Tag Archives: Paris

By Their Hair You Shall Know Them

Bracing For Raw Intelligence
Bracing For Raw Intelligence
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On 12/5/03 at 11:24 PM situationist-AT-lists.nothingness.org (Situationist) found the brilliant nerve to write:

--->I shaved off my body hair. To my astonishment I didn't even recognize the person looking back at me afterward. If there is a better social future—it is for us to share us. Tell me what the fuck is wrong with your lives that makes you write here. Fuck Sake—let's do this. —kubhlai

Well, then, you must truly resemble one of those shockingly nude Sphynx cats now, Kubhlai. I commend you on your daring. I too, have gone through several cheap shots to the self-image via the blade since you, them, and I hustled along the streets of Paris and Amsterdam. Shaved my head, kept it shaved all through this past winter, and last spring allowed it to grow again into this spiky throwback to say London '77. Shaved the beard once or twice but despite cultural pressures to modernize, I simply don't have the jawline to pull it off, as the bone continues to deteriorate just as that young student dentist predicted it would some 20 years ago. Grew the red fuzz back in, but of course my facial hair is so spotty that to keep it short is impossible. I keep it groomed as close as I can. While some folks can opt into any number of styles, others "appear to be" more limited in their choices. Such is the fate of the ugly. It's always been a struggle for me just to be presentable. Self-admiration, not a chance...

But speaking of hair, how about the musical? Last week's performance at Towson State University just north of Baltimore was phenomenal. The bouncy number of talented individual performers, Towson students all, flinging limbs and laughter akimbo, naked and clothed, who sang delicious solos was amazing, and the fact that each song was full, vibrant, and successfully rendered made this finest musical I can recall ever seeing, not that I've seen that many. The twist of fate which improved our seating arrangements from the mediocre to the two most strategic seats in the house proved most satisfying. I had purchased tickets online ten days or so before the show. Sue, who keeps a close handle on the finances, noted that the charges had already been posted on the online account. However, while the school computer contained the records of the purchase, and there was no explanation to the contrary, our tickets were not waiting on us. Available seats would have put us far in the back off-center.

Masculine appendages no longer than man’s knowledge of himself, alpha explained, then shriveled to a cluster amid voices and vigor renewable and renewed. The story was story, told and retold, the rise and fall of empires sold amongst two or three gathered.
This snafu not only improved our own viewing pleasure but added a hint of long awaited public revenge. Although this was the first time we had seen Susanne in several years, she and I have had a somewhat comfrontational relationship, a cat and mouse game that is not so much confrontational as a persistent competition for attention between two stumbling competitors. She would deny this, of course. During intermission, as we were chatting up the show standing in the aisle at her nosebleed section which is where we might have also found ourselves were it not for the clerical mistake and some fast thinking, my comments about proximity which she had already voiced in her typical J.A.P. chagrin, teased her into opining that I was not one to shy away from attention. I sheepishly agreed, and lowered my grin a few inches closer to her face, and then growled in my feline jovial best, "Yeah, and I know that you were JEALLLLOUS the whole time." Her eyes grew larger than I'd ever seen them, as if she'd suddenly been caught in a sex act she'd sworn she'd never do.

The artists on stage were beautiful, perfectly formed, distorted, fat, thin, black, white, red all over, contentedly hairy, shy, bold, ugly, pugnacious and dramatic. Feminine shapes mounted clay forms and were hanging like fruited claims in the omniverous orchard, perky and prime suspects of the tribal fold ministering to the sweep of time then reckoning along the political and sexual axis of the 1960s. Masculine appendages no longer than man's knowledge of himself, alpha explained, then shriveled to a cluster amid voices and vigor renewable and renewed. The story was story, told and retold, the rise and fall of empires sold amongst two or three gathered. Having never seen the HAIR production in full costumed splendor before, neither on stage nor on the screen, I was impressed by the general honesty of the script which acknowledged without shuttling the shifting of the era's messages, flowing from the individual to group identity and back again straight up through what would soon enough collapse into petty jealousies every group recognizes as its own.

Took a job down at the local photo lab until the fumes finally chased me away this autumn. I toiled there nine months, catering to the some of the most self-important people I've ever met, in one of the most upscale neighborhoods in the city, took the summer off, returned on October 1, but left again by the end of the month. I now devote my time to racheting up the radio station I launched on July 2, and retooling the website.

As usual,

Gabriel Thy
Program Director
Radio Scenewash Network
www.scenewash.org

Now listening to: "Machkuesse" by *Goethes Erben* on the "Kondition macht" LP

Back When Pretentiousness Was God

empire
American Empires by Gabriel Thy
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Originally written to a young American cohort, Matthew Manus, who requested that I reserve this domain name and web server for him. I had visited Matthew and his girlfriend Michelle in Paris a few months before with my wife, This email is dated February 5, 2001. The website was never deployed by Manus, and the project-oriented relationship ended abruptly in May of that year, having never really recovered from the Paris event.

Cheerio my friend. Welcome back to the Gabriel of old—your web site is ready and already has a default page loaded, and this works during testing. Note that the default page must be named "index.html" to match 'XusNET webserver configurations. You have full FTP privileges. You can create new directories, read from, write to, and download anything from your domain's directory. The following information should be entered into your FTP client so that you can access your web site.

          FTP INFO...
          HOST: ftp.siftology.org
          USER ID: siftology.org
          PASSWORD: cleverjones
          Directory: /

Your new web account is configured. Check it out mon frere! Let me know if you have any troubles or questions.

Look forward as always to your cheerful voice once you return to France from the land of Joyce. Me, I'm still properly sick with the flu, no day better than the next, a week now of fever, scorched throat, pain in both ears driven with ice pick precision, the usual sinus stuffiness and upchuck too. But I am as inspired as I've been in years to focus on our global critique, but tire easily and return to bed often.

Rebunk has sparked a flame under me to—once and for all—draw the lines of where I stand on this Debord crescendo. Of course, it looks as if I'm going to have to torch his own Aussie canopy with a direct hit of GT phlegm since, as Kubhlai pointed out recently, he has never ever really put his own two cents on the line, but continues to hide in silence or behind the SI bulk of work he has archived. It's time to quit pussyfooting around. The imperative that I slash away this fog that's been hovering over me for some three years now has reached illuminating proportions.

parisfour
Sue, Michelle, Robert, Matthew in Paris
The Jappe book on Debord is helping pin the Frenchman down for me, and as I suspected, there is so much that I find self-contradicting, just as I find much of the Christian outlook self-contradicting, that I must keep good notes and finally put my own sorry self to the test of my fellow sworgsters. I will start with that very last fragment Zizek (a new name to me, but a piece full of typical dishonest extrapolation) Bunkee sent over the SWILL. I know Kubhlai and I are on the same page, whatever that happens to be, and I think you are there as well. But Rebunk and Crash have shown us nothing but bookmarks from the past, and no clear definition on who in the hell they are as individual credits to their race for humanity's sake.

I cannot help but believe that within the common parallels nee inconsistencies (notwithstanding some quite distinctive divergences) I find in the comparative Situationist-Christianity creeds lies the answer to my own special dilemma as to which spectacular point along the political scale I stand or AM SUPPOSED TO STAND (according to my own nature, and self-interests).

We can make metaphor and we can mix metaphor, poorly or insightfully, forever my friend, but sooner or later, and NOW is MY time, I just have to know what IT IS I KNOW. And there is much I've soaked up in pieces that Debord (the braggart who said he learned nothing from scouring books, but everything by dallying along the streets) touted that I do not believe is true, sweeping generalizations absurb on the face of all things self-evident (relying on dubious constructions such as nearly everybody else's false consciousness while touting the reality of his own desire to make his every point), and even more absurd considering his call to action, knowing the chain of corruptibility people everywhere will die to protect.

You and I have agreed on this point before. But what we must do, or perhaps this is my own chore, is prepare a solid critique of Debord, taking agreement where we can, and marking void those points of fantasy we find impossible to swallow, given that our own cultural bias will never be his, and therefore quite interestingly enough, absent the francophilian and xenophobic texture of many of his assumptions.

While France has its immigrants, America is worshipped by the hordes and hated by another substantial group as well. Paris, well, it's merely a city of glamour, now mostly in the past, for better or worse. However, I suspect that this heady investigation will lead me to suggest that Debordism is very close to Nazaritism (the words and praxis of Jesus) and that any rejection of Debord is a rejection of Jesus on the very terms that I have long been availing the old prophet and dismissing the more recent one. But I must know where I stand with both men.

This exploratory surgery may not interest you at all. But nothing less than this exacting sort of critical analysis will set me free of my own confusion and foster the next step towards defining ourselves as AMIST, SIFTOLOGIST, GEOSOPHIST, in that order.
Debord writes often about the essence of humanity, while ignoring the general corruptibility of that same humanity. This was the point Kubhlai tried to make in his most recent post trying to draw Rebunk into the ring. Yes, a lot of this teasing might sound like retrograde religiosity. Perhaps it is, perhaps it ain't when brought up to date in modern terms we wish to introduce, perhaps with very different social schematics, although we'd be hard pressed to suggest a singular Christian scheme given the complexity of the Catholic-Protestant fillibuster. Your recent remark that originality is not the aim, but rather, relevance is the cornerstone of our endeavor is brilliant!

Remembering our own initial urgency in SWORG terms to embrace the man in the street, Debord fails this universal test, a victim of his own cultural inheritance. His patented exaggerations and smug dishonesty hardly qualify him as the honorable man of action he had aimed to be. He was a man of books and eloquence, staged harrumph and star egotism, and could not feign ignorance, or even virtue long enough to save his own life. Considering he didn't consider writing or contemplation worthy of the name—action—his greatest action was putting a gun to his heart. That greatness rests solely in its finality. Deborg boasted that almost everyone he met wanted to follow him; well, I seriously suggest one cannot comprehend the truth of an intrinsic vision without feeling the floodwaters of petty and trifling rejection.

So after I get the Paris Summit site fully completed and uploaded, I would hope that we might collaborate on a few nails in staking Debord to the cross side by side with the praxis of Jesus, not Pauline Christianity mind you, or at least not until summarizing the similarities and disparities between the two primary men in focus. This exploratory surgery may not interest you at all. But nothing less than this exacting sort of critical analysis will set me free of my own confusion and foster the next step towards defining ourselves as AMIST, SIFTOLOGIST, GEOSOPHIST, in that order. To humor the clowns, I await your response.

By the way, I ordered two copies of [Henry] Miller's The Cosmological Eye a couple of days ago, one to replace my ragged copy, and the other to toss into your care package. You should return in person to the VV and request a refund, pocket the francs, and think of the sad state of business affairs some find acceptable in a world seething with shoddy co-operation. Uh, long live the revolution. Don't you just despise us impatient Americans!!!! Unfortunately I tossed the receipt in a momentary lapse of judgement just days before your recent call, not that you had anything to do with me tossing or not tossing the receipt. I was supposed to be saving ALL those receipts, and have most of them, but alas.

Yet, I was stillllllllll thinking...