Label: Rice And Beans - RB011 • Format: CD • Country: US • Genre: Electronic • Style: Drum n Bass, Experimental
Pencil on paper. The video editing suite sat directly across from Broadway. Each man, in turn, carefully swung his fragile skull away from a baton, and then a baton toward another fragile skull swinging away. To the right of the screen was a window. From a certain low angle, at a standing vantage point several feet from the sill, the video sequence and a spectacular outside the glass read as an operative split screen. To clarify: a spectacular is an industry term for a neon sign; a split screen is a screen where two or more images display simultaneously.
The screens do not operate in tandem. On the left plays documentary footage of fan a'nazaha wa-tahtiband on the right, a neon porn sign looms gargantuan. Each letter was six feet high. Add 1, additional feet of red, blue, and gold neon. We—my mother and I—were cutting through Times Square the day Artkraft Strauss workers installed the sign. Each letter, hoisted by crane, dangled in the 2nd Movement - Chicago - Chicago (Reel-To-Reel). Oh, right, pussy.
In the s, female genitalia is still hairy, still zoological: the hair curling over puffy folds resembles a glossy pelt in thickness and distribution.
In the s, adult genitalia mimics hairless and closed child vulvas. Vagina, why are you so weird and scared? In the night made day, in the artificial illumination of the fake orgasm, let me understand what is underneath the joke: legal and illegal tender made visible.
An ideal form because the human has a moment to sort real time unfurling against looped time. This can only be achieved if a lone person stumbles upon the right conditions—an accident of surfaces. The conditions must compete for you and cancel out one another and cancel you out. The city blacks out sometimes. Inwhen Times Square went dark, the optics of certain economies still pulsed among the dead screens and dead lights.
Some said Working Girls lit themselves with flashlights so the Johns could still see enough to buy. This cinematic instant foreshadows the post-cinema of the apocalypse we now nudge. So soon we will replay movies in our memory, long after we have lost the means to watch them.
I will sit on a broken thing and hold my Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show head in my Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show . But then again it never had sound.
It was just supposed to be sound. And we are supposed to just be genitals. Pussy, be. Pastel High Society - Sidney Bechet - Jazz Classics Volume 2 paint Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show paper.
In the same building as the Pussycat, the proprietors of a gay bathhouse called The Broadway Arms built a replica of a NYC subway bathroom for their patrons. Sounds of the subway were piped in: braking; ghost train. Sex in a set. No fluffers in sight. But some temporary stars were Working Boys.
The Working Boy projected another movie in his mind. Spleen, be. Towards the end, according to the paper, anti-porn activists scuffled with other anti-porn activists. Almost at the same time, there is a white, bespectacled bald man walking in a city crowd. I see him only now, in an old photograph posted online.
American made? Woman-sewn or man-sewn? I re-interpret, in anachronistic fantasy: when our eyes meet his on the street, the codger wants us to imagine his penis in our throats. It works. I imagine. I choke, too. Jucifer - District Of Dystopia wish to bite off. I wish, instead, a beautiful one in my mouth—clitoris or icicle, shaft or sugarcane. Jokes accumulate.
The investigation led them to New York City. Wet Rainbow was one of the flicks on rotation. The title is lovely. Drenched pigments flow. These two downtown filmmakers released the resulting video under their company Mystic Fire in What flows back across the street instead is the quality of pussycat voices. A type of pussy speaks—like the white star of Wet Rainbow? An ecstatic dancer named Gabrielle Roth utters some translations of thirteenth-century Persian poet Rumi with the comport of a breathless pornstar, all synced to Portapak footage of contemporary Egypt.
My mother was sometimes a camerawoman while the crew shot footage in Egypt, Sudan, and Lebanon. She was nineteen and I was two. She was gone a long time. It was cotton and striped. We were oblivious to our resuscitation of the colonial trope where white women like Isabelle Eberhardt adapt the clothing of men and unwittingly deepen the imperialist projects of Europe and the United States.
I wore it around. My childish adaptation, for me, meant that gender, like screens, could also be split. I felt split-screened.
I watched myself become subject to a biological time, articulated by a uterus-in-waiting; I sensed myself operating within technologies, articulated by particular clothing and stick weapons. A couple years later, I wore hand-me-down lavender corduroys. I began to chew the corduroy off the knees because I planned to chew off every part until the pants were entirely smooth.
At the same time, I remember using broom handles to fight. My hands vibrated with each strike of the stick. I want to terminate a cognitive loop where the sex of the human is fused to advertisements, to exchange-value, to bone breaking fury, to illness I Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show apophenia.
This is because Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show read up on the neurological structure of meaning making.
In an apophenic haze, I lash together: Neon women are nude. In silhouette, they have no distinguishable features. Men fighting with sticks wear galibayahs; only faces and hands are visible. The porn of split-screen Orientalism: neon American women light the nude faces and nude hands of men.
I ditch the Nazi for a Skeptic Libertarian: I self-diagnose: patternicity. Meaningless is a tactic. I am meaningless if you are the military; the police pretending to be military; the security guard pretending to Listen, Learn, Read On - Deep Purple - The Book Of Taliesyn police; the citizen pretending to be security guard; the consumer pretending to be a human citizen; a human pretending to itself that it is a discrete unit not a symbolic pattern produced by cognitive processes between organisms.
I hope. There was Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show glass front to this diorama. Within: a nuclear power plant of clay was painted gold. A cotton ball rose like smoke from the stack. A small fence of glued coffee stirrers. The plant was encircled by a painted backdrop of red barns, pasture under a 3 p.
It was a generic America. It was any nuclear power plant with a whatever amount of radiation. I, twelve, made it. The teacher had asked for any diorama: any set, any scene—any eye lazy, mine into any fake cave. The year before, our family unit borrowed a small television set to watch The Day Aftera made-for-TV movie depicting a full-scale nuclear war between the Soviet Union and the United States.
In pre-production, the Pentagon requested that the script be altered to better suit their outward messaging. A month prior to its public release, President Ronald Reagan recorded his feelings after watching a Whitehouse preview copy. Sixteen commercials ran; they could not be delivered even as they played, because no one could see past the after-image of a nuclear Other, which each ad ran between.
We consumers, as a category, were temporarily devoured Vaseline Windmills - Docnuke.com - Petroleum Peep Show our glimpse of a totalizing end. Reverend Falwell, founder of the Moral Majority, attempted to organize a boycott against advertizing companies. At that point, he objected to any reining-in of End Times.
Falwell, along with other evangelical groups, incorporated nuclear apocalypse into their dispensary eschatolological structure—some claiming that their sort of heaven on earth is only realized through holocaust.
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