≋ tiny fl ○ aters ≋

let's wander with our eyes closed.

Mark is standing beside a tomb on which is laid a Xerox of the Mona Lisa. It is a Super-8 movie. No dialogue. Mark places flowers on the smiling face. The surfer wipes out. The smile is both beautiful and sublime.
  But only from certain angles.
  The flowers are kitsch.
  […]
  The body in the letters of a literature of flawed flows. The hysteric that reframes the flowers by dropping them out of the frame. Leaving a signature without a date, a calligraphic density to be restored by experts. In a language like English I move outside of the frame and up the price of the dialogue. The aesthetic is drifting with me contaminating space with viral integrity. I speak but signatures slide from my lips down the line towards the seminal space of reception. My voice is cloaked in the digital, and its tense tonality sounds futuristic, a B-movie effect that puts you off the content.
  Once I drifted into chit-chat, love, cars, books, but now … breathless and ill at ease, I wait without flowers and imagine that this sense of deja-vu is deceptive and that this exchange is original. Not a nausea, but visionary sickness.
  “The interminable analysis of vomit, of a nausea rather, by which I am infected and which causes me to write myself, ” you said or someone said and through repetition you amplified that ambivalent sign. Illness and its metaphors.

———
Mark Waugh
aus: Come

The Context of HOE

In the Summer of 1994, a handful of barely literate teenagers gathered under the name of Hogs of Entropy (HOE). Their purpose: the release of sequentially numbered textfiles, providing august commentary on ‘Meaningful Shit’, the fatality codes to Mortal Kombat II and full collections of Nirvana lyrics. In this pursuit, the members of HOE emulated other barely literate teenagers who’d gathered under equally ridiculous names and released equally tiring files. Such collectives first emerged from the hack/phreak underground of the early eighties and quickly created a sub-literature of the profane and pointless.

The vast majority of groups disappeared. HOE was one of the few that transitioned into the age of the world wide web, a deliberately antiquated enterprise at the new frontier. Following a conscious change in editorial direction at the end of 1998, HOE began releasing files at an astonishing clip - ten files every week. (Historically, most groups released the same number roughly every three months.)

This burst of activity coincided with the development of a specific aesthetic. Until this point, the stupidity of textfiles had been a byproduct of the chance collision between sex-starved teenagers and an international distribution mechanism. Seeing the low quality of writing as a virtue rather than a deficit, HOE dedicated itself anew to the celebration of stupidity, a guiding principle that defined the output. Material was selected not on the basis of any immediately apparent literary facility, but on its ability to embody idiocy. Among the editorial staff, a general belief floated that by plunging into the moronic, and through surrender to senselessness, we achieved a new form of transcendence.

[…]

Groups like HOE eventually imposed form on the medium, it grew like cancer until the medium was indistinguishable from the form.

[…]

speaking of. talked again about the hoe book. ugh. i will be glad when it’s over, but he told me something i thought was totally crazy, like actually mad not just weird, he says the whole book is a rewrite of bram stoker’s dracula. that its structure is the structure of dracula, a novel in letters and documents, he said in the original hoe #999 there’s a letter from mina murray that he made up from memory, so the idea comes from the original file and the connection is real. the way to conceive of both books is as interconnected works of technology haunted by a mysterious, malicious figure. but in the case of the hoe book, the figure isn’t a vampire but rather hoe #999 itself, which interrupts and intrudes on the other documents. he wants to retitle the book ‘the dead un-dead’ after stoker’s original title.

i said that’s an awful title. he said it was not nearly as bad as hoe #999: decennial appreciation and celebratory analysis. he said it took him a few days to come up with a title that bad.

we laughed.

——————
Jarett Kobek
aus: HOE #999: Decennial Appreciation and Celebratory Analysis

BTW: did you know that literature is a Nigerian money scam? On the one hand you go to those poetry sites where people cut and paste words and phrases together to form post-modern nonsense then, on the other hand, you get all this spam coming through which uses exactly the same technique to fill out the body of the email and avoid the spam filters while sticking in an image which is an ad for some Venezuelan gerbil-farm’s stock offering. It’s great. You can’t get enough spam which is why you should spend all day submitting your name to as many goofball spam sites as you can. This morning you could have received 230,000 new emails and all of them full of great avant-garde, erm, poetry.

————
Stewart Home
aus: Blood Rites of the Bourgeoisie

The curve of the smile is rolling between frames. The super-imposed negative is a dense tube. Mark is standing beside a tomb on which is laid a Xerox of the Mona Lisa. It is a Super-8 Movie. No dialogue. Mark places flowers on the smiling face.

————————
Mark Waugh
aus: Bubble Entendre

uncle boonmee who can recall his past lives (cut)

Es kam mir vor, als hätte ich sie schlecht gelesen. Ich las Liebreiz in ihrem Gesicht, Aber es stand dort ein anderes Wort. Ein Ausdruck für Entschuldigung. Oder für Hilf mir. Oder für etwas ganz Neues. Ich verlas mich, erlag dem Eifer der Ergänzung halb gelesener Wörter. Ihre Hände suchten beieinander zu bleiben, die linke umfaßte das Handgelenk der rechten, als hielte sie ein Teil von sich vor unberechenbaren Griffen zurück. Ihre Arme hingen wie eine Tragschlaufe von den Schultern.
[…]
Als die Unmöglichkeit noch genügend Stoff und Stamm besaß, galt die große Unpassende, eine Frau wie Billie, oder gar die vom Wahn Besessene, für eine Kulturheilige. Am Ende der Unmöglichkeit angelangt, sind es nicht Anfechtung und Leid, sondern ausschließlich Spiel und Passung, die über die Entwicklung des höheren Typs entscheiden. Und nur der Erfolg zählt für ein Evolutionsprodukt. Kein Leiden, keine Bewußtseinsnot, kein Martyrium.
[…]
Es ist alles noch so neu für mich. Der Satz, mit dem man die Fremde entdeckt, wurde zu ihrer stehenden Redensart. Billies Mutter zeigte das Verhalten eines scheuen Menschen, der urplötzlich in seinem engsten Umkreis über das Gewohnte und Gewöhnlichste nur noch »Verwunderung bis zur Bestürzung« (Petrarca) empfindet. Die Wohnung war dieselbe, in der sie ihr halbes Leben verbracht hatte - minus Vertrauen. Der Ginster im Vorgarten war aber derselbe, an dem sie sich in jedem Frühjahr erfreute - minus Vertrauen. Vorsicht und Verwunderung war alles, was ihr geblieben, und das immer Gesehene erschien ihr wie nie zuvor gesehen. Vorsicht und Neugier lenkten ihre Schritte selbst in ihrem kleinen Zimmer, in dem ihr das Vertrauen geraubt wurde. Der Raub des Vertrauens, etwas von der Seele Abgehauenes, Apokope, keine Offenbarung, sondern … 'barung. Ein jähes Barwerden: bei sich zu sein in der Fremde. Ganz ohne die hilfreiche Tochter.

——————
Botho Strauß
aus: Der Untenstehende auf Zehenspitzen