Wednesday, February 28, 2007




Saturn Sings...

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

ett djur av ett hittils okänt slag har kommit till staden i en container med apelsiner


Monday, February 26, 2007

"Art is at its cutting edge out of a specific lineage - the creation of reality. The subject matter of what I do, is creation. "

- Knox Martin (1999)

"Beauty is fury, color is God!"

- J. Krishnamurti

Knox Martin

Knox Martin

Sunday, February 25, 2007

friday at blueberry hill 9pm

Shortly after, the human era will be ended.

Saturday, February 24, 2007

Friday, February 23, 2007

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Dear G. de Anjou-Lepic,

Am I enthusiastic about Hymenopteron’s campaign for president? You bet I am. I know it better than anybody in the universe, and it’s got the best combination of mind and tenderness of everything I've ever known.

All across the globe, the Charlatans are campaigning with the signature wisdom, grace, and humor that make Hymenopteron & the Charlatans of Gravity a great candidate. I know that if we all work hard enough, those same traits will make Hymenopteron an even better president.

You and I know something about waging and winning presidential campaigns.
Winning the World House takes persistence, energy and effort -- not just from the candidate, but from a massive network of hornet supporters.

Hymenopteron’s campaign is off to a great start. And this week, we're going to help take it to another level. Our goal: to demonstrate the range and breadth of Hymenopteron’s support by raising one million dollars in grassroots donations in a week's time?
Will you help us get our "One Week, One Million" campaign off to a powerful start?

Click to donate:

Look, with Republicans/Democrats/Independents using everything in their arsenal to stop it’s campaign, Hymenopteron is going to need every one of us to do everything that we can for it.

During almost eight years in New York City, Hymenopteron and you faced a constant barrage of attacks from the inner circles of power et al. No insult was off-limits. No tactic was too low. They threw everything they could at you -- but the Charlatans beat them time and time again.
The attacks on Hymenopteron haven't stopped, and it hasn't stopped winning. You know how they say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger? Well, Hymenopteron is as strong as they come.

Let's make this a week when we demonstrate that its campaign is strong, too. Strong enough to sustain Hymenopteron's run for the presidency through thick and thin. Strong enough to win.

Click to donate:

I can't wait to join the Charlatans on the campaign trail and talk to people about what a great president it's going to be. Hymenopteron is a tireless fighter and a brilliant born leader, and I have no doubt the people of the earth will make it our first non-human president.

Over the next week, you'll hear from some other friends and admirers of Hymenopteron & the Charlatans of Gravity. But I hope you'll not join them in making our One Week, One Million campaign a non-success. Most importantly, I hope you'll act right now to get this dramatic display of grassroots support off the ground with a big outpouring for Hymenopteron & the Charlatans of Gravity on this "first day of the united universe".

Click to donate:

Thank you so much for your support. Hymenopteron and I couldn't do it without you.


Ori Sapel


Hornets hit France and could reach Britain

By Peter Allen in Paris,
Last Updated: 2:40am GMT 21/02/2007

Swarms of giant hornets renowned for their vicious stings and skill at massacring honeybees have settled in France.
And there are now so many of the insects that entomologists fear it will just be a matter of time before they cross to Britain.

A hornets nest.

Global warming has largely been blamed for the survival and spread of the Asian Hornet, Vespa velutina, which is thought to have arrived in France from the Far East in a consignment of Chinese pottery in late 2004.
Thousands of football-shaped hornet nests are now dotted all over the forests of Aquitaine, the south-western region of France hugely popular with British tourists.
"Their spread across French territory has been like lightning," said Jean Haxaire, the entomologist who originally identified the new arrival.
He said he had recently seen 85 nests in the 40-odd miles which separate the towns of Marmande and Podensac, in the Lot et Garonne department where the hornets were first spotted.
The hornets can grow to up to 1.8in and, with a wingspan of 3in, are renowned for inflicting a bite which has been compared to a hot nail entering the body.
A handful can destroy a nest of 30,000 bees in just a couple of hours — a major concern among the beekeeping industry.
"The problems are not necessarily public health ones, but ecological ones. These hornets can cause immense damage to beehives," said Mr Haxaire. The hornets are renowned for feeding their young with the larvae of other social insects, including bees, whose nests they break into and ransack. The French beekeeping industry has already been decimated by pesticides and long, hot summers.
Honey production from the 1.3 million hives run by 80,000 beekeepers has been decreasing annually — down by 60 per cent in south-western France during the past decade.
A spokesman for the French National Been Surveillance Unit said the bee death rate during winter was now up to six in ten.
As a result France has to import some 25,000 tons of honey annually.
"The arrival of these hornets has made the situation considerably worse," the spokesman added. "The future of our entire industry is at stake."
Yesterday, there was concern that it may not take long before the Asian hornet makes its way to Britain.
"There's no doubt that these hornets are heading north and will probably find their way to Britain at some point," said Stuart Hine, manager of the Insect Information Service at London's Natural History Museum.
"Climate change certainly means they can cope with European summers. However, they would still have difficulty coping with our winter frosts."
While some 40 people a year die from hornet stings — mainly because of allergic reactions — Claire Villement, of France's Natural History Museum, said there was no need for a "national panic about killer wasps".
Mrs Villement said: "The legend that three bites from a hornet can kill you are totally false. People can still enjoy their picnics in the countryside."


Friday, February 16, 2007

To Have Done With the Spectre of God

After the Second World War, throughout the economically developed world, religion, especially Roman Catholicism, had to abate its centuries-old claim to direct people’s inner lives, their sexuality, their social and moral existence. A large portion of humanity thus reaped the fruits of the long anti-Christian struggles of the eighteenth century, initiated by the bourgeoisie and pursued even more vigorously by the labour movement, one of whose most valuable legacies was secularisation and the relegation of religion to the private sphere. The air we breathed was all the healthier, in that the age-old messianic strain that had permeated Christianity, having completely deserted the churches and abandoned transcendence, nourished all the utopian currents of the 1960s, hated so fiercely today by those who wield hegemonic power. In addition, the device of recruiting the imaginary, which for over a thousand years had been the monopoly of Christianity, was largely overtaken in its means and methods by the society of the spectacle that was coming into being. To some extent, the spectacle, which is essentially the profane realization of religion, took great care not to finish off its work of overtaking the religious; rather than doing away with religion, it kept it in its repertoire in the form of historical drama. It is this drama that it is presenting again today.With the fall of Stalinist bureaucracies in Eastern Europe and the collapse of revolutionary ideologies that had been so useful in keeping the social system in equilibrium, capitalism ended up in a blind-alley of its own success, facing only itself. The more it unifies the planet through the relentless penetration of the commodity, the more it relies on false divisions to divert from their attempts directly to confront it those whom it exploits and whose lives it destroys. Of course, it does not create these divisions from scratch, and no conspiracy theory is needed to explain this process; it is its own historical movement – including its false trails (such as strengthening radical Islamism in order to weaken Soviet state capitalism) – that employs and amplifies pre-existing racial, ethical, sexual, religious and social divisions. That is why today we are witnessing the artificial resurgence of historic antagonisms between Christianity and Islam; of their old power only the ideological core of the religion survives, together with some set rituals that ensure the greater or lesser subservience of minds and bodies, especially where the religious can lean on the secular arm for support. Some people think they have discovered a clash of civilisations, whereas in today’s world there is only the single barbarism of the hamburger and the mobile phone. Others (representatives of a frustrated Muslim bourgeoisie that would like to enjoy its share of the capitalist pie) think they’re experiencing a re-run of the Crusades. And superimposed on this deadly mug’s game is the reactivated confrontation between Western democracy and totalitarianism that had made the system work so well for more than half a century. Let us add, however, that in emphasising all these false oppositions, we are not over-stepping the mark by creating an equivalence between perceived everyday situations that cannot be compared. Just as during the Cold War it was preferable for everyone, proletarians included, to live in the so-called free world rather than in the so-called Communist world, one would have to be in particularly bad faith if one did not admit that in an Islamic society people’s lives are even worse than just about anywhere else, even if they are not women, homosexuals or atheists, simply because they have to conform to the outrageous prohibitions and prescriptions of public morality.In this equally tragic replay, the same situations are producing the same resort to nauseating tactical alliances; just as in the era of triumphant Stalinism appalling agreements such as the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact between Stalin’s Russia and Hitler’s Germany were made against what was even then called liberalism, today similar alliances are formed between the licensed critics of a liberalism once again wrongly described as extreme, and the worst Islamist regimes or organisations. What is in play when these deals are struck is still the abandonment of any kind of moral scruple, leading to the worst of confusions. Let us then spit on the inept Chávez, who shows no hesitation in supporting the criminal Ahmadinejad while at the same time taking himself for the executor of the will of God; let’s spit on those European leftists who, confusing, as is their wont, an oppressed population and its alienated representation, offer their ridiculous support to the ultra-reactionaries of Hamas; let’s spit on those British Trotskyists who make common cause with Islamo-fascists at local elections; let’s spit on all those who, under the pretext of fighting imperialism, appear not to feel in their bones everything that is repugnant and unworthy in offering their hand to some proponent or other of religious dogmatism.Our atheism is not a philosophical or logical position. It is, like the atheism of de Sade, the tone of a way of life, the palpable fluid in which we can breathe and in which our imaginary can enjoy its powers. The atheism of the positivists and other anti-clericals who pile up proofs of the non-existence of God appear to us like a fruit incompletely detached from the tree of a monotheism finally transformed into a simple ideology of transcendence. Our atheism is rather the radiant, joyful atheism of the Cyrenaics or of Lucretius, and, on the tangible level, it expresses the position of universal immanence that one finds among all animist peoples, for whom the sacred is none other than the sense of nature’s presence. This is why the idea of a single omnipotent god appears to us so ridiculous and so tedious. And we cannot forget that this god, created in the worst image of man – an old, somewhat obsessive male – has always been used to justify the mental poverty of anthropocentrism and its voracious stranglehold on the wonder of the world. Should the imagination, drawn par excellence towards the excesses of poetic invention, be satisfied with such a sad figure on the horizon of its questioning?The alleged return of the religious that the spectacle keeps trotting out for our benefit will in no way alter a fundamental fact: God died, and died definitively, more than a century ago; he was replaced by the religion of Capital, whose prophet is money, a prophet who, as we see in China today, unleashes passions all the more since it does not have to encumber itself at the same time with religious transcendence. But for peoples long subjugated by monotheism, whatever that may be, the ghost of God still prowls about, like an empty wineskin that is filled with the illusory answer to all the frustrations, rancours and oppressions ceaselessly generated by the economy and the class that reaps the benefit from them. And, like a lowering threat, this spectre weighs on the collective imaginary, polluting its language, purloining its hopes and curbing its impulses. To free oneself from this threat is to risk the only worthwhile adventure, that of freedom. So let us affirm once again the intrinsically blasphemous, anti-religious, and thus liberating character of poetic language, and our visceral disrespect for any submission to the empty bluster of the divine.
Paris Group of the Surrealist Movement
25th December 2006
Translation approved by the PGSM

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Surrealism is not a discourse, but an activity.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Now Public. It was a world where almost anything was possible, even a heterodox God -- a finite, unfinished deity-in-process who needed the unfettered rein of financial profit, intolerable for the general interests as much as the other way around -- called by the people...

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Thursday, February 1, 2007


Translated by Julian Semilian

The Volcanoes Inside Vegetables

A canoe made of hair, it seems to me, with soft paddles, gelatinous, like sea animals, beneath which a woman, entirely of crystal, rolls a ball from one lip to the other, is the image-archetype of pollution. During one of my pollutical nights, unhappily so rare, when the poplars lining up before my domicile adopted a compulsively fastidious aspect in their evening frocks, and the violins in my gestures assumed a discreet sound like torture instruments, my imposingly dauntless position regarding erotica seemed to me a disquieting distortion of metallic facial wrinkles on a metal face affixed on a body that accents only its rigid and osseous sections, neglecting the passive-voluptuous subtlety and incertitude of its weft, its lungs, the predilection accorded the scheleton in our current amorous life replacing for me in a demoralizing manner the popular image of death. I don't know to what measure the castration complex can be introduced into an enterprise, be it nostalgic and partial like this one, where the impeachment of a massive activity on the erotic plane is tested. I understand that sado-mosochistic game-playing transforms much of the schematic aspect under which I expound these matters, but what I wish to affirm essentially is that the male and its fabricated rigidity fills the eye that observes it from without with nausea. I am disgusted by the cuddly violence of the male and to this disgust can be granted with more authority than at any other time a certain objectivity because the unpleasant sentiment that I am subjected to finds me inside the phenomenon, myself personally occupying in the realm of the amorous a lightly sadistic position.
The disdain towards the easy histrionics that accompany practically every time this ilk of active enterprise where sadism is not put into effect to its morbid or extreme degree, but is sustained within its general, theatrical contour, its gesticulations taking on an artificial path, causes me to envy the essentially apparent passivity of the female, because I find it more spontaneous in its reactions, more revealing, more vibrant. I am aware of the risk taken in terms of the consequences in the realm of the analytic which affirmations such as these may provoke and I believe I may lighten up the work-load of the eventual analyst if I were to remind him of the extensive masturbational exercises to which the author of these lines dedicated himself during his adolescence, exercises which still, from time to time, hold him in their allure like the scene of the crime the criminal. I confess though that my analytic file holds little interest for me because my personal position inside of a complex cannot exhaust the conclusions of a general character provoked by the examination of this erotic spectacle where one of the actors is vested in a rigid mantle of bones while the other is a nerve severed with a saw. For in order that the male's bones crack, in order that the marrow within them to spill out like veritable lava, they would need to be endowed with the nebulous and satanic consistency of a Marquis de Sade. It seems to me that it is not necessary to take passivity to its ultimate limit in order for it to become entirely sensitized. I see myself at the roots of a tree taken by surprise by a woman in a red T-shirt glued to her skin, with long black hair strewn in disarray over her shoulders, with eyes like burnt brush. The caresses or the bites of this woman are just as voluptuous to me, the element of surprise containing in its fulgurance a state of panic-arousal, capable of transcending any previous commonplace state. This horrific woman, if she is not sadistic to the extreme, if she is not lost to my sight to awaken the next day in a distant forest next to my cadaver, with her hands stained with blood, is frustrated in her pitch of frequency, in her howl of ash. I place my lips upon the eyes of this incomplete and minor image of passivity, the flowers, with hesitant butterflies swarming around them like vultures. In my bedsheets with drawn curtains, the circles around the eyes that I touch are silent electrical doorbells. The pores are at hand, I am a rubber ball, the hair is far above the head, my eyes tongue the mouth of this unborn woman. A tree on my forehead, transparent and somewhat sparrow, its leaves dropping loose throughout the room, o! what an odd spring. A thick smoke suffuses my arm and thin trails as from a cigarette exude from my fingers with their nails surprisingly stained in a promiscuous yellow. With these stained fingers I leaf through a papyrus, an apricot. Nights fall too quickly in my house for dawn to ever break. The rains within are quick, walls sway, weeds and canoes float upon my lips, perhaps they are my words. My words bite your thighs, it is as though my teeth were written. It is a delirious calligraphy, to be studied today by tomorrow's graphology inside pyramids under an immense block of ice growing in the middle of the desert like a miracle. The mysterious calligraphy of illiterates where images seem closer to the objects which have not been invented yet, the simulated calligraphy of illiterates. I open you up like a horse and look inside for the bridle bit, forgetting you already hold it between your teeth. Night falls again, it is night incessantly. It is the witching hour, permanently bewitching, where the consistency of your being is far more certain than flesh, your bewitching flesh, permanently bewitching. I caress your ectoplasm like I would a shark. I sip you from tall beakers of crystal propped up on living frog leg. I invite you, I shout you, I bestow a name on you, any name. Fog, hair, a mask of quicksilver over your eyes, the vegetables from our virtual gestures, the tiger sleeping on our voice and the salutation we perform reciprocally for one another from the window, lifting from our shoulders with two fingers our craniums like a hat while the trains transporting us in two opposite directions crash into one another like a snowflake.