Vanda Vieira-Schmidt witnessed demonic operators with portable uranium devices on the underground, torturing and even murdering passengers with electricity and ‘uranium hits’. Since her release, she has been drawing diagrams and magical sigils on pieces of paper at a rate of up to a thousand a day. Now, whenever any violence breaks out in the world, it can be controlled; indeed, we can use her drawings to mediate in global conflicts. This work has helped to restore her peace of mind, and, she feels, a broader ‘peace on earth’ – a goal that would have been well understood by James Tilly Matthews, a passionate peace activist whose confinement in Bedlam was the culmination of his reckless and tragic attempts to prevent war between Britain and France. Those spores and the phosphor-luminescence pulsate with an eerie light, which coincides and collaborates with the light of the cinema screen, as it reaches our faces and bathes us too in its greeny-bluey etherium. The old miner, a remnant from German Romanticism, once upon a time descended into the cave to stay amongst the glimmer, amongst the luminous stones that he says have voices. It is no surprise that the super-robots of anime, such as Mazinger Z, fire photonic beams from their eyes – you’re 25 years old and Sappho’s been dead for centuries. Proper kids, we set fire to the cottage in the woods like cartographers puking for hours in the dampness of the technical mist, the zone of brooming up carcasses so their tongues could snarl from pikes. I mean, it’s weird up there and there is nowhere in the world that can remind you of how much money you don’t have like Fifth Avenue and the bushes outside the Plaza Hotel are teeming with rats and the sidewalk outside Bergdorf Goodman reeks of horse shit from the carriages in Central Park, and a very old man came up to us and shouted “OH LOOK HERE I AM GETTING MY EMAIL FROM THE TOILET, HERE I AM WITH MY EMAIL, YOU PEOPLE ARE SO BORING,” and then he tottered away. But wait! This doesn’t mean that I massively despise myself. No, I like my printed work. I live for that — for theory, really. And shamelessly. I hate this leftist humanitarian attitude: People are starving! Children in Africa! Who needs theory? No! We need useless theory more than ever today, I claim. Open quotes but never close them. Genital life gives way to bubbles, the broken off parts recombining in the milky, oily darkness of the soft brain. Are you sick and tired of running away? I pull myself up from my knees to clean. The pregnant guest was Japanese -- she told me about the hot springs with monkeys and hot saki floating on trays. One day she took me to hangar H. In a small room six files lay on a table. Someone determined to prove something had gathered notes, quotes out of context, “conclusions,” mostly relating to the circulation and accuracy of information — “generally speaking,” she said — from the five books of stereohell. She left me alone, without a word. I started to examine the files. The texts were short and fragmented. Everything was disarticulated. One document stated that “communications” undergo distortions, and depicted the mechanisms of such distortions as persistently evolving in capacity and speed, but there was a stable principle inherent to them that wasn’t. The principle was described in a separate file by a set of definitions and theorems supposed to deter misconceptions but I understood that the clear comprehension of the principle, how it structured its field of applicability and impinged askew on the surface of all things “shared” (communicated), and how it produced distortions, didn’t guarantee the full understanding and control of the distortions themselves, which were undeviatable and unflappable and continued to exist identical to themselves despite any comprehension thereof.
[Note: Sources: Mike Jay, “The Art of Mind Control”, at Mike Jay; Esther Leslie, “Esther Leslie: Screen Glow”, at Association of Musical Marxists, 29 Dec 012; Nicky Tiso, “Samuel Becketted”, at Grand Hotel Abyss, 29 Dec 012; Jon Cone and Adam Tavel, “Hangman Arcades”, at Keep This Bag Away From Children; JBR; Sarah McCarry, “Happy New Year”, at The Rejectionist, 29 Dec 012; Slavoj Žižek, as quoted in Katie Engelhart, “Slavoj Zizek: I am not the world’s hippest philosopher!”, at Salon, 29 Dec 012; JBR (the following post opens with a quote, but …); Bhanu Kapil, “Editing during a Saturday Night Pre-Teen Sleepover”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 29 Dec 012; Imp Kerr, “New lows”, at The New Inquiry, 29 Dec 012]