Art and Text by Marten Bart StorkHuman era. Human error. Human terror. Your mentor. You made more. And more. And more. End more. End less. Begin. Beginning. Begging. Beg for more. Back for more. And more. And more. Or less? More or less. Moralless. Immoral. Immortal. I’m more tall. Than you all. That makes me the king. Thank you all. For coming. Forthcoming. Come again. And again. And again. And a game. End this game. Computer game. Computer gain. Gain access. Assess. Assess the situation. The simulation. The stimulation. The transformation. The implication. Thin application. Expensive cream. Elaborate dream. Laboratory sceam. Mandatory scream. Screaming. Greeting. Greet things. Hi. Great things. Great things will happen. Just keep clapping. And smiling. And waving. At the machine. At the new thing. Trust the experts. Trust the technology. To benefit our society. Our democracy. Our destiny. Whatever that may be.
Written by Allen Caldeira
Failing that, the cows mated in pastures and the saints all dropped acid, screens shattered around them, falling plastic and glass darted through the square, twinkled around the edges and the martyrs fell in with the prostitutes at cyber cafes where internet trolls and media warriors lived vagabond at all times. The streets began to warp into the rice paddies they once were, the teenagers with igirlfriends and sloppy, sexless lives, dragged themselves into the fields and made new love to new dirt. The monks chanted sutras from the temples before Tokyo rose up from the swamp of its past, recapitulated itself into the drying eyes of the martyrs awaiting their executions for their telling of a future unstrained by the past. Tokyo, born again from the ashes of itself. Tokyo, born again from the ideas hefted onto it by Carthusians and Andalusians. Tokyo, born again from how some thought it should be. And now the internet cafes cool down, whores roll in from opium dens, fat half-chefs spin takoyaki in the streets, and the saints sit with their backs to the city, slopping up ramen in a business cafe.
Written by Sybrand Veeger“Living comfortably yet unfreely – That is something many are willing to accept.” “Not me,” he says. He spotted abuse and recognized its accumulation – He could observe, from within, The architecture, Intricate and infinitely pervasive, Of the Orwellian Leviathan: Big brother’s eyes and ears multiplying, And multiplying, To see and hear all things communicated. The most intimate of conversations – recorded, A sensual exchange of images – surveilled and documented, A google drive of private poetry – filed and stored. The panopticon turned almighty, Turned God? “Don’t you realize you’ve helped create this monster? Blow the whistle or I will end you! You filthy animal! I will eat through you like a worm and you will die a slow, painful death.” His conscience made him an offer he couldn’t refuse… The whistleblower, the bureaucrat, The coggest cog in the omnipotent machine, Turned martyr of some sorts, Sacrificing his freedom for democracy? For the people? I’m not sure. His conscience simply played Don Corleone on him, Threatened him with capital punishment. Did he act out of heroism? Out of courage? Noble valiance? Did he transcend his individuality to reach out for something greater? I’m not sure. One blows the whistle to self-preserve, To survive; Like a meerkat, in panic, calling out for the predators that nobody else can see. The predators are dangerous, surely, They’ll invade, sack, kill and eat up till stuffed. What if the meerkat remained silent? Wouldn’t conscience, then, become the most threatening, The most dangerous of predators? The whistleblower’s cry is the sound not of courage, But of necessity: Instinctiveness, Biology. I unsurely conclude: Conscience defies the line drawn Between nobility of heart and primitivity of gut; Between what is deemed exclusive to a few higher spirits, And what is common to all creatures, Base or brave, Courageous or cowardly.
Written by Sybrand Veeger
That godly chord that strikes my ear,
Pounds me down to beastly state:
A punch or blow that meets no fear,
That sends me through a holy gate.
My eyes drown, my hairs erect:
A scale of notes can madden – paralyze!
Yet, music-shock means to resurrect,
To lift off and hear God or Nature’s cries.
Happiness, joy, excitement: words insufficient
To describe the beautifully invasive mania.
Description: to do justice insufficient
To the perplexity of clarity: experienced contradiction.
A mental ascension? A bodily hijack?
Chopin’s ballade is psycho-physical kidnap:
Is it accurate to distinguish body and mind?!
Not when music strikes – when I yield to the sublime.