eatsleepdraw: I call this: ALTER-EGO An artwork that was featured in our group exhibit last year. Recently, I had an idea that I keep coming back to—a Matrix-inspired notion that we, as humans are the flowering fruit and technology is the plant.  While we grow, blossom and die they upload and update—creating off-shoots via cut/copy.  We live connected to one another via their long green stalks, eventually shrivilling up and rotting on the ground while they live for hundreds of years like trees… I keep coming back to this idea because as nighmarish as its initial resonances might be, the act of contemplating it acts like a springboard into an innerworld of endless corridors, each lined with doors leading to new realities. (it’s up to me to pick one and push it open)

eatsleepdraw:

I call this: ALTER-EGO

An artwork that was featured in our group exhibit last year.

Recently, I had an idea that I keep coming back to—a Matrix-inspired notion that we, as humans are the flowering fruit and technology is the plant.  While we grow, blossom and die they upload and update—creating off-shoots via cut/copy.  We live connected to one another via their long green stalks, eventually shrivilling up and rotting on the ground while they live for hundreds of years like trees…

I keep coming back to this idea because as nighmarish as its initial resonances might be, the act of contemplating it acts like a springboard into an innerworld of endless corridors, each lined with doors leading to new realities.

(it’s up to me to pick one and push it open)

booktumbling: richndelicious: thelovelybones: <3 “Ever since her death there have been an increasing number of strange occurrences…threads of interwoven synchronicities and repetitive dreams about tidal waves and zombies.  Not to mention messages I seem to be getting in popular movies.  Underlying, interwoven trends in the plot lines laser beam through and between the actors, illuminating their own connections to the material and the larger superstructure of popular culture. I get the feeling there’s something I’m meant to figure out.  Something for the novel—that one small piece of the plot that’s still missing…”

booktumbling:

richndelicious:

thelovelybones:

<3

“Ever since her death there have been an increasing number of strange occurrences…threads of interwoven synchronicities and repetitive dreams about tidal waves and zombies.  Not to mention messages I seem to be getting in popular movies.  Underlying, interwoven trends in the plot lines laser beam through and between the actors, illuminating their own connections to the material and the larger superstructure of popular culture.

I get the feeling there’s something I’m meant to figure out.  Something for the novel—that one small piece of the plot that’s still missing…”

Several years ago I was greatly inspired by Lacan’s psychoanalytic reading (and Derrida and others&#8217; subsequent critiques) of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “The Purloined Letter.” In the story, a letter is hidden in full sight on the mantle while the police turn the house inside out looking for it. My experiments have shown that this is also the best way to do graffiti&#8212; right out in full view of everyone during rush hour.  I dress in business casual, like I just got off work.  I sport a wig in the latest generic woman’s hair style—lately it’s been the Rhianna pompadour—jet black and very chic.  It’s amazing how the right pair of shoes will make the world get out of your way and let you do whatever you want.  More specifically I mean expensive Italian ones that I can run like hell in without making any noise. Tod’s are always a good choice. They match my laptop bag filled with spray cans.  The stencils are tucked in the fake fur-lined front pouch. I work methodically—at a steady pace that’s neither too fast nor too slow.  My earbuds are in but my iPod is off and my glasses are on as I focus on positioning the stencil upon the wall I’m going to spray upon.  It’s at this point that I often attract a few onlookers.  Sometimes they ask me what I’m doing and I answer “PR”.

Several years ago I was greatly inspired by Lacan’s psychoanalytic reading (and Derrida and others’ subsequent critiques) of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “The Purloined Letter.” In the story, a letter is hidden in full sight on the mantle while the police turn the house inside out looking for it. My experiments have shown that this is also the best way to do graffiti— right out in full view of everyone during rush hour.  I dress in business casual, like I just got off work.  I sport a wig in the latest generic woman’s hair style—lately it’s been the Rhianna pompadour—jet black and very chic.  It’s amazing how the right pair of shoes will make the world get out of your way and let you do whatever you want.  More specifically I mean expensive Italian ones that I can run like hell in without making any noise. Tod’s are always a good choice. They match my laptop bag filled with spray cans.  The stencils are tucked in the fake fur-lined front pouch.

I work methodically—at a steady pace that’s neither too fast nor too slow.  My earbuds are in but my iPod is off and my glasses are on as I focus on positioning the stencil upon the wall I’m going to spray upon.  It’s at this point that I often attract a few onlookers.  Sometimes they ask me what I’m doing and I answer “PR”.

“I want to be like him. He’s never hung-up, he goes every direction, he lets it all out, he knows time, he has nothing to do but rock back and forth. Man, he’s the end! You see, if you go like him all the time you’ll finally get it.”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 2, Ch. 4
dylancoyle: via Ray Ceasar I closed my eyes again and when I opened them I was on the island from Lost. I stood on a hill overlooking a deep green valley. The sea was to the left of me—wave after wave broke on top of one other as they raced to the white sand shore with its clusters of rocks and swaying palm trees. A Hawaiian paradise in all its glory—only it wasn’t Hawaii. Although this was the place where the TV show was filmed, the place where I stood was not on TV.  I stood on the actual island from Lost, the invisible one out there spinning in time—both in the plot and as a complete entity connected tangentially to the ever-changing minds of the writers and producers.  It was real, and I was a part of it.  I was a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815—that much I knew.  All other information of my old existence was distant and hard to recall.  My own name kept slipping through my fingers.  I closed my eyes to concentrate and saw flashes of computer screens and a dreary room and a sink stacked with takeout containers.   Even though I could barely remember it, I had the sense that I should keep the fact that I had another life a secret.  I needed to give myself over to my new part like Sawyer, Juliet and the others give themselves over to life in the doomed Dharma initiative. The sense of being there was such that there was no more future, no more maybes and hatching of plans.  I was where I was and there was no questioning it—no reality beyond the here and now.  No economy, no emails no phone calls to make, no things to buy, or appointments to schedule—no show to perform or far flung destiny the only thing I had to do in the whole world was what I was doing—walking down the gently sloping grass covered hill and into the trees, where the darkness of evening was starting to gather.

dylancoyle:

via Ray Ceasar

I closed my eyes again and when I opened them I was on the island from Lost.

I stood on a hill overlooking a deep green valley. The sea was to the left of me—wave after wave broke on top of one other as they raced to the white sand shore with its clusters of rocks and swaying palm trees. A Hawaiian paradise in all its glory—only it wasn’t Hawaii. Although this was the place where the TV show was filmed, the place where I stood was not on TV.  I stood on the actual island from Lost, the invisible one out there spinning in time—both in the plot and as a complete entity connected tangentially to the ever-changing minds of the writers and producers.  It was real, and I was a part of it.  I was a survivor of Oceanic Flight 815—that much I knew.  All other information of my old existence was distant and hard to recall.  My own name kept slipping through my fingers.  I closed my eyes to concentrate and saw flashes of computer screens and a dreary room and a sink stacked with takeout containers.   Even though I could barely remember it, I had the sense that I should keep the fact that I had another life a secret.  I needed to give myself over to my new part like Sawyer, Juliet and the others give themselves over to life in the doomed Dharma initiative.

The sense of being there was such that there was no more future, no more maybes and hatching of plans.  I was where I was and there was no questioning it—no reality beyond the here and now.  No economy, no emails no phone calls to make, no things to buy, or appointments to schedule—no show to perform or far flung destiny the only thing I had to do in the whole world was what I was doing—walking down the gently sloping grass covered hill and into the trees, where the darkness of evening was starting to gather.

(via jambulance) Truman Burbank: Was anything real? Christof: You were real. That&#8217;s what made you so good to watch&#8230; When a synch occurred I realized that a message was being broadcast—something was being communicated by our collective unconsciousness:  something from us, to us—like the self-interpretation of a dream.  It wasn’t that the internet and TV were talking to me specifically—they were talking to anyone who happened to have the ears to hear it. the true man show by eve11

(via jambulance)

Truman Burbank: Was anything real?
Christof: You were real. That’s what made you so good to watch…

When a synch occurred I realized that a message was being broadcast—something was being communicated by our collective unconsciousness:  something from us, to us—like the self-interpretation of a dream.  It wasn’t that the internet and TV were talking to me specifically—they were talking to anyone who happened to have the ears to hear it.

the true man show by eve11

eatsleepdraw: Dusk by Kei Liwanag Evening came and I felt boxed-in.  I watched TV all day and hadn’t caught a single synch—not a tremor or a gastronomical event or anything&#8212; just like the day before and the day before that.  Usually a lull meant that an intense series of synchs were making their way towards me—even so, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was it all over?  Was the download finally finished?  Did I have all the information I needed?  After all that I’d seen, a part of me still believed it possible that I’d wake up one day and everything would be back to normal.

eatsleepdraw:

Dusk by Kei Liwanag

Evening came and I felt boxed-in.  I watched TV all day and hadn’t caught a single synch—not a tremor or a gastronomical event or anything— just like the day before and the day before that.  Usually a lull meant that an intense series of synchs were making their way towards me—even so, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was it all over?  Was the download finally finished?  Did I have all the information I needed?  After all that I’d seen, a part of me still believed it possible that I’d wake up one day and everything would be back to normal.