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"
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Manuel Franquelo
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Oliver Hendricks
Human Oddities (Book)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
K.A.
Hermal
Ich erinnere mich an mein Exemplar von Alles kurz und klein, das weg ist, verschwunden! – wer erinnert sich, es...
A Little Paris Nightmare
I loved Paris, even as a little boy, long before I lived there. I was like Pinocchio wandering about in some strange Land of Toys. I...
La soif
Quand j’étais enfant, près de la maison ou j’habitais, il y avait une voie ferrée. Avant de m'endormir, j’entendais...
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.
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
We are looking for relics of visions of the future in past image spaces, for the traces and signatures of something once imaginable and timelessly possible.
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...
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.