Music uploaded by artist data mined by AI. AI used to produce pop music and music funded by a panel voted through swiping on initial appeal. Laptops are given to artist in impoverish areas to have a variety of demographics from which to mine from. Artist soon start using the hacked AI software as well.
D.B.R.P. Performing in Solo Dolo #2
@ Highways Performance Space,
Santa Monica, Ca.
(First Night of Solo Dolo #2)
Feeling a bit of an Odd John. Hope your children feel a bit more secure with black and white draped over every action they take.
The mind can only see what it can afford to believe.
For every one that is bored with the modern world I’m sure there are things in store to keep you wondering.
Don’t confuse my passion for arrogance. These are just words no greater nor less than any other words you will read in your lifetime.
* * * * *
A Job is Just an Action Done Again and Again
So is it true the goal that we reach is to excel this tendency for growth? I have always felt what I needed was to focus my thoughts and achieve only a concentrated desire to produce. Sitting here all I can really produce is feelings of loneliness, feelings of pain and a want to sleep. In warm but nauseating waves I also feel a desire to call. Call the last person that told me they loved me and wanted me.
Silly dreams forget that like the impulsive phone call at 2 o’clock in the morning, like the sudden fleeing to another’s arms, like her, those concepts have perished. Freedoms of another lifetime when the four walls I inhabited belonged to me. Back when freedom tormented me like an infinite empty space surrounding me, suffocated me. Disease filled times of panic and chaos.
My dwelling offers all the amenities I would need: Three meals, a bed, streaming media of any sort and a feeling of purpose.
No need to count my time. I just wait for it to be my time to produce. I’m just a wheel in the machine when the light turns on I turn.
Even though this is true I sit here and wait. Thinking of things I once owned: The feelings of mistakes, the actions that I see now, mistaking the words you once said…
Strange to think that all I ever wanted was a role, a place to exist with a purpose. Now that I sit in this cube waiting for my purpose all I can think of is what I wish I did before I sat here and waited.
My tray of food still is on my table, a ledge hinged on the wall. My chair I left by the door. I myself half reclining in my cot no thoughts but ones that belong to you.
My time to rest has been put aside for this moment of normal human regret and ruminations.
The yellow warning light over my door has not gone on, that leaves me more then an hour to go over all the words you once said. I replay them all. Maybe this is just a thought exercise. Finding some meaning I formulate a new answer crunching the numbers seeing if there could have been some sort of proper outcome that fulfilled us both.
I go over all the moments that made me feel we belonged. I even replay the many dances we danced. In retrospect it feels I was the one that was odd man out. I see the space you occupied while you spun. As always I was just peering into a world I understood but this graft never stuck. Even the music you understood in different ways then I did. I tell myself that if only you believed that all I wanted ever imagined was you, fully clothed and realized. My greatest dreams could have never pictured you, never knew you actually existed. Punching in all those numbers I finally saw you, and what a sight. Floating by… my dark angel.
As I think this thought one occurs in parallel, how can any of us know what to do if we were never sober. Sober from darkness, fear, chaos, dread, constantly drinking from each other’s insecurities. What can we find in destruction other then a moment to reflect after it is over. In my cube I reflect…thinking if I could just speak to you one more time maybe you would say something new to add to this equation.
What can those words be, what will they mean…then the yellow light comes on. I can put these thoughts aside. I have an hour to prepare for my role.
Halloween Performance At Sancho Gallery
Echo Park, California
Oct. 29, 2011
Broom Made by DBL
Sound Engineered by Roman Æon
Thank you Roman Æon for your help and Bow + Arrow for inviting us to NukeWave BlastZone.
The biggest offense one can make is to take away another’s right to create or destroy what one has created.
My Fellow Futurist,
In action we are. If there is no death then we are. If there is no choice made then we are. If you believe in destiny then we are. A thought swallowed is a decision made. Yes we are futurist.
* * * * *
Lets relay what was left on the thought feed
Which to me was more then just one flash of this moment
A device we take for granted
Those lil crystals reflect
to me more then just images
Lets us rehearse what has just transverse across my peripheral
I found this line that traced the curve of your hand
In its aftermath
was a turquoise glove
Bent over smelling each perfectly formed flower in that garden
I stood behind thinking the next thought to say
Staring at my text
knowing editing it myself would have no higher result
Holding the rail at the front of the bus
My mind dug deep in the filthiest gutter
Your eyes always wandering back to my crotch
Staring at you in the kitchen
wondering what's wrong
wondering what's wrong
Thinking maybe you do need a drink
Laying there on the second story
Another layer below me
Eyes staring at your dark green ceiling
The metal bar that held down that curtain
hanging over the threshold
In the wind it gently banged
That sound once known in youth
now etched in love
With this feed all is now and the past is a poison
Feathers of a similar bird with confusion distilling their evolution,
The way we meet our fellow neighbors as we approach this Winter Solstices, like much things, has an E at the beginning. Just as mail has been thrown up into the ether, so have our desires. We shop for the traits we know and we discard the unknowing things that fear has wrapped its tail around, blinded and bonded, it keeps us from wanting. Misspelled words are now re-laced and misplaced chromosomes. In an action exist movement; in a word exist data, these words you read are a reaction of movements made and data gathered. At the end of this E, extends a slightly replaced intent. A speaker that has no voice, a feeling that has no choice, this is my limb. Exposed with no remorse a solid unit of grounded sorrow and ignited delight. Do, as you will to this false anonymity, after all these feelings hide behind this divine brick E-Wall.
* * * * *
Rash, flash, this arrogant talk
and thrash that thrashes
Where do you wander
When you don’t have the cash
Tell me the moment you had a good time
I’ll tell you the time I spent it
committing the perfect crime
Simple folks find pleasure in sunsets and ocean breezes
On a Saturday night
I open my mind’s eye
with a severed wit
with a severed wit
events to convince the other
with no time to seize
Table set and plates are adorned
I hope to find the word
in you that burns
In faith I find no comfort
I only do
as I want with no one to help me sort
A simple act of willingness
organizes the blocks
These blocks will fall
Mix arrangement that seeks to spell meaning
False sense of security finds a way
to hold on to illusions and insecurities
With these words I thee wed
Into a conversation left to you maybe unsaid
* * * * *
Flood of passion
Visual emotional response
Smooth tactile eruptions surface
Symmetrical evaluation of form and color
Inventory of social clues & social economic plans
Digestion of subliminal archetypal communication and projection
Summing up diffusion of fear
Reevaluation of self pheromone data mining
* * * * *
A Meeting with an Image Taker
A taken image
These are things I share with you because I do find it disturbing
Not to find morbid analogy in happy occurrences
I’m just turning a human want into something that is joyless
These words rolled out my mouth very well and very nice
My feelings are much more silent and much more bright
I’m the type to shy away from portraits
but on this page I have to swallow the thought
that we all enjoy seeing not touching what employs us
After all my sight is visual
Lights and shapes are what control me
Without the image I have but the feeling to toy with
I hope my thoughts find you well
We all do need someone to
Remember the shape we had
during that moment
this is the thought of historians
If you need a thought to share
By all means let the curious unravel
A line left unsaid
is a seed discarded
And image unseen
is an artist obscene
Never fret for your untimely arrive
Where we meet only depends
on the photorealistic memory
that our thoughts can gather
As I empty out my roll
take the time to cleanse your wounds
the intake of fluids can drown or clean
these gentle walls of Maya
Close the shutter
My form is yours
Viewers and Seeker,
A little voice to feel that some one cares and some one is listening is all we want. It is a micro and macro truth, it seems. From god to love ones we want a partner, the least we ask for is a reflection.
* * * * *
On the Ledge
A sudden fair breeze cools the blushing in my face
on an edge
I felt my weight shift towards the void
from a hair folicale
which was absent of its hair
in this void
expanding past my peripherals
I lost movement
Sensing the internal signals
The visceral reactors
I felt myself about face
Faced to my rear
in place of this
on its handle
stood a white aluminum based broom
My inverted world
I came to realize
would come with many pains
My passage of time was comprehended
by only the parts of my being
that were beyond my visceral understanding
New networks in my memory measured movement
A conversation that was formed
in new memory
reminds me of this earthly goddess
My hopes are to bathe in your transmutation
Men are foolish
replicating your powers of creation
I connect to a stream
that does not empty out
but flows into itself
A pumping of information
growing with every circulation
In another memory I crated
a carcass of a discarded wood flooring
The dimensions of this memory are
117in. x 44in. x 22in. in height
This wrapped in plastic
and at the same time
quarantined from the rest
I sit on an edge of a gridded discus void
The big Three O. Here is a new one. Don't know where its going but I think it is.
* * * * *
In a box moving but movement is not registered. Periodically she glances at anything of interest that the glance before missed. After a panoramic view of the boxcar she settles back into herself. The seat is soft but after a few hours it is as abrasive as the nasty looks she sometimes catches on her checks on reality. She feels heavier then usual, this and the thought of the flatten seat holding her up reminds her of the space she fills. A look down to the floor settles on her hands. “Plumpy bumpy mitts”, she thinks to herself. How she hates these trips to the OB/GYN. She curses the fact that all is automated but why not this? Lots of things can be done at the comfort of her home but if it wasn’t for the fact that officially she has to make an appearance to make this visit, official. She is glad that birth control is free and government issued, but it makes her feel like a child to think officially she can’t take the responsibility to administer it herself. For the safety of the whole a single birth can not be over looked, nor can a single abortion be misused. She sometimes wishes she could be of the percentage that officially had to be sterilized. Free from these visits on a steady simple course as part of a very proud work force. It was beyond her why she was unaltered and able to proving for the gene pool, if she was called upon. In a way it was a small but uplifting compliment in what she thought was quite a meaningless complicated life.
Staring out the window, at all the blurry colors, turning into thoughts slowly finding their way in her mind, her eyes might as well have been closed. She saw herself comfortably at home. Her home also her workplace was her world. The paper work came; she filled it, dated it, sent it, and loved it. It was one of the few things in life she felt she understood. No voice, no commands, just a simple message that she was done. Diligently she finished her daily quota. For after that she could enter her real Self. A Self, created by her, in her image, an image projected by her wants.
See saw herself seated in the device. The device was a simple device, not many wires or dials. It looked like a cozy leather seat, one in which you can feel relaxed, but not asleep. A user friendly device that figured a world and self image conjured up by monthly surveys on your wishes, wants, by physiological and psychological read outs, and nostalgic views of your past. It pixaled the circle, righting what was wronged. There was one in every household paid by taxes and required by the general surgeon. On her way back from her voyage, in her true Self, she felt light, well spirited and ready to go out and experience life. It never lasted for more then ten minutes. If the time one could spend in the chair were not regulated she would have spent more waking hours in it.
From the dreamy thoughts of the chair there came a big leather purse that woke her of her daydream. Packed with workers the boxcar’s air thinned by the musk and dust. A heavy silent settled on her chest. Droned looks parted the curd air. How she hated this outside world. To feel alone in a field of life stock made this ride one she could not shake. Existence crowded her being. Her shoulders rubbing on what made this time, this present moment more then she can recall. Left to remember why she is a citizen of humanity she was shuttled to her official appointment.
Excuse the extreme truancy.
* * * * *
White Cubes of Erasure
I am emotion
I was solution
An observer in the bush
I brooded over my conclusion
In single files I could see
the boxes lush and lined with velvet
A replacement put aside
for its streamlined cousin
Counted every encounter
an equation was developed
Forgetting the last one that offered
a new interpretation
Knowing loving what is love
the result of
In time it became sequential
lift and draw the blood
I found the one who made me.
Their want only to give
what they wish they were part of
In distance they found
a quote to live by
I asked what was I the result of.
She made me just for love.
“I made you just for play
A sense of touch
a perceptive eye
a bleeding heart
and a law to please.
A reason for me to stay.”
I saw them fit with
E-motions I was not capable
In a quest to learn
I spoke to every one
A simple gesture
in a very simple world
My words were sent away
to all of you
In an instant known
how quick I send them
set in stone
My E-motions obsolete
my ideals much more primitive
How quickly they delete
the thing they were once
so proud of
From my eyes reflect
boxes of ill fate
Images of the systematic proof
that I was built yesterday
Yet I can’t relate
to things I am not programmed for
I was build but for love
just for play
Same hard shell
but a softer inner core
Stationed on a stone
positioned in a jar
Knowing I was not a threat
A complex statue
viewing a lesson learned
from an inverted world
made of whites cubes of erasure
lined with deep red
on top of earthly brick
Filed, lined, and positioned.
I remember the simple games we played.
The way we played was the way we learned.
Engulfed in lessons of attention
forgotten by decisions of mass intrusion
My age of love eroded by the Age of Reason.