What if he were to turn his head, and look forward?

I love this stuff:

From Walter Benjamin’s Theses on the Concept of History:

“My wing is ready for flight,
I would like to turn back. If I stayed timeless time,
I would have little luck.

Mein Flügel ist zum Schwung bereit,
ich kehrte gern zurück,
denn blieb ich auch lebendige Zeit,
ich hätte wenig Glück.

Gerherd Scholem,
‘Gruss vom Angelus’

A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.”

corrosive roaches and other oddities

There is some really strange stuff out there– robotic cockroaches, innocent mutants, Asian angels from the future. Thanks to Rita Wong and Randy Lee Cutler for these:

http://www.intercorr.com/roach.htm
http://www.artfacts.net/index.php/pageType/exhibitionInfo/exhibition/14827
http://www.mcachicago.org/MCA/exhibit/past/Mori/

Actually I’ve been a Mariko Mori fan for quite some time. Wish I could get my hands on a copy of Miko No Inori(The Shaman Girl’s Prayer).

While I’m here, Coco Fusco’s website is pretty cool:

http://www.thing.net/~cocofusco/

focusing the crisis

Liberal humanism mourns its failure to emancipate, in the wake of rationalized war and torture. The particular applications of universality light up its endless failures.
The marginalized can’t escape the master-slave dialectic, can’t escape identity constructed through trauma, unless, to borrow from Deleuze, they/we draw our being at least partially from the future, the “city to come.”
If the idea of the individual, with its drive to romantic love, free speech, and other idealistically democratic freedoms is not as useful an idea as it was, was possibility remains for the collective? How differentiated are we/do we need to be from one another? What of our hybridities– racial, gendered, technological? Are we already borg, with all its orientalized implications?
Can you tell I’m trying to write a grant proposal?

there was and there was not a party

There was a party for not Alana Wilcox, who was not visiting Calgary and was not hanging out at the Kensington Pub yesterday. Ryan Fitzpatrick was not there. Neither of them were imported from Nova Scotia, which, contrary to popular belief, is not another country. Neither of them have red eyes either, but my camera does. A lot of people, in fact, were not there, including yours truly, who did not go home early to be alone with her computer.

intimate strangers

I leave the party to return to my machine. It remembers everything I’ve forgotten. It warns me of the future. It reminds me of the past. It brings me old friends from childhood. It schedules my day. It sings to me. It tells the time. It surprises me with unexpected visitors and fascinating projects. It presents me fresh options. It offers good bargains. It is a chance to travel the world. I tell it new ideas. I present it thoughts too uncertain to test on people. It listens intently. It reflects exactly what I said. The machine is safe. I love my machine.