“The moment at which a piece of music begins provides a clue to the nature of all art. The incongruity of that moment, compared to the uncounted, unperceived silence which preceded it, is the secret of art. What is the meaning of that incongruity and the shock which accompanies it? It is to be found in the distinction between the given and the desired. All art is the attempt to define and make unnatural this distinction.
For a long time it was thought that art was the imitation and celebration of nature. The confusion arose because the concept of nature itself was a projection of the desired. Now that we have cleansed our view of nature, we see that art is an expression of our sense of the inadequacy of the given—which we are not obliged to accept with gratitude. Art mediates between our good fortune and our disappointment. Sometimes it mounts to the pitch of horror: sometimes it concentrates its energy upon the insistence that reality should be changed so that it may continue as it is, and become unchangeable. Sometimes it describes the desired.”
I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.
The twentieth century was the century of physics:
The physical world came close to being tamed
By understanding, making it harder to understand
Or even imagine, on the scale of the cosmos
And on the order of the very small: time passes
As your twin ages, while you remain perpetually young–
Though a lot of good it does you, existing as you do
At no place in particular, smeared out everywhere
Until someone sees you and your wave packet collapses.
It was also the century of poetry, modern poetry
And the question it engendered, which it kept repeating:
“Are you just going to write poems like this,
Writing for posterity? Posterity isn’t interested
Unless you are, because instead of quaint immortality,
It offers merely intermittent moments of attention
Before moving on, maybe to return, but probably not.
You can’t displace your heroes in the pantheon,
Because there isn’t one: just this giant, happy band
Of suppliants, each one knowing what the others know.
I realize this isn’t what you’d hoped for, but please,
Don’t get discouraged–celebrate temporality instead.”
So here I am, sitting in a park thirty years after writing
“In the Park,” a poem I’d hoped might last forever.
The finally discovered the Higgs boson, which means that
Physics is still on track, though no one knows to where.
I still believe in it, of course, though it’s so removed
From everything I think I think there’s nothing to imagine
Beyond equations, which is fine– it was equations all the way,
Until I came to poetry and knew that it was what I had to do.
And now look where I am, what I’ve become: a marginal observer
Of a universe of my own devising, waiting on a denouement that
never comes,
But that continues through an afternoon that’s wider than the sky,
whose
Mild, unearthly blue conceals an emptiness resounding like a
gong
Tolling for no one, while I sit here in the safety of my song. Like
the hedgehog,
I still know what I know, although it matters not at all: I labor
over it,
And yet it’s written in a different idiom, full of sound and fury,
Signifying– what? It can’t be nothing, though it might as well be
If it can’t be rendered in the language of the stars. I want to
Speak to something far away, beyond the confines of the page,
But it won’t listen, and to everything I say it answers No.
“In spite of neoliberalism’s insistent rhetoric of technological innovation, technology is rarely used to innovate new cultural forms. Instead, its technical effects and sensory affect are fetishized in service of a creating a simulated nostalgia.” -Anna Khachiyan
1928
https://mtyka.github.io/make/2015/09/12/the-conquest-of-ubiquity.html
Very important text. Plz read. Thx.
My Name is Matthew. I try to make art. I want to die the little death.
“The moment at which a piece of music begins provides a clue to the nature of all art. The incongruity of that moment, compared to the uncounted, unperceived silence which preceded it, is the secret of art. What is the meaning of that incongruity and the shock which accompanies it? It is to be found in the distinction between the given and the desired. All art is the attempt to define and make unnatural this distinction.
For a long time it was thought that art was the imitation and celebration of nature. The confusion arose because the concept of nature itself was a projection of the desired. Now that we have cleansed our view of nature, we see that art is an expression of our sense of the inadequacy of the given—which we are not obliged to accept with gratitude. Art mediates between our good fortune and our disappointment. Sometimes it mounts to the pitch of horror: sometimes it concentrates its energy upon the insistence that reality should be changed so that it may continue as it is, and become unchangeable. Sometimes it describes the desired.”
https://i.tweeterino.com/uploads/fake-tweet20180112-12-shkibe.jpg
https://ibb.co/mLVPP6
http://earningdisabled.tumblr.com
Here is my response to last weeks readings and films
http://earningdisabled.tumblr.com
Matt, I am sorry I missed this till now!
Really great!!!
Thanks
I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.
-Richard Brautigan
https://vimeo.com/253923715
The Arrogance of Physics
The twentieth century was the century of physics:
The physical world came close to being tamed
By understanding, making it harder to understand
Or even imagine, on the scale of the cosmos
And on the order of the very small: time passes
As your twin ages, while you remain perpetually young–
Though a lot of good it does you, existing as you do
At no place in particular, smeared out everywhere
Until someone sees you and your wave packet collapses.
It was also the century of poetry, modern poetry
And the question it engendered, which it kept repeating:
“Are you just going to write poems like this,
Writing for posterity? Posterity isn’t interested
Unless you are, because instead of quaint immortality,
It offers merely intermittent moments of attention
Before moving on, maybe to return, but probably not.
You can’t displace your heroes in the pantheon,
Because there isn’t one: just this giant, happy band
Of suppliants, each one knowing what the others know.
I realize this isn’t what you’d hoped for, but please,
Don’t get discouraged–celebrate temporality instead.”
So here I am, sitting in a park thirty years after writing
“In the Park,” a poem I’d hoped might last forever.
The finally discovered the Higgs boson, which means that
Physics is still on track, though no one knows to where.
I still believe in it, of course, though it’s so removed
From everything I think I think there’s nothing to imagine
Beyond equations, which is fine– it was equations all the way,
Until I came to poetry and knew that it was what I had to do.
And now look where I am, what I’ve become: a marginal observer
Of a universe of my own devising, waiting on a denouement that
never comes,
But that continues through an afternoon that’s wider than the sky,
whose
Mild, unearthly blue conceals an emptiness resounding like a
gong
Tolling for no one, while I sit here in the safety of my song. Like
the hedgehog,
I still know what I know, although it matters not at all: I labor
over it,
And yet it’s written in a different idiom, full of sound and fury,
Signifying– what? It can’t be nothing, though it might as well be
If it can’t be rendered in the language of the stars. I want to
Speak to something far away, beyond the confines of the page,
But it won’t listen, and to everything I say it answers No.
-John Koethe
https://vimeo.com/254977804
“In spite of neoliberalism’s insistent rhetoric of technological innovation, technology is rarely used to innovate new cultural forms. Instead, its technical effects and sensory affect are fetishized in service of a creating a simulated nostalgia.” -Anna Khachiyan