Neue Kathedrale des erotischen Elends

Support ViLT

2012-01-08T21:37:00.004+01:00

GRUUSBRIDGE

2010-11-26T22:11:00.005+01:00

audio file:

http://www.vilt.net/nkdee/data/edits/mp3/gruiswall2.mp3

Source text:

GRUUS

gru grit gruis grom fraga da
gruis grief gruut gamor uut
gaffel graven wroege vraga i
vergen vroege k lag lam b da

porce gruis da uut da
lein bo gruis da uut da
worg da gruis da ittistik
lein ni bobu gruis parik

gru ttt pk pk da da
gr uis pk eses t ss tuut
suis vsr kst susa stm

u is ms vs kkk da k da
is s mnt gruis stm uut
isis is si gruis issk astm.

made with MBROLA & Audacity, dv 2010
pre-involuted version: http://vilt.wordpress.com/2007/11/26/gruisbruggen/

Complicity with the author

2009-02-06T19:59:00.007+01:00

erhaps fiction is all we have. German idealist philosopher Hans Vaihinger posited something of that nature in his work on the philosophy of the as-if.

As it happens, Vaihinger's work is only known by frequent quotations, not all of them very reliable, in papers, essays and books dealing with American literature. In that field Vaihinger seems to function as a mythical 'deep' layer on which many 'surfacing' fictional theorems are then supposed to be building (that is to say: theory as somehow included in novels, much like theoretical conjectures are brought to the attention of the reader in works like Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, re-counted, or discovered as part of the 'conte', the progression of the discovery of what happened, how the past got to be what it is in the present, by main characters in novel stories).

The novel as a genre has a very large tradition of incorporating philosophical treatise in its corpus of 'fiction'. Tragic and deeply moving stories by Dostojevski are largely lacerated by lengthy religious distractions, most of which could perhaps have been extracted leaving a more pure fictional work. It's been 30 years since i read the darn thing, but i do remember giving up after 40 pages of religious treatise in his "Brothers Karamazov". I remember a feeling most of you will recognize as 'ok, we know you've got some dark hidden truth way down there, explaining it all, now please get on with the story, i want to know what happened!". Whatever it is that we want to know while reading, it certainly isn't the theory behind it all. Authors who keep trying to explain, will eventually get flunked by their readers.

But authors of novels always kinda seem to like, well, er , be after the truth of things by means of their fictions. They often very much want to be taken seriously. The creation of fiction seems to imply a creation of truth as a negative by-product, and where there is a large production of beauty an equal amount of theoretical build-up appears to trouble the acclaimed novelist, tempting her to burst out in interviews proclaiming her world according to ME, the abandoned I she can't write or even speak from, the final persona that is left in the dark when all the worlds lights shine on her fictions and her raving characters.

In the novels themselves, pure theory however is only tolerated as a perforation of the fictional entourage. It's function is exactly to drive a thread of the real through the fabric of fiction. It allows the real to percolate into the moist and the thick of the plot, in such a way that will satisfy even the hardest of readers, another novelist.

The escape into fiction, a primordial motivation to start writing fiction in the first place, may well be that the author is seeking out the excitement involved when you start writing on the edge of your ignorance. The object of desire, the agency driving the act of writing, is a nearly physical craving for truth. The Other takes the form of an Outside that needs to overtake the author so that she can speak as one of the Wise, the True, and perhaps, the horrific Elders.

Writing fiction in that sense may be a kind of weakening of the sharp edges of the unknown, a laceration of darkness with daringly thrown bolts of lightning, a move forward by means of the acid of wordiness, the dynamite of poetic language, the recoiling of growing intrigue. Amidst her territoire armée d'armes et de larmes, the author stand bold, as if nothing could ever happen to her, as if the author always knew what she is going to write, as if she has total control over all the motions she is about to initiate, just by starting out like 'riverrun, past Eve and Adam's from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs'.

Of course she doesn't. And when we 're done, she, the author, us the readers, and it, the riverrun of fiction, we still don't we don't have the slightest clue of what 'really' happened while we were reading, only that our real world somehow got truncated by another, by an outside in which everything was a lot more straightforward, easier to grasp, better to hang on to, and full of sound and fury signifying exactly the same amount of nothing that we started out with.

Fiction, thus, enjoys the liberty of meaning without significance, of moving without being moved, of bringing about nothing and keeping you on the edge of your concentration while doing just that. The currants of 'real' theory inside the fiction function in much the same way as currants of artificial intelligence in large programs aimed at very specific goals: they lift the flow of what happens ever so slightly towards a perception of something real taking place, they reassure us that what is going on beyond our scope or hold is truly intelligent, sound reasoning, efficient data-handling: progress.

Both the Modernist novel, starting with Zola and Lawrence, as the post-modern body of fiction including such marvels of intricacy and intellectual splendour as Pynchon's work, both takes at the novelist job, have in common this continuous friction between theory and fiction, a poromechanics as our series-subject Negarestani would have it of the imagined real by the real as conjecture and vice-versa.

But what happens if the tables turn, and the theorist wants to become the producer of fiction, and when a body of theory is lacerated by shiny strings of sensuous fiction? Will the theorist retain his manly stature as a prominent builder of systematic thought? Or will he fall victim to the strategem of his own device? Will we end up with the best of both worlds, or the worst?

Wait and see, be sure to tune in regularly to NKDEE.blogspot.com for our next episode of DIGGING FOR OIL, a review on the run for the horrors of CYCLONOPEDIA, Reza Negarestani's take on the Middle East as a sentient entity...

Grand L

2009-01-30T15:29:00.001+01:00

vElfabet j

2009-01-23T00:40:00.003+01:00

the letter j
was intended to get people
to come closer together

its vibrating power remains
poorly understood

Several people trying to run away from themselves

2009-01-15T00:06:00.001+01:00

views on the prismatic explication of light

2009-01-11T17:11:00.001+01:00

Towards an Enterprise Framework of Kinelogy

2008-12-21T10:27:00.009+01:00

Perhaps what is needed in order to deal with what Bernard Stiegler refers to as our symbolic misery, notre misère symbolique, is a true dynamisation of our ontological apparatus.

Badiou, the self-indulgent little creep, has gladly given us a reductionist ontology nicely co-inciding with a reductionist mathesis, a tapestry of maps covering maps of the maps of a fictional world, and, on that basis, a Second Chance to establish a clearcut ethical New Order, a network of static gates governed by the Supreme Being of his own Badinage, a Sacred Topology centered around the zero ground of the one significant Event in the Universe: the Birth of his own sorry ass.

Serious philosophers however will know how to pierce through the blatantly maoistic style sheets of his rhetoric and will have no trouble in separating the true logic from the man's business logic, a particularly venomous variant of the old affliction that unfortunately has accompanied most seekers of wisdom who fail to love their own ignorance as the field in which they are allowed to progress: an insatiable need of power, a wish beyond all reason to dominate and to salvage their doomed ego's from death by the attempt to inscribe themselves as an identity on an imaginary Plane of All Humanity.

Now, for that, those two paragraphs is all that i will ever (from now on) write on the wretched subject, so please let us go back to our urgent problems. Bernard Stiegler offers us a very bleak picture of our present condition, and although i haven't at this moment by far finished with going through the entirety of his tracé, a quite impressive route along a number of often quite brilliantly written books of merciless analysis, it is now time i think to accompany my readings of this and other authors with a minor strand, or tiny string of my own.

In mentioning the One Who's Name i Will Mention No More, i have tried to indicate that our ontology, as we know it from one particular angle in our Western Way, is indeed in some respect and given sufficient linguistic reduction identifiable with a mathematically definable topology.
The way we think 'naturally' leads to mathesis, and the nature of mathesis is primarily static, i.e. it refers to a systematic of Place. Any referentiality of thought is based on and biased towards a conception of spatiality and in any conception of spatiality the human mind will always tend towards closure, finiteness and a dismissal of the Real through a fictionalisation into (systems of) objects. Any human becoming is limited by our need to be before we can come, hence the inevitability of our erotic misery.

My very Cathedral is built on the same premises, a designation of mathesis as the firmament of our sense of Being, our ontology, but i have at all times diligently steered away from the temptation to build a fictional apparatus of 'engulfing' on a discovery i do not consider my own, nor His, nor anyone's because it is simply the only logical conclusion that we, the totality of our intellectual efforts, are driven to by the inherent machinic conditions of those very efforts themselves. In spite of Alice's story, looking in the mirror doesn't make us actually leave the Place.

It is , in other words, all too easy to reconstruct the nature of Becoming as a system centered aroud a objectified Event, a merely topological co-ordinate that organizes our Being by its very existence. There is an awkward need and a dangerous desire to close the circle here, a circle of identification that ought to have remained the spiral of differentiation. Again the strange attractor of our need for Perfection is literally smothering any further chance of becoming, of escaping our need to Be.

Our contention throughout these writings will be that in spite of the tragedy of our human condition, and without the need to construct any transcendent realm of salvation, we can indeed overcome our own suicidal tendencies by construing an indirect virtual 'contingency' plan, a way, in short, to summon the Exterior into our fictional Existence.

The prospect of such investigations should of course be an utterly frightful one. The Lovecraftian adegium of 'Be afraid, be very afraid' should be taken most seriously because we are dealing here with things that concern our very survival. It is, in fact , a matter of life and death, and in such matters fear is often a better guide than self-indulgent bravery. But, as we will try to make clear later, this has always been the case, it is only our mastery of self-delusion that lets us of the hook of utter fear, our ability to turn our heads away from the monster and merrily chatter about the weather, right until the very split second that all cameras focus on our being snapped away by It.

We will therefore assume that what is required is an actual method that defies all our misgivings that anything that is written is an accomplishment. There is, in fact, no such thing as a philosophical accomplishment. Philosophy is a disposition, a process enabling the opening of accessoires (secure points of access - sluices) through wich the Exterior is allowed to give Breath to the living.

Therefore, what i write here need not be true. It needn't even make any sense (at this moment, or at the moment you are reading it, or at any given co-ordinate in spacetime).

What i write here needs to work, that's all. If it gives Breath to the living, it works, and then i will have written wisely, i.e. as a temporal construct bravely but self-deceivingly in love with my own ignorance.

There is, in fact, as Nobel Laureate Dorris Lessing once referred to 'No way but to go in". In doing so however, we generate a motion that can be forced into a virtual relationship with a Motion of the Outside. This can be achieved by meditation, as many religious traditions have shown in their adherence, their belief in the power of individuals, mystics to supersede the limitations of human perception. It will be our contention that some result can be achieved by refusing to designate ( again that word) any sense of contact with the Outside to what is traditionally contained by a religious harnessing, the belief in a Supreme Being.

Other does not necessarily lead to an-other in a relation to an a that is. Figures of speech do not add up, you can't count on them doing so. If you do, you'll necessarily end up in atrocity.

Soit. Let that be, for the moment.

Our main angle of approach will then be to further that to the contrary of what is historically our given method, a conditioning of our very modes of thought, and in spite of serious efforts of (for instance, but also: mainly) Jacques Derrida in deconstructing those modes of thought in order to revitalise the mortal coil that threatens us as humans, the spiraling down of our energies to our own extinction, and, moreover, in spite of Gilles Deleuze's efforts to break down our 'humanist' tendencies to close our world, his continuing effort (beyond his own death) to steer us towards a fundamental openness, we are still in a very urgent need to take up the continuing challenge to see through our own delusions and - sorry but you need to dig the humour of the thing too, or you will miss the whole clue of the enfolding tragedy - to boldly go where no man has gone before.

XCP celebrates

2008-10-22T09:44:00.003+02:00

XCP: Cross Cultural Poetics celebrates its twentieth issue with the publication of a 180+ page anthology of contemporary writers addressing the theme upon which the journal was founded more than a decade ago. Below are just a few of the essays that appear in this anniversary issue:

Kazim Ali, “The Poetics of Islam”
Amiri Baraka, “Black Power in Newark”
Jeff Derksen, “The Idea of Cross-Culture”
Bhanu Kapil, “Notes of Failure: A Short Essay on Cross-Cultural Poetics”
Barbara Jane Reyes, “On Feminism, Women of Color, Poetics, and Reticence”
Rodrigo Toscano, “To Become Super-Solid”
Tyrone Williams, “Problems and Promises of Actually Existing Cross Cultural Poetics”
Rachel Zolf, “A Tenuous We: Writing as Not-Knowing”

Others writers in this special issue include Maria Damon, Patrick Durgin, Larissa Lai, Juliana Spahr, Celina Su, Edwin Torres, Fred Wah, Rita Wong, and many others.

XCP no. 20 is available as part of a four-issue subscription ($30, checks payable to “College of St. Catherine” and mailed to Mark Nowak, ed., XCP: Cross Cultural Poetics, c/o College of St. Catherine, 601 25th Avenue South, Minneapolis, MN. 55454; subscribers outside the U.S. please add $5). For questions, email the editor at manowak_at_
XCP no. 21/22 will be a special double issue (“South Africa: Literature and Social Movements”) that will include new writings from Dennis Brutus, Zine Magubane, Kelwyn Sole, Botsotso Jesters, Priya Narismulu, and many others.

As Juan Felipe Herrera wrote about XCP in the Poetry Project Newsletter a decade ago: “Welcome to a Writer’s Manual on how to detonate the master axis of Big Brother narratives.”

CONCEPTUAL CONTINUITY: 141 - Dirk Vekemans

2008-10-16T13:28:00.000+02:00

CONCEPTUAL CONTINUITY: 141 - Dirk Vekemans

our hands don't touch this is

2008-10-06T01:09:00.005+02:00

our hands don't touch this is
no touch the thought of you just
slaps my face, the other cheek turns
red, i run or is this running
wild your thought of me?

i write out of some dreary
lust, a withered
craving, knowing you
won't read a thing

when lust is trapped
at the inside of lust
the lust engenders horror

look:

this hand now hands us
nowhere going nowhere
while it used to think
& therefor be
you but now no

we intertwined
we interlaced
we brought our
bleeding selves
into this world

the running shriveled to
this dying hand where its
dying runs dead
& all must end

you are recursively generated garbage

2008-09-13T14:42:00.004+02:00

analog synaptic potentials
generate
digital action potentials
generate
analog synaptic potentials
generate
digital action potentials.

Donald Favareau: Beyond self and other: On the neurosemiotic emergence of intersubjectivity

Abstract:

" The explosive growth over the last two decades of neuroscience,
cognitive science, and “consciousness studies” as generally conceived,
remains as yet unaccompanied by a corresponding development in the establishment
of an explicitly semiotic understanding of how the relations of
sign exchange at the neuronal level function in the larger network of psychologically
accessible sign exchange. This article attempts a preliminary foray
into the establishment of just such a neurosemiotic. It takes, as its test case and
as its point of departure, recent discoveries from the neurobiological research
on viuso-motor transformations and on the widespread cortical phenomena of
selectively tuned, single-neuron response to argue for a vision of “intersubjectivity”
whereby the ens rationis arising as a function of the neuronal
semiosphere may be abstracted, constructed, and shared mutually across
agents."

thooooaaheeeEEEEedzZjud

2008-09-12T19:04:00.010+02:00

LA ROSA ENFLORECE

La rosa enflorece
o en el mez de Mayo,
mi alma s'escurece
sufriendo del amor

Los bililicos cantan
en el arbol del amor
y la pasión me mata,
muchigua mi dolor.

màs presto ven Palomba,
màs presto ven a mi,
màs presto tu mi alma,
que yo me vo morir.

[text from a sephardic romance]

Our poetic impulse, our strongest intuition is to affirm life against any limitation, including, especially, in view of the countless historical disasters, religious reductionism of the free spirit to a transcendentally cloaked discourse of power.

Any affirmation of life precludes the affirmation of death plus the annihilation of consciousness, the improperness of any 'after-life', that can only be envisioned as a ghastly never-ending torment of pseudo-completion, as well as the idiocy of religious idolatry, personal god-creations, the attribution of uneasing troubles to demoniacla forces etc, although one needs to be lenient on purely 'practical' moral grounds, however little such leniency may have to be in accordance with a truly ethical position.

I mean: however ' wrong' some blokes may be, you just don't spit people in the face for being ethically adrift. In fact, in my view, the only vantage point allowed is a rectification by exemplum, acquiring the wanderer's weak and faulty rhytm and working it the other way, all the time keeping strictly within your own 'legal' field of movement.
Within the future present of the other's life, it's kinda like a Star Trek thing: you don't interfere, one can show but not touch, lest you corrupt the promise inherent in what is shown with the act of breaking the promise.

Unless you're some kinda nutty saint, nobody will notice anything, don't fool yourself, mohammed. But it's the only 'legal' way and theoretically it is even possible.

Anyway, in spite of today's fashionable 'bleak destination', including the 'daring heroism' of so many intellectuals staring Emptyness Itself in the eye (I, I, no I), any true immanent position today would require a serious reconsidering of what is too easily acquited as belonging to 'idolatric transcendentalism' or even plain foolish stubborness

For immanence as such _also_ necessitates a 'mystic' movement within its discourse, namely there where the ambivalence of the affirmative energies is used, metaphorically speaking, as the engine of pro-creating consciousness, uncut from the worlding spirals of pre-consciousness, on 'purely' virtual grounds, pre-individual if you want, albeit that the pre may be wrongly held as a signifier for an absent temporal order.

The order of speech here is perhaps topological, preceding the psychic space-time divide. And pro-creation here would be a lengthening beyond the order of speech that is applied, hence the paradoxical, hence the term 'mystic' to describe ( write down) the movement.

But of course this 'immanent mysticism' would de facto tune in nicely with any transcendental 'traditional' language/usage/method of acquiring 'un-worldly' knowledge. Extreme care is required in view of the strength and ruthlessness with which religious dogmatists have been able to recuperate any intellectual effort passed to us by these rare individuals and their testimonials of extreme experiences.

Furthermore, although a poetic method of investigation does not require any succes in a world that seems dead set on destroying itself anyway, regardless of any sense, common, poetic or otherwise, you might take care not to compound the already soaring insults of insanity and naïvity with any further association with the quacks and new agers of the scene, as it further succumbs into commercially orchestrated sickening whirlings of slime into slime into sour vomit.

It's worth giving this line of thought and (daily) praxis a chance though: occasionally one does end up with a piece of strangely sharp and heavy matter able to soar right to the bottom of this global mess and make a sound that cuts through all the crap.

It is, rather unsurprisingly, somewhat erotic, that sound. It goes like "thud" at its weakest or "dzjeEEUjuCK", or sometimes even "thooooaaheeeEEEEedzZjud".

danseuse presque noir

2008-09-12T11:05:00.005+02:00

Morning Sickness

2008-08-27T21:43:00.006+02:00

(to be pronounced as if spoken by an english adolescent speaking Latin, threaded & slimy but not too moist)

tereorama todore
torore terrea
turo rurore
rurore tororo

ramis tudoris omkto
ficinio alsi rama pulpo

taliente tumore
terema
terema
terema talient'_uoromo

furor a
timor u
moritu i

adieu bipède économe à la station de culée de pont
in every dark harlottery harbor my fingers
will brigh-
tingligh-
tingly linger on the absence of your splendid skin

"ta fuoca ta fuo me fui fui ffffpff pf tkp fpt f"
(your every hair is eye-adorned an isle pointée)

"affev'_in fabelli balleggi no ishini tlip tkt
nt ushi pock lami lamitilla"
(your lips would suck the wet writing of des astres
and i'd reflect your beams in every single drop of dew)

DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF
DAF DAF DAFFF DAFFUO DFF

DFFFF DFFFF O DLL
ODILLO-MATIQUE

pharmakONE

2008-07-21T23:08:00.002+02:00

series /material for animation:

Homme URInoir

2008-07-16T12:08:00.003+02:00

Homme URInoir envisagent son tableau nu descendant du balcon
dv, barcelona 2008, Marie's Water Colour, charcoal & pierre noire pencil

Campo-Santo

2008-06-01T10:33:00.000+02:00

Nowbethankfull
Video sent by vilt001

Symbolical inauguration of the Dialyse artshow in the old Campo-Santo chapel Gent by Grapes of Art with a performance of Fairport Convention's "Now be thankfull"

Reva, la garce de trash

2008-05-21T23:44:00.003+02:00

Another statue in the make, a hell of a fundraiser this will turn out to be.
It is Reva, Izeganz idol, a rather trashy girl with an overload of unredeemable beauty running through her veins, which are kinda circumstantial in this rendering of her in wood, steel, aluminium, plastic, robe and whatever.

protestpoem for Jamyang Kyi

2008-05-11T13:39:00.001+02:00

on water we write that
winds will blow words
will bulge ripples will

burst into sound & pictures
will show & wavelets will
grow. arrest jamyang

kyi & winds will blow
words will bulge ripples
will burst into sound

dv, 11/05/2008

----- Original Message ----
From: Protest Poems' Call for Words <writeprotestpoems@gmail.com>
Subject: Sing For Free Speech: Poems and Lyrics of Protest!

Before May 15th!

Current Writing Prompt:
Independence or Freedom to Associate or Women' Voices*

Jamyang Kyi

On April 1, Chinese authorities detained the popular Tibetan feminist, writer, singer, television producer and blogger Jamyang Kyi.

Jamyang Kyi's computer and other personal property were confiscated, though no charges have been disclosed in regard to an arrest.

Her husband, Lamao Jia, has not been allowed to see or speak to her since April 7.

Jamyang Kyi's writings and songs have not been considered political, but the Times speculates that she may be detained on suspicion of her having had contact with exiled Tibetan groups while traveling abroad.

More information can be found online. A google search will bring several pages of detailed, current links. Direct links can be found on the protestpoems.org website.

Please express your outrage in form: a poem, a song about independence, about feminist ideals, about whatever you think is appropriate. MP3 and video files are welcome, and will be posted on the Babel Fruit journal website.

I will send the compilation off to the authorities on May 15th. As always, we hope she's released before then.

*******

--
Thank you for taking part!

We have added you to our mailing list, and you will receive requests for poems of protest to support a specific writer about once a month.

I hope you will support a colleague/kindred-spirit who is being persecuted for exercising his or her right of Free Speech. 15 minutes of writing can make a difference.

Remember to send poems to write@protestpoems.org
(If all else fails: renka@online.no)

*Note: Please make sure that your email application is configured to accept multiple recipient emails from this address:

writeprotestpoems@gmail.com

If you have questions or, for any reason, you would like to be taken off this list, send an email to: write@protestpoems.org

Thank you again!
Ren

table aid for the Klebnikov Carnaval

2008-05-07T23:22:00.009+02:00

we have a design!

I'm making a table, to be sold on Ebay when it's done. I will be selling it in order to buy me some time for the Khlebnikov thing in August.

The table is part of the Thing as it happens. It's the code of Plateau 15 of the Path of the Weeping Night applied to painted toys, garbage, glass and paint.

Here's some pictures already, my daughter Charlotte took most of them:

the wheel's from an old toy charriot

me while i'm at it

The little pyramid thing's a bit of packaging support painted black.

that's a nice painting composition!

Here's the main figurine sweating it out in his sack of felt ( that's vilt in Dutch): i bought this male barbie doll for less then 2 euro in the recycling shop.

All of it 's garbage, in fact.

Vlak 13 on Daily Motion

2008-05-04T21:45:00.002+02:00

Vlak 13 van Het Pad van de Wenende Nacht
Video sent by vilt001

This is a performance of part of my rewrite of Khlebnikov's Zangezi by dirk vekemans and ilse derden directed by dirk vekemans and arnout camerlinckxs
recoded to be able to be viewed on blogs

Plateau 13 from The Path of the Weeping Night

2008-05-04T00:22:00.001+02:00

Note: Both the web-version and the gallery version are looped and start with a 20 second black nothing

Web-version : http://www.vilt.net/nkdee/data/downloads/chlebnikov/vlak_13_web.html (25 mb)

Gallery version: http://www.vilt.net/nkdee/data/downloads/chlebnikov/dirkvekemans.zip (50mb)

About Plateau 13 of The Path of the Weeping Night

"This is a performance of the existing code for plateau 13 of The Path of the Weeping Night

The Path of the Weeping Night is the ‘score’/ ‘source code’ written by dirk vekemans for the performance of his re-write of Velemir Khlebnikov's Zangezi totalling 20 such planes or plateau's one for each part of the Russiian original. Not unlike dv's New Cathedral of Erotic Misery (see http://www.vilt.net/nkdee - an update of Schwitters original Kathedrale des erotischen Elends), the Path is faithfull to the original work only in spirit.

The code is to be used freely for non-commercial purposes. In fact everyone involved in this International Celebration of Russia's foremost Modernist Poet would very much like to see some more 'performances' of existing code along the Path. Authors and performers are advised to go about this in a very free way, in fact throwing away the existing code might in some cases be a better way than trying to make something of it. Heck it’s in Dutch anyway.

There's consistent rumours of a Great International Khlebnikov Carnaval to be held from august 11 to 17 , 2008 in Kessel-Lo, near Louvain in Belgium, so it might be a good idea to start thinking about your contribution right now.

Source code (in Dutch) for the Path is made available through http://khlebnikov.wordpress.com

In any case Dirk refuses responsibility for any damage to performing players or machines."

This Plateau premiered at the *ZAOEM festival of Present Day Poetry in Gent earlier this april: http://www.krikri.be/zaoem

Performers

Text: dirk vekemans

Recitation and singing: dirk vekemans en Ilse Derden

direction: dirk vekemans en Arnout Camerlinckx

Ilse Derden en Arnout Camerlinckx and their assorted friends together form the art-collective Grapes of Art, see http://www.grapesofart.org

Web-version : http://www.vilt.net/nkdee/data/downloads/chlebnikov/vlak_13_web.html

Gallery version: http://www.vilt.net/nkdee/data/downloads/chlebnikov/dirkvekemans.zip (50mb!)

(please send us a picture and some details of whereabouts if you ‘re showing the gallery version)

Please spread this message as you see fit.

To conclude here’s some lines from the master himself, from a longer poem
that sets out with “When autumn comes to turn the trees[…]then we think of spring and Mardi Gras!”:

“Good friends, arise! And stand prepared
to follow her with heaps of light
and woven strands of mist and flowers!
Wilder than the sea at dawn,
spread yourselves in streams across
the east and watch, enchanted by
the air’s blue escapades,
As dreams uncoil like waking snakes.
Iridescent as the flowers,
blown by the breath of human mouths,
Spring arises from her sleep,
all men who scrabble after profit,
who reckon days in gain and strain,
who reckon days in trade and coin,
all have joined the single flood
of love for the Virgin Spring, loyal subjects
sure her CARNIVAL will last forever.”

Velemir Khlebnikov – from ‘ The Poet’ transl. by Paul Schmidt

Please spread this message as you see fit.

Thank You.

split second

2008-04-30T22:54:00.000+02:00

Elfabetisation - C

2008-04-23T12:47:00.004+02:00

cola (cola)
chora (chora)
citrus (citrus)
clan (clan)

china (china)
cheops (cheops)
crisis (crisis)
carnaval (carnaval)

code (code)
cello (cello)
cenobiet (cenobite)

cantus (cantus)
cactus (cactus)
cro-magnon (cro-magnon)