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Dance the Revolution!

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Think about how it would change the world, if we were to understand, and treat, music, dance, poetry, the arts, not as cost-deficit sidelines, to be cut from schools to make way for serious subjects, but as the reason and purpose for everything else we do!

We need to raise food, because we need food to give us pleasure, and to make art! We need shelter and housing, so we have places we can make music. We need medicine, to stay healthy so we can dance and make poetry!

Make life for pleasure, for deep pleasure, and it will change the world.

(#433 Acrylic on canvas Dance!)

The Annihilation of the Universal

Dr. Rinaldi's Horror Cabinet

In the organic composition of capital, variable capital defines a regime of subjection of the worker (human surplus value), the principal framework of which is the business or factory. But with automation comes a progressive increase in the proportion of constant capital; we then see a new kind of enslavement: at the same time the work regime changes, surplus value becomes machinic, and the framework expands to all of society.

—Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

Isn’t it true, our fear of Artificial General Intelligence, of these radical creatures of our imaginal dreamtime futures and present unfolding’s mask our inhuman core? Our fear of losing jobs to the machines, of being obsolesced by the new conditions of society, being not only replaces but condemned to exclusion and annhilation? Haven’t we begun to realize the thing we fear most is the buried truth of our own inhumanity, that the West –…

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Mother Love


Some mothers are more difficult than others for the humans pulled out of their bodies. At best, if we’re honest, it’s a mutual wound that never heals.

There is an element of violence in love–that can only be deferred, or displaced, but never erased. Sentimentalizing mother love is a lie against … if not nature… truth.

That doesn’t make love less important. It makes it more so. Love is the overcoming…no, not just the overcoming, the transformation–of violence. Violence is not the opposite of love… it the mother of love.

Two months short of 30 years since my mother’s death.

The dialogs we never had, return in dreams. So often in anger–resistance. To become whole and free in the world, we need to stand up against our parents, to assert our independence. But most of that need arose when we were too young to understand it for what it was.
I know that anger in my dreams, is directed at myself… for not knowing… at 3, at 12, at 18. This is what we carry through our lives. Reliving… what we can’t relive. In dreams. In fantasies. In rituals of self destruction.

Goby’s Journal: Reading Emily Dickinson.

Began the day, inspecting the garden, reading Emily D… I’ve been systematically reading the whole of the collected poems, beginning to end. I skip around, read back and forth, but always keep to the sequential reading as well. Today, 564-603… 1862. A reference to Antietam… (Scarlet Maryland) in #562. She follows the news, and fuses intimate domestic scenes with distant events, the way she does with cosmic, biblical, religious references, deflating the latter, and casting a miraculous light on the everyday. Though there’s no deflation of what she has learns of the war, or human tragedy. #564 made my brain explode. I read with a dictionary at my side, and can only cover a half dozen or so a day. I write marginal notes in tiny letters with a mechanical pencil. The binding has gone the way of all impermanent things. Entropy everywhere. I should buy a new copy before I accidentally drop this on the floor, and all the pages scatter–hopeless to return them to order.

Thinking about how she follows the news… how, no matter how devoted one might be, one can only read to the last page. There’s an end to a newspaper or magazine. What would she have made of the internet? There is no end to the internet, or Facebook. One goes on clicking and clicking, until the clicks are what the ticking of a clock was for those who lived when there were still clocks that ticked… the sound of one one’s life being drained away.