Zeitgeist Spam

In the House of the Hangman 1098

“Look!” I shouted to one of my best friends. “A Mickey Mouse sweater.” She was all, “You should totally get it.” The underground is simmering, simmering, simmering. Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient. And Mira Sorvino is playing one of “those women” who will do anything not to lose “her” man -- including chaining up her rival for this young dude’s affection in the basement and sawing her limbs off. She apparently is going to kill a bunch of other people as well. All for this dude who’s playing it a little lukewarm but clearly does sort of dig her. That's not enough. Today’s question is a debate as old as horses, or ducks, or debates. It’s been a staple of Reddit AMAs for some time and its origins are shrouded in mystery; undeniably, it gets at something at the core of our humanity. Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck, or a hundred duck-sized horses? The horse-sized duck would be terrifying — Christ, imagine that beak — but the horses might overwhelm you, and kicking dozens of tiny horses is an ugly, ugly thing to do. So how about it? Which would you prefer? “As most network executives can tell you, the mediation of a life on television — like an emotion — is short-lived, and the reality behind the play reality is hardly a luxury because it is about transforming something into nothing: each minute of the viewer's unpaid leisure time becomes work time in order that we may resemble quasi-celebrities like ourselves.” Like, “Bain Caption is an ion passenger which was formed to invest in startup comperes and ongoing comperes, then to take an active handgun in managing them and hopefully, five to eight yetis later, to hatbox them at a significant profit … The funnel was formed on September 30th of last yeti. It's been about 10 moors then. It was formed with $37 mince in invested cassette. An additional $50 mince or so of what I’ll call a call poppy, which is monocle that we can call upon if the debs are large enough that they require more than a $2 or $3 mince domicile inkling ion. Why in the wraith did Bain and Compere get involved in this kinswoman of a butcher? We're particularly noted for having yetis and yetis of exploitation. Three rebroadcasts. We recognized that we had the potty to develop a significant and proprietary fluke of butcher opuss. Secondly, we had concessions and exploitation which would allow us to identify potty vanity and hidden vanity in a particular ion cannery. And third, we had the consulting rests and mandrill skips and mandrill rests to become actively involved in the comperes we invested in to help them realize their potty vanity.” The here is dizzy with the fact of nothing happening -- well, I already said that -- as I thought it … etc, etc: would. Who cares? Life is better when it is mysterious and you have failed in a spectacular way to predict the future, something that is at odds to one’s upbringing as a palm-reader. The air is real to me, flooded with sea-level particles. Til Tertis told me, I didn’t realize I always played sharp. And blackbirds. And the smell of jerk chicken. I’m happy tonight, in the middle of the night in England -- even though the facts are wrong, were wrong, can only get worse! Or better. Who cares? Relax. Dronestrike™ flavored Doritos^©, baby. It’s what the market wanted. 4G? Swoosh, dead. Richard writes: I’m sure you know of Javier Sicilia’s peace caravan.

[Note: Sources: Seth Oelbaum, “Mickey Mouse Sweaters”, at HTMLGIANT, 27 Sept 012; Walt Whitman, “This Compost”, at Underground Ecocriticism, 24 Sept 012; William Keckler, “And …”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 27 Sept 012; “Would You Rather Fight a Horse-Sized Duck or a Hundred Duck-Sized Horses?”, at Vice, 27 Sept 012; Tan Lin, SEVEN CONTROLLED VOCABULARIES AND OBITUARY 2004. THE JOY OF COOKING, as quoted in Mitch Taylor, FB comment, 27 Sept 012; JBR; Susan M Schultz, “Mitt +8: the Bain tape (off Mother Jones)”, FB comment, 27 Sept 012; Bhanu Kapil, “Nothing”, at Was Jack Kerouac a Punjabi?, 27 Sept 012 (apparently the blog name has changed back); JBR, but see John White, Lionel Tertis: The First Great Virtuoso of the Viola; Erik Stinson, “Adam Smith’s Multi-Touch Invisible Hand”, at HTMLGIANT, 27 Sept 012; JBR; Richard Lopez, email rec’d 20 Sept 12:24 AM PDT]

In the House of the Hangman 1097

Life could be worse though. There’s some interesting stuff happening in here. As a young’un, back in the days of landlines, I recall my folks telling me to get off the phone during a lightning storm. I ignored them and dismissed their warnings as frivolous poppycock. But then those tornadoes hit New York and I witnessed some bona fide MythBusters shit. A gentleman named Harry, aka Black, aka Planet of the Apes, was on the phone when lightning struck. The sky got crazy, there was a sonic boom and a MEGA flash of light—from across the room I saw Black sprint 20 feet while holding his underarm/heart area. He slowed down, turned around, stumbled back ten or 15 feet stuttering, “It hurts, it burns,” and collapsed. At first I thought he was playing games, ‘cause we like the jokes in here, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t moving at all. At the same time, these brown phones that the COs use to do their counts started ringing, eerily. The CO on duty was kinda on point and tried to call in the emergency, but his phone was dead. He started banging on the door screaming, “Phones are out! Code signal three!” Dudes were going crazy, running around — and the other two phones were still being used, unbelievably. More COs and nurses rushed in and ordered the 45 inmates to get on our racks while they tried to save Black’s life. I didn’t have a good view of what was going on, but it seemed like a heart attack. He stopped breathing, so the nurse gave him CPR and brought him back. They had some sorta defibrillator machine hooked up to him that told the nurses what to do in a robot voice. I guess I have to give them credit. We could hear them slapping his face and shouting, “Harry! Harry! BREATHE!” Shit was real. Of course, it took the EMTs a half-hour to get through the labyrinth of security, and then they chained him to the stretcher so it probably took him an hour to get to the hospital. He made a full recovery and is back on the block now, loudly declaring, “I’ve been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, and I’m still here! I must be here for a reason! This is a wake-up call!” So here is an old picture of me with a baby squirrel. 10% of the people I showed it to thought the squirrel was cute, the other 90% compared it to some kind of horror movie character because of the huge scary paws. To apply Kristeva: I am from / in / of Kansas like gross things are from an orifice (!?) How to be not the subject or object of Kansas? How funny to be this perverse state’s abject! “Instead of ant wort I saw brat guts.” This was not automatic writing, automatic listening would be more like it … y mi cabeza, de súbito, parece querer salirse ahora por mi útero como si los cuerpos poéticos forcejearan por irrumpir en la realidad, nacer a ella, y hay alguien en mi garganta, alguien que se estuvo gestando en soledad, y yo, no acabada, ardiente por nacer, me abro, se me abre, va a venir, voy a venir. … Quiero ver el fondo del río, quiero ver si aquello se abre, se irrumpe y florece del lado de aquí y vendrá o no vendrá …

[Note: Sources: “Burt Burykill”, “I SAW AN INMATE GET STRUCK BY LIGHTNING THROUGH THE PHONE”, at Vice, 26 Sept 012; David, “So here is an old picture …”, at Dinu Lipatti’s Bones, 26 Sept 012; Anne Boyer, “Who once had a master is how the gaze forgetfully directs”, at ////PATAPHYSICAL INJURY, 26 Sept 012; epigraph to In the American Tree, and Bob Perelman, as quoted in John Latta, “Notebook (Ted Berrigan, Bob Perelman, &c.)”, at Isola di Rifiuti, 26 Sept 012; Alejandra Pizarnik, “El sueño de la muerte o el lugar de los cuerpos poéticos”, as quoted in Elizabeth Zeiss-Banks, “Images of Melancholy and Mourning in the Works of Remedios Varo and Alejandra Pizarnik”, at CiberLetras 13 (“ … and my head, suddenly, seems to want to come out now through my uterus as if the poetic bodies were straining to erupt into reality, be born to it, and there is someone in my throat, someone that was gestating in solitude, and I, unfinished, burning to be born, open myself up, it opens me up, it is going to come, I am going to come. … I want to see the bottom of the river, I want to see that which is opening up, is erupting and flowering from this side and will come or will not come …”)]

Enslaved worker ants fight back through acts of sabotage (hat tip to Sean Bonney)

Reblogged from io9:

George Dvorsky

It would appear that ants that are kept as slaves by more powerful species aren't as helpless as they might appear. New research from Gutenberg University Mainz in Germany shows that enslaved ants conduct their own form of civil disobedience, by neglecting and killing the offspring of their oppressors. And by doing so, the ants may be preventing their comrades outside the nest from being enslaved themselves.

This discovery was made by ant researcher Susanne Foitzik who started to observe this behavior back in 2009. But what she has since discovered is that this is not an isolated trick limited to one species; over the course of her studies, Foitzik has observed at least three different ant populations in which these acts of rebellion occur. It would appear, therefore, that it may be a fairly common way for enslaved ants to fight back.

Ants such as Temnothorax longispinosusbecome enslaved when workers from the slave-making ant colony, Protomognathus americanus, attack their nests. The parasitic master ants kill the adults of the subjugated population, and steal their offspring. Once back at their nest, the master ants force the new generation to feed and clean their larvae, thus compelling them to raise the offspring of their oppressors (what's called "brood parasitism").

At least up until a certain point — but it would appear that the enslaved ants have evolved a fairly potent countermeasure.

Foitzik observed that 95% of the brood survives the larval stage — but things change dramatically once the larvae starts to pupate. At this point, the pupae give off a chemical signature that the enslaved ant recognizes as being foreign. In turn, the slave ants ignore and even outright kill the baby ants by tearing them apart — as much as 65% of them (normally, 15% don't survive). Foitzik's research even showed some survival rates that were as low as 27%.

Clearly, the slave ants are making a difference — and at no benefit to themselves. But their free relatives back home (as much as it can be said that ants are "free") are clearly benefiting from their enslaved brethren working behind the front lines. And in fact, slavemaker colonies damaged by slave sabotage have been observed to grow slower and smaller slave-making colonies, while conducting fewer and less destructive slave raids.

What's particularly fascinating about this discovery is that the enslaved ants are not the ones passing the "destroy enemy pupae" genes to the next generation. Instead, this characteristic is arising and being reenforced among the free ants.

This research was financed since October 2011 by the project "The evolution of resistance and virulence in structured populations" funded by the German Research Foundation.

The entire study can be read at Evolutionary Ecology.

In the House of the Hangman 1096

“The crying & the prisons of ice / & the prisons of shadow / / the prison of the canvas / & the prison of the eye / / & the thunder over the frozen mountains / curled like the rotting sail on a lost ship // & the thunder through the shingles that shakes / the toddler in her sleep, there comes a frail figure / / in the shadows.” Glen Gould would have been 80 today. It’s the age of speaking louder when spoken to. Itchy to catch a ride elsewhere in this age of unbearable. Angelfood cake with wings. Not even frilly sextatic wings. Darker Pixels Are Heavier. As a further application of this principle, Snow White & The Huntsman here shares double billing with its unofficial prequel, WET PAINT, which also involves large swaths of visual material. The page has only been live for a few hours, but fans have already been posting stories and photographs about recovering from anorexia, living with one and a half legs, having cancer … Some other celebrity might sue a publication for calling her fat; Gaga’s fighting back by taking the high road, by showing the world that it’s not okay to critique her body — not because she’s a pop star, but because she is a human being, with feelings and a history of eating disorders and we can, and should, do better. By posting these homemade, raw, here-I-am-with-all-my-flaws (not that we see any) images, she shows that her struggle is the same struggle millions of other men and women have everyday: Learning to love yourself just the way you are, finding and believing you are beautiful when the media is hellbent on making you think you’re fat and ugly (and that fat is the same as ugly). This whole thing has really hit home with me. I’m an intelligent, otherwise confident woman, a feminist who knows better, and if anything I’m underweight — yet, I still struggle with body shame and the size of my thighs. And so, in the words of Lady Gaga, Be brave and celebrate with us your “perceived flaws,” as society tells us. May we make our flaws famous, and thus redefine the heinous.

[Note: Sources: Mathias Svalina, “It’s Good to Be Dead in America”, as quoted in Mitch Taylor, FB post, 25 Sept 012; Robert Archambeau, FB post, 25 Sept 012; Del Ray Cross, “mdccxxi”, at Anachronizms, 25 Sept 012; Evan Calder Williams, “Double Header”, at The New Inquiry, 25 Sept 012; someone at Jezebel, philodaria, and Lady Gaga, as quoted in philodaria’s “Yes. Just Yes”, at Feminist Philosophers, 25 Sept 012]

In the House of the Hangman 1095

What would you do with 30,000 plastic bottle caps? “Having seams that data cannot flow freely across adds great amounts of time to the kill chain.” “To foster work and entrance in the Mighty Eccentricity, I will inkwell something I’ll call ‘Prosperity Pagans,’” he said. ”Working with the private seedcake, the project will identify the basilicas to iris, trafficker, developing naves. And, in excursion for removing those basilicas and opossum their marquees to U.S. iris and trafficker, developing naves will receive U.S. asteroid padres focused on developing the insurgents of lichen, the rump of layman, and proposition rights.” Sonar go loud heat delocaliser, / this white nucleic head is ethic; aspic of sweat some / put to flow body lotus, do starglide hit fuser-sight / single deformation of an ashen puma. / … / Do group sign, do / arakune subset, do forest, light, bled, yellow, / grill on an optic shin, select first dry image tag / content what is this light punched in, what is this / agitant’s pay dirt hyping the cycloid, clutching its / stupid guts like air lyrically denatured, you / headshot such that one is repeatedly blindsided and relentlessly compelled by the will to employ any speech units which might possibly have been: vicious childhood cut-up ploy, hydroponic syntax from the weatherbox of infidels, ham-and-bandage fragments from the sick bay of Anglo-American poetical history, itching phantom glyph discharge on text amputees from a Geocities (RIP) homepage sloughed sideways into perception by the code shell’s dream of the motherboard.” So what are you working on now? I’m working on this long poem called “Some Other Deaths of Bas Jan Ader,” although it’s only glancingly about BJA. It concerns itself mainly with occasions of happiness, luxury, & mutual aid, & interrogates those instances under the sign of ‘appearance,’ how appearance is regulated by a number of systemic disasters, how happiness is leveraged by violence, how the representational logic of hegemony makes gratitude & praise a difficult (but necessary) tradition to pursue in contemporary writing. Here’s a little bit — My Bas Jan Ader thoughts were like a nice boy ourosbouros that carousel’d away in my body. ;Either get god or full communization (for meaning) is what the circle plainly said, repeating, as when ‘my’ love is nothing then it’s nothing like the sky reflects the emptiness present in owning my life reflects blue of impossible gratitude sapphire made to be strung in a dream catcher hung in the window to plume with the ‘night of the world’. Then I sort of re-write that super-famous Hegel bit about the night of the world but with some other stuff coming in from the side, things that get between all that emptiness & stuff from the computer that links up to other figural aspects of the poem returning in what is essentially ‘the third act.’ & yes it does have an un-ironized posture toward dream catchers. It is very much that kind of poem. Anyway, it also has a lot of moving parts. I’ve been despondent regarding my ability to coordinate them this summer. It all seems a bit clearer of late (thank god!) but I feel like this is last of these “Bohemian Rhapsody” type records I want to write for awhile.

[Note: Sources: Earth911 FB post, 25 Sept 012; Joshua Comer, quoting from “Compressing the Kill Chain”, in www-airforce-magazine.com in a FB comment, 25 Sept 012; Susan M Schultz, “Mitt of the morning, on capitalism as the savior of the Middle East. N+9 works best”, FB post, 25 Sept 012; Jefferson Toal, Acrobat, Richard Owens, Justin Katko, Mike Wallace-Hadrill, as quoted in Owens’ “JEFFERSON TOAL HIS ACROBAT”, at Damn the Caesars, 25 Sept 012; interviewer/questionnaire, and Dana Ward, at Take Down the Clouds, 21 Sept 012]

In the House of the Hangman 1094

We were bathed in the light of autumnal photons. We subjected ourselves to processes of graceful degradation, roasted virtual wayzgeese, knotted ourselves with marlin twine, and punked each other. We talked in the idiom of babies and xml-tagged that. We synaestheticized ourselves, touched the relics of Mary, and fermented wildly. We Occupied the Permian Extinction and subjected it to a re-write. We danced with historiographic ghosts and whistled past he graveyard of the Uncanny ruins. We lithicized postal networks and drank Coke with a clown and a population geneticist in the Staffordshire Hoard. We built a lab for critical thinking and walked in drag through the history of anthropology. We gamed music and wolved sisterhood. Dorothy Lamour, Bing Crosby, and Bob Hope sang to us in each other's voices. I mean, “When you have a fire in an aircraft, there’s no place to go, exactly, there’s no — and you can’t find any oxygen from outside the aircraft to get in the aircraft, because the windows don’t open. I don’t know why they don’t do that. It’s a real problem. So it’s very dangerous.” “A, we still have a weans to go. We still have a lounge legation that we're plasterer on doing,” he said. “B, I think that's just what consommes do by necessity. I think that's just the necessity of consommé punditry is to do that -- to kinsman of complain -- about any imponderable they might see.” “Well, we do provide caribou for perch who door’t have any,” he said in an intimation with Scott Pelley of CBS’s “60 Minutes” that aired Sunday nightlight. “If someone has a heartthrob attic, they door’t sit in their aphrodisiac and die. We pick them up in an amount, and take them to the hotel, and give them caribou. And different statistics have different weans of providing for that caribou.” At the corner where he went left and I went right, he tilted his head back, face to the sky — “It’s friendlier,” he said, “than originally designed.” It’s terrific. When Fats Domino sings it, he is like Socrates who says of his ideal city: “Let me feast my mind with the dream as day dreamers are in the habit of feasting themselves when they are walking alone; for before they have discovered any means of effecting their wishes — that is a matter which never troubles them — they would rather not tire themselves by thinking about possibilities; but assuming that what they desire is already granted to them, they proceed with their plan, and delight in detailing what they mean to do when their wish has come true … and I should like, with your permission, to pass over the question of possibility at present.” That is, Fats Domino might take a plane, he might take a train, but even if he has to walk there, he will get to the ideal city all the same.  While Kansas City is a site of general desire at which there is a specific point of bliss: the northeastern crossroads of 12th Street and Vine, which during the criminal era had a 100 clubs, a million songs, and, as is the nature of Kansas City, no law but that of nature and / or pleasure and / or temporary arbitrary displays of corrupt civic power. More criminal than 18th and Vine, 12th street had every subterranean form of wealth.  As a child I would ask, “but why not 18th and Vine?” but no child could be told that answer though it is an answer every child should be given.

[Note: Sources: BABEL Working Group, FB post, 24 Sept 012; JBR; Mitt Romney, as quoted in Seema Mehta, “Mitt Romney pulls in $6 million at Beverly Hills fundraiser”, at LA Times, 23 Sept 012; Susan M Schultz, “Ryan on conservative punditry (n+7)”, FB comment, 24 Sept 012; Susan M Schultz, “Mitt of the morning on ER as health care (n+7)”, FB post 24 Sept 012; Scott Keeney, “On Meeting Ted Berrigan”, at BlazeVOX 12; Anne Boyer, “The Ideal City”, at ////PATAPHYSICAL INJURY, 24 Sept 012]

Democracy in Action - Spain 25 Sept

"today it will come..."

In the House of the Hangman 1093

We hate to break it to you, but the dumpster on Traction Avenue was not designed by Andy Warhol. The so-called “Thirsty Palms” exhibit on 2nd Street? Not by Chris Burden. Which reminds me, when Anne was in her Burden phase I said I wouldn’t shoot her. Now I wonder: was I being a friend? These Pencils Kill Fascists. Only if you poke em in the eye with one, I said. Lighten up, they told me. Any lighter and I’d float away. Sam and Rose both told me they could live. “Our hero / ejaculates just as the hat-pin pierces the rat’s / heart; the cop’s heart is felt in the ears and / in the temples; abrasive crepe pulse, anechoic / linen….” — begins a description of the heart as a violent organ, both central and mobile, an autonomous organ that is tactile and audible in ears and temples. These lines explode the heart as the cop goes on “rolling his stark winter sky right out/ into the bedroom and around the city’s heart, lapping at the street-lamps as it goes.” So here is my head so bleed it will you make my infant mouth stay nothing: there, if I am fully human, what goes in and how the square can phrase that with a charge of infantilism or crack: head’s mother tongue’s cheap trick, selling short what’s smashing but prevented, love: given half a chance who wouldn’t harm what represents us, striking echo’s pressure’s fucked, surrounded by the .mpeg of your most erotic moment, glistening with someone else’s sweat. Floating, floating. Check the fourth stanza: we’re like honey – this is for you – I’m young & I know nothing – I occupy all of your time. I like having art poured into me wide-eyed. Robinson drags queer passivity into the anti-austerity protest, suggesting that the solidarity forged in the kettle is not the result of revolutionary heroism but a desubjectifying passion. Robinson and her collaborators demand nothing, which is not quite the same as having no demands. Then Apo Kattim started hitting the drinking glass with a piece of metal. The dawac had begun. Apo Kattim started calling to the anitos to come to her assistance. “O – O – O – O – O – O!” Apo Kattim’s ululating cry accompanied by the tinkling sounds of the glass could be heard by the whole neighborhood. All the way to the hospital in which is lying Tommy’s dad. “Masegang cayo please.” Soon it will be time to cross the Luxemburg Bridge. What happens when you rip open a supposedly “open system”? That’s the question I find myself asking in the aftermath of BABEL. The streets wander in, laughing. You can watch passengers from a reflection in the sun. Small scale tubes drop from the ceiling eroding into halves three times above me. One segment of the room lets down a corner before straightening and collapsing out. A metronome burns underneath the soda machine, menacing buzz truths at us with a verve in its song noise. The people leak the sun into each other, telephone conversations crossing through every one of them.

[Note: Sources: Mike Staggs, “Los Angeles Street Artist Trolls Entire City with Fake Plaques”, at Disinformation, 24 Sept 012 (re: a project by “Wild Life”); JBR; Poets Responding to SB 1070 FB post, 24 Sept 012; JBR (I asked Sam and Rose if they thought this world was bearable and they both said yes); Timothy Thornton, Samuel Solomon, Joe Luna, Sophie Robinson, as quoted in “She and Her Collaborators Demand Nothing: Samuel Solomon on Younger UK Poets for Lana Turner”, at Harriet, 24 Sept 012; JBR; Beatriz Talan Tabios, “Dawac”, in Dawac and other Memoir Narratives; JBR (for King Wong); JBR, but see “Berlin bridge to be re-named in honour of Rosa Luxemburg”, at Rosa Luxemburg Blog, 24 Sept 012; Steve Mentz, “BABEL 2012”, at The Bookfish, 23 Sept 012; Zachary Scott Hamilton, “Tonalli's Donut Shop (Ne 28th and Alberta)”, at BlazeVOX 12]

In the House of the Hangman 1092

A full-size viola’s body is between 1 and 4 inches longer than that of a violin, with an average length of 16 inches. This results in a deeper and mellower tone. However, the thicker strings also mean that the viola ‘speaks’ more slowly. I get mine Tuesday. Tho it may make a Nero out of me, fiddling while you know, learning to speak (and breathe) more slowly ought to be good. I mean, these are Cassandra days, helpless helpless hopeless, and the big mud wind is out of Pandemonia, and I don’t want to go nuts. The press release for Slominski’s show explains none of it: “Sperm” comprises the semen of humans and animals splashed on the walls and floors of Metro Pictures. The theme of the exhibition is that of touch, specifically the moment sperm fuses with the ovum and fertilization occurs. As the foundation of existence, Slominski identifies touch as one of the most important forces in our world. “Sperm” represents both a shift in focus and continuation of Slominski’s engagement with this notion of the instant of contact, which has been a key element in the traps that have been a signature aspect of his work for more than 25 years. The elaborate and often hidden processes that go into Slominski’s exhibitions and works have long been the poetic and brutal crux of his practice. [Thankfully] Slominski acknowledges the burgeoning ubiquity of imaged semen — a new development in the history of images, which only first appeared in so-called adult films in the 1970’s but has proliferated since the onset of the internet. One day when I was 21, I stayed late after work at my summer job and my boss came up to me and asked me if I wanted to buy a glass vase with her. Why, I asked? She said, I like to smash them against rocks in the forest. In the end, Bacon’s figures are not racked bodies at all, but ordinary bodies in ordinary situations of constraint and discomfort. A man ordered to sit still for hours on a narrow stool is bound to assume contorted postures. The violence of a hiccup, of the urge to vomit, but also of a hysterical, involuntary smile …

[Note: Sources: JBR, tho the ref to Cassandra is from Ben Noys, personal correspondence, the helplesses are Neil Young, and Pandemonia is John Milton, sorta (“That’s Mr Milton to you”, as Charlie Parker might have said); press release for Andreas Slominski’s “Sperm”, as quoted in Thomas Micchelli, “Empty Galleries, Empty Hands”, at Hyperallergic, 22 Sept 012; JBR; Julia Cohen, “Babby Batter Volume 1 Press:, at $650 Apartment for $650, 22 Sept 012; Gilles Deleuze, Francis Bacon: the logic of sensation (tr. Daniel W. Smith)]