thanks for sharing your story and your music. Great guitar sound!

I hadn´t realized how variegated the universe of NES music is. I guess I lived on a very different planet in the eighties and nineties and missed out on most of it.
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby hoi.polloi on July 9th, 2016, 4:44 pm

I, Gestalta wrote: For my next video, I'm wondering if I should have cluesforum.info pulled up, and visible on a computer monitor in one or two of the shots. I didn't think about that until just now.


This is most excellent guitar work, sir. You've honored and improved the tune.

And I can see what you mean about chiptunes and alike genres being "free" from executive direction besides making a pure "mood", since the marketing aspect of games has more to do with visuals and interaction technology (with the exception of the slightly fun but quite boringly commercial "Guitar Hero" style games, ironically!)

If you would add a little nod to us, it would be very appreciated, and hopefully it would ultimately cause some people to think about their world a little deeper.

(As a side note, I find myself walking into largely trafficked commercial environments and pulling up SeptemberClues.info and CluesForum.info and Fakeologist.com in these highly public mainstream consumerist venues and leaving it up for people to find. I recommend others do the same whenever it only takes a couple extra seconds of your day. It's a fun/interesting activity, especially, I'd imagine, if you lingered in the area after bringing up one of the sites.)

---

Since you posted something personal and dear to you, I thought I would share with CluesForum members a sort of prose piece I have been tinkering at for a bit. It's about 10 pages, and I've been reading it aloud to people and getting their reactions, which are usually something between favorable and unfavorable. I am not sure if it's totally done yet, but I think it could be and I could just leave it as is.
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby hoi.polloi on July 9th, 2016, 5:12 pm

Okay, here it is. Maybe in celebration of our membership's artistry, the release of a new song from I, Gestalta and the release of a whole new album from Simon, and earlier efforts in this thread (icarusinbound's writings that people enjoyed, for example) I can say this is published on CF in the spirit of these cathartic and hopefully socially positive arts. Please understand that as a creative writing piece, even though it appears in the same font and format as an ordinary post, it is not a description of the true depth or strict reasoning of an informed opinion, even though it integrates some of the attitude of the researcher. So please don't read it or treat the emotiveness as an intellectual argument; it's almost removed from its natural context by posting it here rather than reading it aloud as an artful conversation starter. (But I did manage to include some 'cluesy' thoughts so I hope it still remains "on topic" as a public artistic effort that includes CluesForum research.)



Dismantle Dominant Anglo, Euro, Middle Eastern and Asian Structures In Order To Co-evolve Their Cultures Into Creators of a Peaceful World

=-=-=-=-=

I. An Observation

There is a great and ongoing “hot” (i.e.; active) war over a disagreement, and that disagreement is about which cultures participating in the war are sustainable. The irony about the debate (besides the obviously problematic notion that arguments actually “rationalize” the irrational behaviors of warfare) is that each warring culture takes its own precepts regarding technological transformation of nature into “natural resources” as the main ongoing trend, and its unavoidable fact — because each of the warring cultures depends upon this precept to feed the war. The dependency of a culture upon an uncorrectable leadership of adherents is the main characteristic of what we categorize as a “cult.” As such, those cultures which believe the premise of the debate to be false, or to be a set up for war itself, are being pressured to become a part of the premise of and by the war cult.

It is not rational of the war cult to claim both that its culture is uncontrollable and unchangeable while at the same time working to change and control cultures. Yet, this is the common principle of the military cults. Hence, each one of the commands emerging from these super-States is posing the problem of sustainability either from a disingenuous or an irrational standpoint. The standpoint is based solely on the circular and seemingly baseless reasoning that each needs the war to continue because one needs the war to continue; and that it alone has already predetermined what is or is not sacred, sovereign or deserving of respect, privacy, self-determination or some sort of sanctioned right to exist. Military efforts catalog each and every thing in its sights into data sets that lead to controllable strategy, game and simulation. Hence, anything sacred or spiritual that may be inherent to any place, person, event or thing is superseded by the need to gamify it into a resource so that sacredness or obsolescence (or “goodness” and “badness”) can be determined by the military.

However, the self-serving military cults, united in their goal to subsume all cultures existing freely, have both the military advantage over them and also the excuse to do so: any culture that isn't dominated or controlled by the military cults is against “goodness” because (through their reasoning) they are already having the only important aspects of the discussion and have determined what is best. So whether or not the target cultures acknowledge mutual universal interdependence of all life forms, the military must wind up cataloging these cultures as enemies of life and goodness in their merely resisting the military's insane precepts. If cultures operating without domination encounter any of these military cults, they are processed through an inevitable subsuming procedure masquerading as a proper understanding of what is or is not sacred and good.

The very notion of nature being considered ipso facto a “resource” is the shared precept of all dominant cults of leading militaries flying the Statist flags of the United States of America, Israel, the United Kingdom, England, the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, China, Japan, Australia, the United Nations and others.

There is a major choice that humanity now faces and decides on an individual, case-by-case basis; that is to recondition each military cult in its charge to acknowledge the obsolescence of their beliefs (which most often manifests as any sort of proposed or acted upon military solution to the problem of sustainability), become absorbed by them and lose their freedoms under a kind of leaderless, authoritative dictatorship of the cults, or try to avoid the process as long as possible with the hope that it should take care of itself in time. Perhaps, one's favorite position will naturally take control through the power of non-participation. There are pacifists in every struggle, and the war of military insanity against life is no exception.

I am ordinarily a pacifist, but that is because I have had the privilege of being one (and perhaps understanding it) for my conscious adult life. The struggle to resist the premise of the war cult is different for me because it is the one war whose sides I am actually following with interest, from my undecided position as a young person barely having walked and swam upon and through this natural world for more than three decades. The sides are not the ones the warmongers describe; fictional nation State against fictional nation State. The sides are the entirety of colonialist empire against peace loving cultures who want no part of it.

I myself do not know where I stand in the struggle because of various arguments I have heard from all sides, which all sound quite reasonable. Reason comes from and bases itself upon emotions and feelings rather than an unquestionable mathematical logic. And these feelings can be quite deep indeed; they can describe the very characteristics of the soulful feeling of a spirit – be it good or bad in the estimation of the observer. I like to try to write of things that are otherwise rarely discussed in our or any society. What I refer to now is an extremely private and inaccessible aspect of our souls. It has to do with things as pragmatically different between souls that enjoy the company of others around them (alike or diverse) and souls that prefer aloneness. And what those even mean to the different core selves that make up the total population of those walking around in human bodies.

I need to address the very guttural feelings I have about the effect of the military cults on my life, and share them, and perhaps this will help me and others like me come to some sort of position besides that of passive observer. There are machinations and operations and effects of a massive multi-cultural death-worshiping cabal that transcends national and societal borders, which we bear witness to as part of the human race in this time. If we can own the responsibility of what we create, which is also entrusted to us, we can choose to reconcile it with our beliefs when the time is right; and if we decide we want to really end war, we will.

=-=-=-=-=

II. Days At War

Hushing greens, stiff grays, sonorous yellows and peaches; crashing caressing aquas and foamy whites; twirking violets laughing with their petals wide open, wiggling purples and vast, vast gradiating blues — almost lavenders, almost marines; yes, thunderous maroons; boasting reds, busy black and yellow and yellow-green; here come earthtone bipod creatures with patches of hair; they are wide-belted in knitted, sewn, attached artificial and appropriated skins. Propped up on spinning forgeries. Misunderstood speeds, speeds on the wind, speeds beyond nature's comprehension at this time; they whip by inside a flashing perpetually provoked-looking anti-creature. Whoosh, down a dynamited, paved, glued abrasion in the cornucopia of color.

The pleasant aura of trees, on naked hills, shielding and caressing them in a loose mat of leaves, needles, twigs, seeds, sheddings and animated activity; falls behind. Curves undulate less wildly, less jaggedly, and finally fall to the dark rocks, white falling water, dark clear water, grass, plain, and marsh. The yellow and orange trespass warnings that have punctuated careful exploration of the colonialist claims have only begun to indicate the enormous impossible breadth of the State's unlikely demands; and the violence it hides in the back woods and back lawyers standing and flourishing after a wave of death — the Doctrine of Discovery as a varnished and polished wall of invisible logs advancing through the continent, across and over the oceans, shoving anything it doesn't care to see into our blindness. An immense noble straightness has been pulled from the character of tall straight trees and thanklessly recategorized as the strength of man. Minerals drawn up through straightness and melted and coalesced into subservience. Discovery as the top of a shaved overlook's mine shaft at the nexus of rocky climbing roads upon which heft moves material from ancient places to temporary accolades. All this now shrinking in a backward facing mirrored glass. All the accolades of nature as forgotten as last year's plastic trophy melting in the waste pyre.

Towering metal power lines of obscene regularity cut across the prairie; dipolar, that is two-pronged, constructed of bars forming skeptical triangles around sanctioned air, and supporting thick cable emanating an absurd energy. The energy is the anti-blood of the forebeast, extracted and mined and hammered and drilled and boiled and mutated into the pachines that herd and coil bands of sacred infinity into a rushed pulsing mob filed for straight but depressed, raised but droopy, lengths over shaved, groomed, co-opted surfaces of Earth's body. I ask you to envision monocrops stretching from your feet to the horizon, over suffering soil; wildness used as buffers for fences and roads, as if conditionally sanctioned for later domination because of the poor and trapped position, or (with hope) the puzzling dance of nature making room for our illusions of power.

The compelled afterfrown of a farmer remains over every metal and wooden spike thrust into the resistant ground, responsibly carrying the weight of the State-imposed burden of the State: metal ties, wires, spiked and ready to conditionally trip, cut, frustrate and confuse, to keep life in or out by the threat of this sign. To send a vibrating beacon of violation down the line and therefore alert the warden. Green, amber, orange and yellow shoots and leaves sprout, dance and blow around and through their human-placed companions, but plants are not so concerning to the fence builder as the use of them by mobile creatures.

Mobile anti-creatures roll conveniently down their necessary, gray swath laid alongside the fence. With large wheels, small wheels, but usually by necessity at least two, the anti-creatures containing creatures fly upon their bouncy gray rubber air pockets (regulation size, for convenience) rudely spraying debris from under their treaded lips. People filled with worry and a whole lot of faith tear through winds filled with insects blowing every direction, but not greatly effecting their trajectory, which must (by necessity, and for convenience's sake) be straight, straight, very straight swaths. Powder, dust, debris and remnants of their passing mix with the gravel on the border between the odorous tar and the council of plants patiently waiting for the anti-creatures to stop flowing along this track.

Occasionally, the remains or entire body of a murdered creature, abandoned to rot, swelling and disease, because the murder was entirely an accident and there was no need for its body, which it had been using too close to the track, lays on the road. Helpful flies gather to do their sacred work. The breeze blows insects along their own track, but they avoid each other as much as necessary and come to the feast without injury, unless an anti-creature plows through them as well. Perhaps the very healthy and vibrant creature fled a predator in the previous field and thought the fence was a helpful demarcation of some new change in the landscape, which is what it appears to be.

Now lines of trees appear, as orderly as a row of posts. They are parallel or perpendicular to the road, straight as straight can be. Random as random allowed. Beside the trees, a construction as large as a tree's full spread of life-sustaining branches, with one or two of its brethren by its side; stands. The construction is straight, straight, straight, straight, straight, straight, straight and straight. There may be a curve on the side somewhere which has been crudely forced into a corner as if the point of straightness is its efficient and convenient destination. Almost, since the corner pries itself open, but from a distance it remains angular and unapproachable. A hive of human kind. A bright, brighter-than-cloud white covers its surfaces, flaking and peeling and sagging with the boards cut from still-living, ever-changing wooden planks obediently resting in place. Houses of various varieties stand defensively on the land: brick, mortar, plaster, stone.

The cable shooting absurd concentrated energy crosses the road, sways in the breeze, and attracts birds. As a perch, the flying creatures find it a good and sometimes conversational congress. The cable fastens, twists, splits and winds into the sharp and threatening hive with hollow, glassy rectangle eyes. Their lives regulated, measured and doled, the obedient residents within have just climbed out of their anti-creature and sat upon a raised platform upon a chemical plastic antiseptic ground. Straight, straight, straight. Squares of great convenience and efficiency have been arranged in an efficient manner, filled with normal ground such that a normal ground is less necessary. As it is day, the round light bulb which took several months to be constructed, tested and shipped to the straight, straight, straight, straight building does not have to be on. However, the creature turns it on in order to see and feel the familiar vibrations it emits, which have become a kind of threatless companion to their life.

Yes, they've earned this experience well so they are permitted to pay their masters the regular way: scratching and inking their State name upon a pulped, bleached flattened, cut smattering of plant material called paper, the number of State-designated units of sacredness traded for State-designated pulses of the herded mob of eager energy pouring from the world into the measured funnels carried by the power prongs. They put that agreement into another piece of paper, folded with glue upon it, so that nobody can see their shame or try to steal it away. They add a special piece of proprietary paper with a small full color image of a symbol and reminder of the glory of the human race printed upon it — or perhaps merely the State flag — or the delivery person can't be sure they really want it to get to the State partner, which they address with the State-understood location within a grid of very efficient, very regular streets through which the anti-creatures criss-cross in a loud, temperamental cacophony of reflections, dust, smog and din. Delivery isn't free, after all. Well, it could be, but nobody really wants to do it with the looming threat of the Colonialist Statism violently claiming that it works just fine. It only needs to bribe everyone to comply with it. This works very similar to a micro-culture that exists outside the military cults, whereby a creature shows its value to a community and that nets its sanctioned existence. Except, well, that's only probably how it works there. It's such an unsustainable way of life, it had to be bulldozed before they could figure it out. Probably not worth it.

The State has helped regulate the functions of the regular metal triangles that brought the creature the means to run a current through a cooling device in a self-seal box of plastic-coated wire shelving. A box in which the creatures store old, spoiled, burnt, ground and some fresh food and upon which the creatures store memories supported by magnets that technologically hint at the infinite energy and compassion around them, which go forgotten and unnoticed as the abandoned artifact it is to become when they fail to change to the next most secure medium of giving the State permission to use State technology to empower their lives. The technology is necessary because many people also earn State-designated units of usefulness from the various actions they have taken to deliver the absurd power. Delivery isn't free, after all. Well, it could be, but if the creatures tried to do that and everyone used it, the State would seem a bit superfluous so the State might bribe someone to come and sabotage it. In any case, the new form of showing loyalty to the State has wisely and sustainably dispensed with paper. It now involves a portable monitoring device that listens to the creatures' speech, its visual and tactile behavior and rewards social cohesion on a military monitored and tested network that simulates conversation and meetings. In exchange, the creature is allowed to use one of the infinite bandwidths to send each other monitored data traffic. With this device, the creature will soon be able to earn, organize and spend all its State-designated units of social value on State-regulated goods and services. The main inconvenience of this device despite its uses as a social accessory, is that they can still detach it from their body, modify it, break it and access information that challenges the State. Changes are already underway by various bribed creatures to develop circumventions to these limitations.

In particular, the military cults favor the old “bait and switch” method. Human beings are invented or remade from humble genuine creatures or digital samples of them, made into famous egotists dependent on their addictions; or, if the human being is completely invented for use in a social story to manipulate the creatures en masse, simply written and crafted as real famous egotists would act (or perhaps better, just to make them more attractive than human beings) and computer regulated, doctored, animated or simply written up in a disinformation technique called journalism. Then, these obedient units of real and simulated creature-like assets are used to stage important events that are manufactured and controlled for the express purpose of changing social behavior to accept more State-imposed actions of the military cults. Most of these changes go completely unnoticed by the creatures since they have gotten used to the patterns, and have even gotten to repeating numbers and figures to each other about the events so as to keep them in memory. So changes generally won't cause emotional distress beyond what they are used to. The State has proven this by inventing impossible scientific achievements for good or ill, murdering or pretending to murder State leaders, murdering hundreds by thousands of both fictional and real people, and gotten the creatures to act as though they are “voting” for legislation that has been prepared as options in response to predicted behaviors. While some of them act a little concerned at times, they mostly cannot place their finger on what is wrong with the stories, and so they can be herded into various celebrity fan groups which vent public opinion into all issues besides the war cult. If they aren't invested in any of the stories, we can call them anti-social, loner, conspiracy theorists and that seems to give the other creatures permission to ignore the pacifist option very quickly. The States that have been convinced by the military cults have lined up a most excellent series of methods for accusing pacifists of being violent, extreme terrorists worse than anything the military cults have come up with or could even conceive. When the creatures are considered anti-human to such a degree, their fellow creatures seem less interested in determining if that creature is actually a threat, and their cautionary violence can be exploited as another endorsement of the military cult's philosophy to shoot first and ask questions later.

Into the small towns on the outskirts of the prairies, the power lines fly to wider grey swatches and packed together buildings of straight, straight, straightness. The eye is somewhat tricked by even wider patches of green that seem cheerful but upon closer inspection appear to be manicured, poisoned grasses trimmed to rectangular strips and patches, like bandages or strips of cloth are worn by creatures.

Grey concrete, brown gravel, brown, yellow and green grasses in front of hobby trees, cut and tamed bushes and more straight homes. Pointed roofs of tar, metal, wood, tile and plastic seal the tops of the homes. In the place where the nearby creatures take their honored dead, the lawn is surrounded by a border, two empty flag poles rise out of a corner on a hallowed cement pedestal. Straight upright graves thrust out of the ground with State versions of names etched in. Marble, dark, bright, sparkling polished stones with symbols of their allegiances spaced apart so that each character can be carefully read and reflected upon – and the observer's face if not the drone vision of a handheld or self-propelled camera reflected within; such that each creature is continuously and perpetually sanctioned their own space and plot for at least half as long as the State's strongest constructions last, and in death finally owning what the State banks could only promise during their days of exploitation: a parcel. The most efficient. The most convenient. And such straight erect lines, if slowly sinking into the soil poisoned with one final chemical share of the technology injected via the corpse. Polluting the soil to the last with cushions and comforts of a small apartment for one. If spaced near their loved one, a barely allowed sort of embrace might occur in the far future, on accident, but the space can be restored if by chance it's discovered.

The town at night is quiet, like still nature still, if not punctuated by the domesticated creatures' barks, clucks, laughs, calls and echoing utterances of the anti-creatures starting up, peeling away, idling by. Their bright eyes blind. Street lights try to softly illuminate the night, and do not too garishly blast away eerie nocturnal chases of bats, should they be around. At night, the sheer ugliness of the sheer, walls that insult earthtones with their declarations, is at rest, basking in overpowering natural night, star and cloud shadows barely perceptible to humankind.

When day comes again, streaks of sunlight hit the broadside of every exposed barn, every sanctioned portion of curved and pointed roof in the dilapidation of the area, every flapping flag of the State coming from every lit pole, pipe, curb, jar, door, jamb, car, pan and bar in a rainbow of dull crosses, corners and failing interjections that make up the constructed invisibly fuming atmosphere off-gassing unknowns. This unnatural environment is hideous. Garage doors show their clacking nature, open or closed by a signature size, temporary coffins for the anti-creatures, themselves taking on the padding, the handles and the covers and going to die in the sun, in a scrap yard or a display but immortally without its creatures inside.

Great lean anti-creature cargo, hauled across the gray girdle spines of the continent, make up some of the anti-creatures that don't fit in the signature shape of the plebian vehicle. They are white, tired-looking straight, straight, straight boxes on poofed up black diaphragms made of and in far off parts, picking up where the iron horse and other slave trades left off. Parked more or less at angles outside formless pachining buildings on large otherwise bare lots of gravel. Shining armed and knighted skeletons conquering the plains. Roundness at last, but a metallic grotesque straight roundness with rims and bars and cross-beams catalyzing its reunion with boxy buildings whence it came, shining like the top side of the conjoined corpses of preserved undersea shell creatures obscenely on display as still more tribute to the might of man's hand. Meanwhile, and separate, woman's unrealistically soft versions of calloused hands on display as quilted blocks. Stars, stripes, self-referential imagery of the so-called simple life, tacked up, flattened and displayed like the controlled carcass of a creature murdered not by chance, but by circumstance of the hobby hunt. The growling crawling and scraping anti-creature with enormous tires earning their homonym. The lumbering unswayed collection of haphazard houses in a park of parked ones. The lumbering swaying waking giant of a hissing, cursing, furious transport of creatures picked up at designated stops, unsocial, timid and suddenly but cloudily self-conscious of their own smell.

When the road crosses a swamp, bog or other wetland, a bridge piles up under the unrelenting and now strangely emphasized byway, as if defying nature is the best and most maintainable form of the enterprise of the road. It has the characteristic of the artificial hills shaped for those railroad tracks, odd like an elongated bunion. The settlements of the colonialist State society grow in size. Logos and symbols become more cheerful as if to counteract the unnerving growth in height, berth, length and weight of the machines. Entertainment respites appear, in more hideous colors than before. Cartoonish oversized versions of rural industry slam together with Asian inventions of the highest complexity. Water parks flop up, sports bars co-mingle, mega churches swell and propaganda distribution antenna spike into the heavens.

While inside, creatures joyfully praise conveniences and efficiencies. Travel in an anti-creature becomes very welcome. Lots upon lots of them appear in every direction. Through the trees, cracks between structures, the city of the forebeast approaches. The staccato anti-refrain of two-wheeled ridable chrome belches sing more singularly and hideously in the filth of a city. Highway entrances and exits punctuate the journey, and on foot these ritualistic landmarks of the automobile seem to be the primary reason for the city's existence. Little jaunts of encased wires climb up artificial trees and give the raised, protected and barricaded ramblings of all motorized and tagged creatures a boosted signal of their favorite hymn.

Nevertheless, nailed, poisoned and preserved telephone logs faithfully carry their cables into the wireless world. Television dishes ostensibly pointed into the heavens, as if receiving the word of the Creator zemself, actually more or less point to the highest real estate pinned in metal, or catch an ionosphere reflected place in the clouds criss-crossed in jet traffic. The sky itself is hazy on a clear day, cursing memories of a purer cerulean. The power cables have come into and out of stations humming and smoking, the living ancestry of the creatures mocked by their own offspring. Convenience and efficiency are alien to each successive generation as the next one inherits the former's and lectures on the need for more.

No more rolled up sod, grass, straw, hay. Instead, pitched up, thrown on, painted over, tacked in, scotted down, crammed through, spent for, planned down urban artworks incongruously praising the destruction around them, and barely balancing bins toss around the city collecting crumbled crumpled crumbs of industry entrusted to the creatures when and where they purchase their goods. Lucky for the industrious cult that poops out the product, the creatures willfully (or else helplessly) take the toxic waste as part of the deal. For convenience's sake, the trash will be carried and collected and stuffed into a scar of the Earth or else burned into gaseous soups that peel out like hot glass sucked into her lungs.

The anti-blood pumps into countless blinking devices conveniently and considerately synchronized to the frame rate of the human brain. Or slightly beyond, if just for the State's partners to collect a psychological defrayal for think tanks beswum with sharky dreams of a world beyond efficiency. Beyond life.

Despite all the tensions of the farming creature and the pretensions of the Tupperwared creature, each are encouraged to pretend they are electing the least offensive disembodied head of a political beast that was wholly developed and belongs to the super-State monster. However, a steady and countable number of iterations of these creatures pass through the hallowed, cemetery-like halls worshipful of the perpetually mournful and besuited walking lie that is the State government. Some of these commendable creatures maintain the semblance of shock and confusion regarding the cloud of murky dealings done there, and do so in particular to give their home creatures a team to call for, sing about and push them to actual governance. Some success is guaranteed by their efforts when such representatives actually remember to communicate with their constituents that something has been accomplished and their right to exist free of war has been reiterated again (for a short time), which is why the State should always blow a haze of controversy over all results and start the process over again as soon as it's over. There is no excitement in a rigged sport without some dramatic tension.

Walls, walls and more walls. Concrete. Metal. Stumps. Cut off chunks, missing after-thoughts of would be plans. Fences still more tall and more particular and more dangerous to make up the difference in the name of the latest master. Buildings as walls. As cages. Buildings so disturbingly high that they feign plead to be unimpressive. Fearful glass panes giving courage to the disgusting excess. Urbanity is prideless of physical flatness, and people who try to rise above it. Electrical nerves on edge course through the phallic hyper-sensitive parodies of human ability, waiting for creatures to claim the highness and greatness these scrapers have claimed; the bizarre erections release security forces against them if they act like masters over the goliath scarecrows. Urbanity is prideful of its police force creatures, who are part of a gang hired by the State to diffuse tensions; they shift around as taut as the top of a long, heavy severed power cable hanging from a pole and firing bolts into the ghettos, into creatures that can't be reminded of their culpability, of the terrible guilt of their ancestry in trying to live without peace officers. Austere buildings containing criminals and framing their missions in crystal pyramids, dank or insidiously clean lighting passed for actual cleanliness loom over activities and clam up when eyes bob by, just in case their blinders have failed.

Inside, a freshly shampooed plastic carpet, slowly airing off poison gas. Smooth, ensconced barriers, straight and straight, with neo-classically fascist worried lines depicting its fear of nature, holding a candle flame shaped light bulb. Shiny wooden beams holding up cushions waiting for well fed asses to settle upon and into and to filter the flatulence through innocent crumbles of charcoal. A pattern of round devices in the flat, straight ceiling tiles hiding a cobweb of industry. Bright mirrored shining cylinders, speakers, and fans to tubes to basements and roofs. As hallowed as a church. As foul as a dungeon.

Boarded up, repurposed, squatted reliquaries of bygone days containing all varieties of beautiful recluses, horrific bastards, active, powerful, empathic and psychotic creatures, grounding themselves in the flatness to spring a new move against all errant mythos. Denying false offers and false stories but digesting them just the same, with strong warrior stomachs, and unphased and nonplussed planning still. Swallowing the alternative media designed for their particular mind diet. Mistrusting each other. Building coalitions of suspicion. Believing they are the designers. Trusting deeply embedded agents. Making conclusions to efforts alone, and painfully, and extremely studied. Self-cultivating crops of the polis-State.

Advertisements and public relations everywhere. Growling, grimacing, visually; screaming and shouting for attention. Please, for Jesus Christ's sake, for the love of Israel, give us your State-sanctioned credit. A satire of and distraction from the much more nuanced controls. “Be entertained and enjoy,” thrusts the fatalist sex of the prostitution ring called Hollywood; with desperation; with a deep, oh so deep, artistic injury splayed around the world. There is a sickening, twisted violence to the committee-decided comedic musical cues of the supposedly non-political blockbuster. Eat. Eat.

Eat. Drink.

Eat.

Eat. Drink. Eat this. Eat that. Eat this. Try this. Just try this. Just. Just. Just. Just.

While in an anti-creature headed to the surrounding area, throbbing with pus-like suburbs failing to ameliorate the perpetual crisis of the cannibalistic dump of material through creatures seen as human tubes by marketing departments, and of the live cables; one may notice highways, repair shops, lawn ornament displays and gilded flashy road signs thinning into compact corn packs. Again, the monotonous moneyed monocropping of the landscape. Again a glassy city giving laurels to the State faithful. Over and over. What has the civilization of the colonialist expansion of the military agenda accomplished? Ruin, dishonor and embarrassing museums congratulating themselves on a false history of superiority, of its so-called accomplishments free for all who can see; to see. Its beauty is real, and it doesn't clash with the gloomy beauty of disaster. It has the beauty and ugliness of pure destruction.

=-=-=-=-=

III. Echoes & Linchpins

Destruction is hidden in the cloaks of city's night or city's rain, where all things become tested under the rest of State consciousness and State reinforcements. I am in the city under a darkening moon-lit cloud, in its bedlam, on my way from cross-section to cross-section, with a softly glowing vision in my mind of the power and benefit of knowing how and where I have survived here under the tutelage and technology of colonists that kept me focused on the reality under the grid. Bus headlights hopefully shine up the road, a pleasant hum and distant hiss from the long heaving anti-creature with deep wide spectacles, driven by a missionary sort of creature immunely believing in the public service. The moistened crystalline black tar glowing fairy beads of grease and rain under the crinkling rounded rolling foot split four to eight ways. Spirits with awesome seeing ranges through pockets of air and dust dart through the night's warmer chills on deputations, quickly; human beings slow down and plot their cares in their plodding motions. As the last sunlight disappears, a fierce, glorious, gorgeous wildness enters the city and grounds airy speculations into awareness.

As my feet bounce on soles constructed in China from souls bouncing out of Chinese bodies cast off rooftops, I storm through the evening with a shield of optimism, privilege, and sharp awareness that I cannot be recognized for my native nomadic condition; I am fully disguised in a cloak of cultural whiteness and other forms of cultural colonialism sealed upon and around me not as culturally inseparable from my skinsuit as it, in turn, is physically inseparable from my body, yet nobody will pick at it delicately; the norm is now verbally wailing upon skins emitting hateful phrases as if to beat the lived history out of it, wake it up, find the European demon inside the imperial Caucasian and send it back to Hell. In any case, it's safer than daylight for the imagined heathen. I am imagined as orthodox. I endorse the city and all its crimes and bad judgments by simply walking through it and reflecting its light. We human beings, in lovely earthtone rainbow hues, nostrils and eyelids and lips and ears, hands and legs and fingernails of great variety, can all fear and resent stations of normality. Each unique form of and upon us greatly outnumbered by the subtle differences, which would lump us together by how we look — and how we look forsooth affecting and infecting our appreciation of the lonely position we all share, even if we are lucky enough to thrive in a traditional home culture that has not been totally stripped from us by slavery, cultural rape or our forced and thrashing participation in the colonialist mode.

Home cultures amalgamate and melt together not so much by chemical agreement but by regularity of sanctioned materials, sought and interpreted as faithfully as afforded; sagging into the worn, cast, reworn, recast, perpetually staining pavement. I see diverse buildings glowing from reflected street light, neon signs within, or nearby, or else lit from large blinking lamps which we shrink in our mind, which tell us when to go and when to stop. Smells of the day settling in the air blow far distances and make perhaps incongruous impressions we could generously consider a stew. I see of their windows and their doors which may indicate activity and which may match an odor; these buildings stand out from the colony for some nice affirming reasons and some icky marketing reasons, and give me mixed feelings of the various ways cultures vie to dominate one another, their alienness which belie the Disney-fied xenophilia resulting in the colonialized mind, which makes trinkets and tokens and whimsical toilet rooms of the most aggressively famous cultures. Specialty meat markets, cultural stations, global arrows twirling around oddly strained technologies used to connect disparate parts of the world kept conditionally disparate for super-State reasons, patient icons and religious symbols beckoning with ancient allure, to give you ancient enemies and ancient tales of their dominations. Deep down, in my soul, I recognize that this permitted, licensed and properly zoned cultural survival is a sign of the self-cultivating crop proudly owning their part in the military mindset; yet, perhaps, slowly transitioning from values worshiping efficiencies and conveniences into values of interdependence.

Oh, a marketplace carrying the strange mixture of natural fruits and poison colonial foods of that old world's plebian vitality to the new world's plebian monotony. How wonderful that the minor colonialists can survive in the greater; how horrific to imagine any of them wanting to grow into the monstrosity they resist. Each culture that both resists and plays with fire is alongside so many others that have never had interest in the simulation — who want to teach peace, but deeply understand the anger their friend possesses. They understand it as they may appreciate the poisoned, dry, irradiated, waxed, frozen version of the pride of their culture, offered with condolences and expectancy.

Aforementioned streetlights now beacons of the truce between the world of night and the world of the colony. As I approach them, they consider turning off and giving me a greater sample of the unknown, which nourishes and manifests me. For some people, this doesn't happen. For me, it happens often — just one choice light when thinking too hard beneath it, and it decides to wink out and remind me of the city. We know who we are that trigger boolean decisions but don't discuss it. Like ghosts, poltergeists, lights in the heavens that don't move like we are told satellites should, which glow unlike satellites are said to glow, which emit and beam and change direction, and like unconscious telekenetic shifts, the spirits passing in so many ways through so many planes are not a topic for ordinary discourse. We don't want to begin an unearthly congress. But perhaps they do, and perhaps some among us are under their influence.

The heat of the sun hidden by Gaia's convoluted umbra, the last of its remnant heat leaves the ground, dissipates and transforms into dew, dank, and freedom for tiny friends shifting under moon light. In the reversed, shifting thins and thicks of well-dusked atmosphere, the straight straight so straight walls of the colony become markers in a labyrinth under human night watch. Tactility heightens. Trees grow in their precedence, and covered machines clank, tink and settle as if to unhinge and gain motion in their constituent parts.

If you walk down a straight, straight block of straight, straight curbs and even the occasional elitist curve of an engineering trick, you may come across a house of such pragmatic conformity that it weeps. At midnight, its sleeping sunflowers, wooden trinkets and full-hearted attempts to turn half-believed gains into fully endorsed societal beauty only emphasize the poverty of State control and the strength of human character in this house. The warmest honeyfalls of smothering generosity, like a bee's leg burdened with twice its weight in pollen, warm the shoulders, haunches, breasts and pods of familial creatures honoring their kinship with one another. Laughter and games and tales of living exude, even if we can but use one of the common senses, a deeper sense can tell that the members of this community exit the home not so much to fulfill our expectation of gaining a place on the back of the beast but seem to exit from the place in order to teach others of life's sweet journeys. We are lucky to know such places even exist. It is a blessing beyond all measure to survive in such a place one's self, and to share a jape with its occupants. The ugliness of colonial life is humbled and overbrightened by the divine experience of a family with a good sense of humor. It can be found in willful wonder about its own identity — claiming only to get by, and perhaps even with a kind of a self-conscious romantic or stoic sullenness and wisdom of evil under its demeanor, each member thinks another is the most responsible for its harmony; each member hopes to create harmony out of the very faces of difficulty, nuisance and discord. It is not easy to live together, but it's a soulful and egalitarian problem to have.

It seems, at times, that these communities can travel in the form of a singular hero, a friendship between two, a trio or quartet or pentacommunity; of persons or of homes or of sub-cultures, but always as if a cosmic geometric parcel weighing of themselves, and in the net of light (to which it belongs) has been cast about the amorphous physics of our material land; and rather than catching something within, each point of the net seems to liberate all appointments it contacts. Doth demoniac energy dwell at the center of the described shapes, being furthest from the light? Only at times, for it is seemingly magically to hit just upon the most in need and the resulting struggle is proportional to the insanity of the smitten. How many exist per block or mile or number of feet cannot be counted as the military cult would plan its evasion of the light. It is counted by heartbeats and mapped by soul travels.

A warm house with a warm hearth, hiding hidden molds, smelling of inviting bacteria and inviting wandering creatures inside. Graces are given and passed about, tiny short little pink, brown, red, gray, white, peach and purple creepers casting invisible shadows on the surfaces of video screens. Ignored and too tiny to be contemptible. Networks and tiny societies in every hole, on every surface, more complex and organic and differently powerful than the electronic pulses of the large creatures' base and ignoble network. Patience with nature can supersede the law of the State, here. Curiosity about trickle-down technologies give creatures here distractions and patience with the idea that the built world is as natural as the grown Earth.

We are the creatures. We walk through the sombre history of our pasts so violently shoved away from the center of attention on the buy. Sell. Now, now. A swirling blizzard of boulder-sized memories flying around an enormous tundra at several of our lengths per moment, as viewed through a telescope, such that — taken together — the most ductile of life-sized cultural ephemera and antiques appear as an intensely and intricately detailed snow. Ninja Turtles evolving a new poly skin for the fourth consecutive decade, Disney princesses puking plastic, entangled in gum- and filth-encrusted well-loved strands. Bodily excretions sagging onto rubber. Out of this whirlwind we have constructed a fragile and elaborate cult of shopping for our destiny. It sits alongside and contrasts with traditions, religions and the occasional miracle. The skillful and fortunate of us have deftly avoided being swept up in the hurricane, even as we turned our esteem into a museum to the past as if avoiding the facts of this constant endurance and relegating our actions to intellectual reflections.

Structural manifestations of the artistic and inspired minds of our world have created the real and most renowned and famous dwellings and accommodations of our species' imagination: teepees, temples, pyramids, treehouses, igloos, wigwams, pagodas, huts, camps, cathedrals, repurposed anti-beasts with curtains and beds and steering wheels, singular artistic towers of wealth, and other culturally formed directions of circumstance. And we don't even need those to survive but created them in order to do so more comfortably. Invention today is an object of resigned curiosity, skeptical feelings of entrapment or appropriated for military-grade consumerism to drive economic cogs of the tower walls of the State. It is the castle, the fortress, the cloister and the mobile military unit that looks most romantically strange and horrific — as if we should explore the alien world of buried psychosis with our hands. As if we should make toys of our weapons. As if we should live insecurity rather than navigate it.

When I look upon a church, stained propaganda framed in blocked stone upon hewn earth, I have a difficult time seeing the beauty of the tribute. It does not pass my close examination as well as it impresses upon my mind the distant beauty of the power of impression from afar. When I find a shrine in a cave or grotto, and it holds and sanctifies the graven images of our vanity, I cannot help but feel ashamed of our species; I cannot fathom that a true Buddha would want a single false footprint of his lessons upon a plate, let alone countless molten impressions of an untimeless and very dated version of androgyny. I become sad of how well such comical attempts at anachronistic work that should transcend place and time give rise to thanklessness and cynical grimaces at ourselves and our spirituality; our arrogance breeds the worst kind of nihilism: that which views art as merely a public relation to a natural terrain and human terrain.

Now navigating past auspicious points that I know and back to the mystery and putative danger of unknown occupants, temples and the battle for State selection. Sunlight approaches, whipping around the atmosphere and bending into future sun dogs and rainbows playing their overture on the cloud lining, lids droop down on glowing irises and dreams slink back into the floorboards of the colonized mind's warehouse. Nature gives rise to light life. Practicality tempers as cold as refrigerated still liquid orange juice. The standards of energy slam into the work of muscles. Aromas of crushed earthy beans punctuate entire ductworks. Flocks of birds on the alert land in wagging bush branches filled with brethren, chicker of instructions, warnings and alluvions. There is singing and crying and murmuring in every language in these mornings. To arms! To arms! Gather your weapons against nature. Rev up the auto-beasts, the anti-creatures, activate the screens and avoid unnecessary discussions. Begin the simulation. The terrorism level is brown and bearded and anti-Christian and anti-Semetic. The military level is in the minds of the State skeptical. Put on your enviro-suit and slog through the dross of impure air, deceptive light and threats on the wind.

Life is powerful. Life is truer than the simulated appearance of it organized and sanctioned by the problematic war theater. It glows and vibrates through the offenses paid it, through our paranoid emergency behavior. I feel the sweetest dream through depressing urban experiences of walking the streets of tensed up, exhausted and scheming creatures screaming inside, playing spectator sport with the State olympics of proving your worth, the underground market of predation. The vision of panicked participants perpetually trying to improve their lot is compatible with the crumbling, corroding, tarnished architecture. There is a beautiful world through the cracks and fault lines and attitudes. Between cross-blasts of super-State supported art, real art sometimes takes a hand and touches it to home. Do you remember? Do you remember? Be not afraid. Share. This cannot be colonized.

Evolving wood, rotting wood, shellacked wood, painted wood, various stubborn forms of earth, clay, brick, sand, dust, and earthened metal, metallic machined shapes, rejecting assigned colors. Peeling, shedding, rusting protrusions flake in place or force-feed the breeze to join the miasma of casted confetti that comprises the air of pulsing antenna waves. Rapid transit sexipodded and octopodded creatures cross the concentrations and breakages of concrete. The larger dipodded creatures attempt revival and focus, presenting living bouquets in gardens upon which the smaller crawl. Rocks are piled, chips are spread about, nature groomed and accepted into society, ambivalent and apathetic of their roles, continuing the divine green mission on their own, unhindered.

Each of us builds our personal labyrinth, enlightening the drudgery or dreaded experiences of exploitation for ourselves and our family. Does family end at the doorway to a private room, a street corner or a reviled suburban turn? Does it end with a favorite domestic plant or creature subsisting on its State regulated nutrients? Our effect is beyond our focus, our warmth travels on shifting spirit cables throughout a Grand Kinship. Should we confuse shared proximity, shared entitlement, shared convenience and shared efficiency for living together, we would consider ourselves merely the burden of an anti-creature's on its paths, the permitted and allowed self-cultivating crop of the State that murders for these values — all life be damned — when we fail to serve as its living senses.

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IV. Participants

We can cast our light and will into the heart of the empires and colonies as we also nestle into the great feed of nature and the Creator's provisions for us. And there are practical steps we can take to dismantle domination without dominating; it has to do with our own cultures.

If we are Asian, if we are Middle Eastern, or if we live in a colony of European descendants on an Anglofied continental military territory, it is time to examine how much we want to follow the culture of death and destruction into such a pathetic manifestation of human power. Structures built by the methods and upon the experiences of empire carry a cold beauty, but become familiar to us and to our children, and confuse what we actually materialize for a passive natural process. Never mind the propaganda of the media, what goes on in the propaganda of the fearful heart? It would be an imposition to us but not our progeny if we simply and safely disused, repurposed and appropriated all the offices, buildings, temples and edifices of stolen wealth upon the Earth. If we rejoined each other in smaller disputes and debates rather than a feud over control of death itself. Let us not impose on the ranchers who stockpile gunpowder and mortar their means of fear; let us make the traveling band or vagabond a joy to feed and entertain and house a night, and not part of a vile desperate micro-campaign of the war cult.

I can see a beautiful purpose in squatting every skyscraper, planting soil and seeds in each artificial orifice, sending grit and grass and ivy into every architectural marvel. But all creatures cannot safely exist or subsist in such precarious places as they would in a forest, a plain, a tundra, a sea, a burrow. While facing the wild danger of one another in nature, it is still preferable to the formaldehyde museum that is the sad school of the present state of architecture. We ought merely to deconstruct it instead. Rather than requiring ourselves to believe absurd stories of mad blackbeards with razor blades and nails for teeth, who force rich gamblers and brokers — direct bastard spawn of the human slave trade — to supposedly perish in physically impossible building collapses using the methane, barium, fiberglass and sewage spewing transportation method of the military cult; thereby ascending the gamblers to a glorious Heaven of eternal grace as assuredly as the supposed mad savages scream capitalist catharsis in their deliverances, we can simply collaborate to dismantle the symbols by hand, unbuild the built environment and restore our wonder to the Mother.

It can begin with squatting, earning and purchasing, challenging the concept of “ownership” by owning according to no rules or all rules of city lawyers; starving the anti-blood economy of the Asian, Israeli, Saudi and Anglo forebeasts by simply sitting and occupying and wearing away the structures from the sandy polishing symptoms of simple living. No more should we respond to calls to fight as communists for an industry of the State, nor as capitalists for an industry of the bottom line; no more would we need to unite as a worker caste that supposedly earns its right to exist by grinding our kin into sausage for the megabeast of the moment.

We can return metal and stone, liberate wood and stem, bury the mine walls and plant soil building nutrients over the footprints of our great super-alloy Buddhas that should not be. We shall sing new hymns and praises of the time we came to our senses and restored a nomadism to the glowing net, which stopped the festering of the spiritual wounds. What structures have we ever needed? Roofs for hospital areas can be fashioned, knit, and implied by digging. They can be cleaned the manner in which nature cleans herself: heat, water, polished hard surfaces of any form, and biodegradable chemicals that don't produce carcinogens. Beyond this, no form of cleanliness can be as important to an environment as it is to the responsibility of the spiritual owner of a creature's body to clean itself. The police station does not exist. The stadium and the game room is everywhere people enjoy themselves. The nest, the bed and shelter is everywhere that tempers wind, rain and wandering creature. The temple is everywhere that human voices do not distract but either be quiet or orderly render vibrations together.

Only pachined inventions and anti-creatures have ever needed the straight rows of cities. Tractors forcing a monocrop, wheeled unicycles, bicycles, tricycles, tetracycles and rushing airplanes requiring tarmac and bitumen, and clever helicopters needing only some wide clearing. The natural straightness of bodies of water were the highways of the world, traveling at water's and wind's informed speeds. Deer and other creatures formed wise paths for travel. If we required the wheel, if we required machines that benefited our goals, besides mere curiosity about our ability to spite our environment, they would be made patiently and with dear consideration of its consequences.

Slowness could be the new world order we have been rushing to, delusionally thinking we needed the military cults to achieve what they cannot. I ask that you at least give peace your aesthetic consideration; and in so doing, I hope that you give nature any consideration you can offer it at all besides as a resource for exploitation. Some better design may reflect some better intent. Some thankfulness for her could be a respectable start.
hoi.polloi
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Re: The Age of Media Fakery: Art Corner

Postby simonshack on July 25th, 2016, 5:18 pm

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Just bumped into this 'piece of art' posted on Deviantart .com.
Love it. Love the comments (posted below it) too ! ^_^

http://sfegraphics.deviantart.com/art/3 ... -300384986

Image
simonshack
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