I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Damian Christinger
Huelsenbeck (Book)
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Luc Meresma
Capt. Norman MacMillan (Book)
Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...
Facebook’s algorithm has served up memories of my Turkish travels often enough, but now it’s taking countermeasures and suddenly presenting...
I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...
I’m no longer very happy with Facebook. Recently the algorithm seems to be taking the platform into total despotism. And...
…rather alarms, to truth to arm her than enemies, and they have only this advantage to scape from being called ill things, that they are nothings…
Not on any Knowlede’s service this register in progress seeks accumulating entries of imagenables: names, objects, imaginations… singularities, that neither have to be thought nor upon which must be speculated.
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...
My language
English
Selected content
English
»Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since?
If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. BASTA! I will see
if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.«
James Joyce
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.