Bourriaud Page 40 Postproduction
Isn't the ellipsis, in the end, simply an image of leisure, the negative space of work? While free time signifies "time to waste" or time for organized consumption, isn't it also simply a passage between two sequences?
every walk constantly leaps, or skips like a child, hopping on one foot. It practices the ellipsis of conjunctive loci. Here movement itself, or more precisely, one's particular enactment of the movement (leaping, skipping, hopping) practices punctuation, rather than an architectural element serving as a mark of punctuation. to leap, skip, or hop, practices the ellipsis of conjunctive loci: the loci are points in the progression of the forward trajectory and the ellipsis (the leap, skip and hop) marks a deviant punctuating motion upward - an ellipsis filled by one's momentary defiance of the laws of gravity and inevitable fall back to earth. Punctuation as rupture, syncopating logical syntax and thought. it follows that an embodied spatial practice of punctuation is intrinsic to one's enactment of place: in practicisingp lace, we punctuate space. in doing so we often move in keeping with the syntax of a given place. however our movements can potentially create different alignments, instigate other ways of thinking, and develop alternative relationships and and connections between things that are not necessarily in keeping with the normative syntax of a given spatial order. in otehre words, space can become a poetic practice of place… the gap… interval…contributes to the overall meaning of the artwork…. space is the material poetic practice of place. (Poetics and Place: The Architecture of Sign, Subjects and Site, By Kristen Kreide, page 53)
"The created order is everywhere punched and torn open by ellipses, drifts, and leaks of meaning: it is a sieve-order."
Mark Leyner's My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist
"I was an infinitely hot and dense dot. So being the autobiography of a feral child who was raised by huge and lurid puppets. An autobiography written wearing wrist weights. It ends with these words: A car drives through a puddle of sperm, sweat and contraceptive jelly, splattering the great chopsocky vigilante from Hong Kong. Inside, two acephalic sardines in mustard sauce are asleep in the rank darkness of their tine container. Suddenly, the swinging doors of burst open and a mesomorphic cyborg walks in and whips out a 35-lb. phallus made of corrosion-resistant nickel-base alloy and he begins to stroke it sullenly, his eyes half shut. It's got a metal-oxide membrane for absolute submicron filtration of petrochemical fluids. It can ejaculate herbicides, sulfuric acid, tar glue, you name it. At the end of the bar, a woman whose album-length poem about temporomandibular joint dysfunction (TMJ) had won a Grammy for best spoken word recording is gently slowly ritually rubbing copper hexafluoroacetylacetone into her clitoris as she watches the hunk with the non-Euclidean features shoot a glob of dehydrogenated ethylbenzene 3,900 miles towards the Arctic archipelago, eventually raining down upon a fiord on Baffin Bay. Outside, a basketball plunges from the sky, killing a dog. At a country fair, a huge a hairy man in mud-caked blue overalls, surrounded by a crowd of retarded teenagers, swings a sledgehammer above his head with brawny keloidal arms then brings it down with all his brute force on a tofu-burger on a flowery paper plate. A lizard licks the dew from the stamen of a stunned crocus. Rivets and girders float above the the telekinetic construction workers. The testicular voice of Barry White emanates from some occult source within thing laundry room. As I chugalug a glass of tap water milky with contaminants, I realize that my mind is being drained of its contents and refilled with the beliefs of the most mission-oriented, can-do feral child ever raised by huge and lurid puppets. I am the voice ... the voice from beyond and the voice from within - can you hear me? Yes. I speak to you and you only - is that clear? Yes, master. To whom do I speak? To me and me only. Is 'happy' the appropriate epithet for someone who experiences each moment as if were being alternatively flayed alive and tickled to death? No, master.
In addition to the growth hormone extracted from the glandes of human corpses, I was using anabolic steroids, tissue regeneration compounds, granulocyte-macrophage colony-stimulating factor (GM-CSF) - a substance used to stimulate growth in certain vital blood cells in radiation victims - and a nasal spray of neuropeptides that accelerates the release of of pituitary hormones and I getting larger and larger and my food bills were becoming enormous. So I went on a TV game show in the hopes of raising cash. This was my question, $250,000 in cash and prizes: If the Pacific Ocean were filled with gin, what would, in terms of proportionate volume, the proper lake of vermouth necessary to achieve a dry martini? I said Lake Ontario - but the answer was the Caspian Sea, which is called a sea but is a lake by definition. I had failed. I had humiliated my family and disgraced the kung fu masters of the Shaolin temple. I stared balefully out into the studio audience which was chanting something that sounded like 'dork.' I'm in my car. I'm high on Sinutab. And I'm driving anywhere. The vector of movement from a given point is isotropic - meaning that all possible directions are equally probable. I end up at a squalid little dive somewhere in Vegas maybe Reno maybe Tahoe. I don't know ... but there she is. I can't tell if she's a human or a fifth-generation gynomorphic android and I don't care. I crack open an ample of mating pheromone and let it waft across the bar, as I sip my drink, a methyl isocyanate on the rocks - methyl isocyanate is the substance which killed more than 2,000 people when it leaked in Bhopal, India, but thanks to my weight training, aerobic workouts, and a low-fat fiber-rich diet, the stuff as no effect on me. Sure enough, she strolls over and occupies the stool next to mine. After a few moments of silence, I make the first move: We're all larval psychotics and been since the age of two, I say, spitting an ice cube back into my glass. She moves closer to me. At this range the downy cilia-like hairs that trickle from her navel remind me of the fractal ferns produced by injecting dyed water into an aqueous polymer solution, and I tell her so. She looks into my eyes: You have the glibness, superficial charm, grandiosity, lack of guilt, shallow feelings, impulsiveness, and lack of realistic long-term plans that excite me right now, she says, moving even closer. We feed on the same pray species, I growl. My lips are now one angstrom unit from her lips, which is one ten-billionth of a meter. I begin to kiss her but she turns her head away. Don't good little boys who finish all their vegetables get dessert? I ask. I can't kiss you, we're monozygotic replicants - we share 100% of our genetic material. My head spins. You are the beautiful day, I exclaim, your breath is a zephyr of eucalyptus that does a pas de bourrée across the Sea of Galilee. Thanks, she says, but we can't go back to my house and make love because monozygotic incest is forbidden by the elders. What if I said I could change all that. ... What if I said that I had a miniature shotgun that blasts gene fragments into the cells of living organisms, altering their genetic matrices so that a monozygotic replicant would no longer be a monozygotic replicant and she could then make love to a muscleman without transgressing the incest taboo, I say, opening my shirt and exposing the device which I had stuck in the waistband of my black jeans. How'd you get that thing? she gaps, ogling its thick fiber-reinforced plastic barrel and the Uzi-Biotech logo embossed on the magazine which held two cartridges of gelated recombinant DNA. I got it for Christmas. ... Do you have any last words before I scramble your chromosomes, I say, taking aim. Yes, she says, you first. I put the barrel to my heart. These are my last words: When I emerged from my mother's uterus I was the size of a chicken bouillon cube and Father said to the obstetrician: I realize that at this stage it's difficult to prognosticate his chances for a productive future, but if he's going to remain six-sided and 0.4 grams for the rest of his life, then euthanasia's our best bet. But Mother, who only milliseconds before was in the very throes of labor, had already slipped on her muumuu and espadrilles and was puffing on a Marlboro: No pimple-faced simp two months out of Guadalajara is going to dissolve this helpless little hexahedron in a mug of boiling water, shes said, as nurse managed to with acrobatic desperation to slide a suture basin under the long ash of her cigarette which she'd consumed in one furiously deep drag. These are my last words: My fear of being bullied and humiliated stems from an incident that occurred many years ago in a diner. A 500-lb. man seated next to me at the counter was proving that one particular paper towel was more absorbent than another brand. His face was swollen and covered with patches of hectic red. He spilled my glass of chocolate milk on the counter and then sopped it up with one paper towel and then with the other. With each wipe of the counter the sweep of his huge dimpled arm became wider and wider until he was repeatedly smashing his flattened hand the saturated towel into my chest. There was an interminable cadence to the blows I endured. And instead of assistance from the other patrons at the counter, I received their derision, their sneering laughter. But now look at me! I am a terrible god. When I enter the forest the mightiest oaks blanch and tremble. All rustling, chirping, growling and buzzing cease, purling brooks become still. This is all because of my tremendous muscularity ... which is the result of hours of hard work that I put in at the gym and the strict dietary regimen to which I adhere. When I enter the forest the birds become incontinent with fear so there's this torrential downpour of shit from tress. And I stride through - my whistle is like an earsplitting fife being played by a lunatic with a bloody bandage around his head. And the sunlight, rent into an incoherence of blazing vectors, illuminates me: a shimmering serrated monster!"
- textual android through patterns of assembly and disassembly.
Identity merging with typography… further conflated with high tech computer simulations of dots circles star - signifiers which collapse like stellar bodies into an explosive materiality that approaches the critical point of nova. flicking signification lol. neologistic splices. tissues fissures dislocations. the narrator is driving "isotropically", indicating that physical location is no longer necessary or relevant to the production of the story. authority issues from high tech language. a story which is radically unstable, able to mutate to a scarcely unintentifiable form. high tech identity transforming form that never comes.
- assuming that the text was digitized at some phase in its existence.
- what is this form that the text is about to morph into? popular literature and culture have many scenarios in which one fools a computer into thinking he or she is an authorized person because the person has or has stolen the codes that the computer recognizes as constituting authorization. person usually in this case remains unchanged. taking on a spurious identity that allows him to move unrecognized within an informational system. constitutioning identity through authorization codes, the person using codes is changed into another subjectivity, - one that exists and is recognized because of knowing the code. the narrator is not a storyteller, but rather a hacker or manipulator of codes. construction of the narrator as manipulator of codes.
- Roland barthes in s/z brilliantly demonstrated the possibility of reading a text as a production of diverse codes. information narratives make that possibility an inevitability, for they often cannot be understand even on a literal level without referring to codes and informatics that produce and are produced by these codes. circuits connecting tech, text, human…
- because codes can be sent over fiber optics, there is nol onger a shared stable context to anchor meaning or interpretation. just like reading, decoding takes place in in a location arbitrarily far removed in space and time from the source. unlike and in contrast to the fixity of print, decoding means or implies there is no original text. no first edition. no fair copies. no holographic manuscript. only flickering signifiers, whose transient patterns evoke and embody what g w s has called the context of no context. the suspicion that all contexts like texts are electronically mediated constructions.
- dream… or nightmare of body as information! what binds the decoder to the system is not the stability of being a member of the interpreting community or the pleasure of physically having the book, but rather the decoder's construction as cyborg, realizing that his or her physicality is also data made flesh. from dna to the binary code that is the computer's first language.
(49) Information, like humanity, cannot exist apart from the embodiment that brings it into being as a material entity in the world. And embodiment is always instantiated, local and specific. Embodiment can be destroyed, but cannot be replicated. once the specific form is gone, no amount of massaging data will bring it back. as we rush to explore the new vistas that cyberspace makes available for our colonization, let us remember the fragility of a material world that cannot be replaced.
- From How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and ... By N. Katherine Hayles
Microdotting and the Compression of Reading And Text
Microdotting is different from both the kinds of secret writing that came before it and those that came after it: in earlier analog modes, a secret message was physically covered by other material, while in more recent digital steganography, information is dispersed imperceptibly
- "Our best machines are made of sunshine; they are all light and clean because they are nothing but signals, electromagnetic waves, a section of a spectrum.— Haraway, Donna. “A Manifesto for Cyborgs” 1985."
- https://www.eff.org/pages/list-printers-which-do-or-do-not-display-tracking-dots - our studio printer hp Color LaserJET 5550DTNis on the list of ones with dots
- What is a glitch will be fashion tomorrow; the nature of glitch changes with new standards