reblog:
HEART BEARPOD SEEN IN VANCOUVER SKIES
If I disappeared tomorrow I’d leave behind the expansive, exhausting matrix of my internet wandering to the great search engine in the sky. On secret sites and password protected forums my future followers will attempt to prove or disprove my multiple identities and trade info on where to find authentic, TRUE bits and pieces as they revel in the eternally fleeting nature of my insight—the genius gift of Secret Rockstar Knowledge bestowed upon me by @hena, Goddess of cool hunting, who smiled on me from up in the clouds as I smoked the wild green grass and body surfed between the lyrics and the beat. She gave me the ability to drop critical pearls into the viral swineflu of the internets. Character limits in comment boxes and on Twitter were turned into creative catalysts—it was mind blowing to realize that the most complicated, impossible to explain things came across as succinct and well-put in140 characters or less. It was like taking a Polaroid of an architectural masterpiece. Auras of ghost light and other magical ephermera that get filtered out as mistakes by supposedly state of the art equipment are captured in a spur of the moment SNAP.
In the end, the art of living and the art of dying are all about the simple joy of pressing a button and pressing it NOW.
ak47:
Kyoto Station, Kyoto, Japan (via matt watkinson)
Just because something doesn’t exist doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
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.
<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…”
us (twitter together time mix)
(note the infinity tat and ties)
I realized that due to their infinite nature, I’d been thinking of Twitter streams as being timeless—but this is not the case. Time matters on Twitter. Not all of the same people who are on early in the morning are on late at night. There are waves of users—one after another the continents wake up, drink coffee, go to work, go out, eat dinner, drink coffee, etc…
This doesn’t mean that the members of a Twitter stream are bound by geography or time zones—all that matters is that they are “on” at the same Twitter stream time—regardless if it’s real world quitting time for one and breakfast time for another. For instance, I know it’s getting near lunch when my west coast peeps start popping up, still sweetly half-asleep. We communicate on Twitter together (as an us) in a shared time that hovers over and in-between “real life” schedules.
Despite the fun of stretching out a Twitter conversation over many hours and many days (I’ve had extremely spirited exchanges with peeps in Australia that occur with over 12 hour intervals in between responses) there are also certain advantages to coordinating your Twitter time with the Twitter time of someone else. For instance, you’re free to “@” reply any public account on Twitter—even a famous person—and the reply will be waiting for them, which they may or may not read. But if you send the @ shout when you’re both online at the same time then there’s the chance that person might actually see your tweet flash across the screen and feel moved to engage you in a “real time” back and forth.
As a group of people who discovered each other through their mutual following of someone else (or something else, in the case of a trending topic), a Twitter stream is strong if it has a far reach, meaning the content of its users keeps reaching new people. One of the ways this happens is if the stream has amplification activity going on at many different times. People are retweeting and replying to one another about the content of someone they both follow regardless of whether that person is even online.
For those who are using # signs and other microsyntax for the purposes of propaganda they would do well to chart the times of the day in which their stream is the strongest—and then work from there to get others to tweet during the off hours.
One thing I wouldn’t recommend is using software to auto-tweet your content in intervals spaced out through 24 hours. That’s because I don’t recommend any auto-tweet software or software that “automatically” increases your number of followers or anything like that. Twitter is about being there, whenever you can make it—live and direct, in Twitter time. It could be once a day or a thousand—at 3AM eternal or 24/7…whatever works for you.
If you Tweet what’s real, when it’s real, you’ll never go wrong.
Lovely Day
- the second of my three drawings i made for my friends.
If you get open and get aware it becomes apparent that everything spins in sync with everything else—you realize that even disasters unfold according to their own logic. In a sometimes wishy-washy world of virtual workforces and TV news cycles, there is the THUD of certainty that something real and undeniable has happened. The sudden, decisive leveling of a landslide or a bomb feels like the hand of history grabbing hold and shaking the place that you live. However horrific it may be, the universe goes on as though it were nothing special. No matter what happens there’s still the same calm sky shining down with a blank indifference. I remember on 9/11 looking back from the Williamsburg bridge and seeing the grey smoke rocketing into the sky in great gushes and realizing that I was looking at a battle zone…it was all very dramatic but soon the immense crowd lurched forward and I moved with it—the bridge groaning and swaying under the weight of our feet. When I looked back again the scene no longer seemed so menacing…the bright blue sky swallowed the smoke like the ocean swallows a drop of poison. It was a lovely day—the sunshine and the crowds made me feel like I’d just exited a giant simulation ride at a theme park such as Universal Studios. On the other side of the bridge the streets of Brooklyn were empty like unused back lots. Everyone was gathered in front of TVs either at home or in bars.
A few hours later the streets filled with people walking around like zombies—hungry for crowds to be alone in…groups formed without words and without leaders. The only agenda was being together.
I didn’t know it at the time but it was the dawning of a new age…
via Peter Callesen, “Dead Angels”
These days I spend the pearl grey morning hours meticulously coloring in the details of the paper super heroes that I cut like dolls out of NYC fantasies, complete with exquisite good looks and fatal flaws secretly folded in.
Random thought that came into my head.
Sharpie and prismacolor marker in my moleskin.
Cool. OK, internet friend (and real life stranger) from eatsleepdraw…here’s my random thought in return for yr drawing: a note from an in-between moment, scribbled on the pages of the moleskin in my mind…
We see therefore we are…which is to say we see ourselves watching ourselves watch the way we see…In turn, our awareness of this has changed the nature of what appears.
Let me explain: In recent times the loop has come back—the circuit of the gaze is complete. While post-modern discourse started out as solely the domain of philosophers, architects and lit critics it is now a mode of understanding that has infiltrated the everyday. Everyone knows what post-modernism means, even if they don’t know what it’s called. Post-modernism is mass produced and served up in pan global microwave meals—nukyularized in under a minute inside pop art inspired containers. It’s a brand new t-shirt with a retro slogan design. It’s jeans that you buy already ripped. It’s the sample of a TV show in the middle of a hip-hop song in which a rapper from the Brooklyn projects raps about his tricked out English luxury car, or it’s a commercial about the making of a commercial that never actually shows the product it’s advertising.
Our awareness that we live in an age of references and overlapping contexts has resulted in new culture products that celebrate the multiplicity of NOW—the show 24 uses split-screen and other production techniques to depict the many aspects and different points of view that made up every moment, while the mash-up straddles the boundary between a DJ cutting up a song and creating a new one altogether by mixing the vocals of one track with the beats of another—choosing ironic cross-cultural combinations for a WOW effect that depends upon a feeling of surprise—which gets harder and harder to create because the audience has come to expect the irony. As consumers we expect the meta-commercial and the lo-fi guerrilla “street” advertising outsourced by big corporations. It used to be that a DJ would have one or two ironic mash-ups in his or her bag to unleash when the moment was exactly right. I remember my mind getting blown at a Cold Cut show when they dropped Public Enemy lyrics over a pitched-up My Bloody Valentine track. Nowadays no one is phased by even the strangest juxtapositions.
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.
Andy Warhol paints Debbie Harry on an Amiga (via theisotope)
I love this despite the fact that the interviewer is such a total nervous dork. I guess I can’t blame him…anyways, viva Andy Warhol…and viva the internets that he would have loved so much! Let’s pick up the Tumblr torch to carry on his coolness!!
