The Revenge of the Libertines or, Sade’s Counter-Education
by Beatrice Gross
Ephemera Made Permanent
by Tod Mesirow
I mostly make television. the kind people today often call reality television. I used to object to the nomenclature, considering an Orwellian use of the word. but I’ve come to accept that anything created for television is real. it becomes real. it shapes reality. and in the early days of my work I thought what I made was largely ephemera - it was on, and then it was gone. I would and still do save copies of my programs. but they were not readily available elsewhere after they had aired, been broadcast, on television. then came cable. everything ever made was suddenly available again. entire channels existed to re-show things that had been seen before. then came the internet. it’s possible for everything ever made to be seen whenever one wants to see it. storage seems infinite, universal access is completely possible. now the insubstantial fleeting moments of television of the old days has become the constantly growing massive amount of output of today, always available everywhere. reality is shaped and re-shaped as people watch, create, mash-up, and uncover a new reality. with apologies to Descartes, if it’s on television, it is real.
creator, Wired Science, with Wired Magazine, for PBS
executive consultant, Smash Lab, for Discovery Channel
exec. producer, Ultimate Car Build-Off, Discovery Channel
exec. producer, Top Gear pilot, for NBC, for the BBC
exec. producer, Overhaulin’ for TLC
show runner, Mythbusters for Discovery Channel
co-exec. producer, Monster Garage, for Discovery Channel
The Bubble
by Leila Currah
I live in a bubble
just like you
the bubble
the perfectly circular bubble
the nerve-racking,
the worrying,
the dispiriting,
the sad and piteous,
pretentious,
perfectly circular bubble
read the question carefully
choose the best answer
and fill in the bubble
it should say
and fill in the piteous,
pretentious,
perfectly circular bubble
not to say
I have not relished
in filling in the perfectly circular bubble
with maximum precision,
with knowing certainty
the answer is d
all of the above
god rest this bubble’s soul
how many bubbles have come and gone?
ashes scattered over the pages
in notebooks,
in packets,
on single pieces of what once was perfectly good paper
and so many bubbles unfilled
it’s these bubbles that fill my mind
these empty bubbles
if only I could collect them
and free their letters forever
the a’s, and the b’s, and the c’s and the d’s
I’d put them to good use
I’d put them back into words,
into my own words
into my own colors
in buckets of paint
azure
black
crimson
and dusty rose
then I’ll paint the walls
of this perfectly
circular bubble
and make it a funky, colorful, harmonious,
bubblified home
Leila Currah now lives freely in her bubble.
March 29, 2010
1 note
March 29, 2010
1 note
Late Living
by Hectort Canonge
I wake up late every day, but since I have no schedule to follow, it is only in my mind that I’m delayed. With no appointments, urgent calls or actual work to do, I’ve convinced myself that I’m busy and under constant pressure. Someone in my shoes would actually be happy for not having to do the 9 to 5 thing, but not me. I make myself late just by thinking that I want to be late.
This morning, for example, I was up by ten. Still tired from the night before, I had stayed up watching, actually the right word is staring, so staring at my TV monitor and its flux of images triggered by my ADD thumbnail. They say that men in general cannot keep their hands off the remote no matter what we are watching, I believe that we do it because of some primal need to have the world in our fingers.
Too tired to even enjoy my re-heated Nescafe or my favorite Costco imported Matzo, I sat at my kitchen counter thinking how late I will be. I put some strawberry jam on the hard, kosher cracker, took a zip of my unsweetened coffee, and turned on NPR. Listening to it convinces me that I’m different from my neighbors who by this time, and in competition with one another, have their cha-cha drums blasting the building. I probably sound like an old white man from Jersey, but hell no! I’m from Queens and from a very-working-class-immigrant family whose breakfast was limited to Cheerios –no milk- just because my mother didn’t know what else to buy or how to ask in our “Greek Spoken Here” neighborhood supermarket.
At the gym, I run the invisible track and ride the going-no-where bike while trying to put some order into my thoughts. At the first drop of my salty, warm sweat I stop, tried to calculate the calories I burned, but I get too distracted by the Maury Povich Show playing on the monitor. I’m glad I have to read the captions and not hear the screams of Middle America. I’m very sensitive to sound, so it’s good they are mute. By the time I get back home it’s already past noon. I’m tired, but strangely enough I don’t feel the pressure not to be late. I start emailing, twittering, blogging, and creating. In other words LIVE !?!
Hector Canonge is an artist who lives and works in NYC where he studied literature, film and Integrated Media Arts. His work incorporates the use of various media and commercial technologies, physical environments, cinematic, and performance narratives. Canonge’s works have been exhibited in various museums, galleries and art spaces.
Shmutts
by Dilian M.
Really? Do we ever think that when done, we will be satisfied? As they wonder around in the astonishment of severe arousal, I praise the work of people preceding me because let’s face it, it would not be easy for any of us to do it without them. Sure, it would be something. But would it be as good? I bet not, but then again when I bet I usually end up not winning so maybe you should listen to your own advise rather than mine. Except if your advise is stupider than mine, which is probably the case, so then strike that, don’t listen to your advise, take the one of someone you truly undermine - me. When you do so, you will be reborn as an animal smarter than you now. Not a surprise, considering the fact of how smart you are. Let it be so. When finished, it shall be like a prophecy that will reach a wider organization than this one, and this sole fact is good enough, cause what do they know frankly? Putts. Hence, trying to educate us with blasphemous thought. Don’t you see that these numbers are doctored, I mean, as in a hyperbolic style? Let me tell you, Satan is not to be a mockery. A prelude is more likely. Don’t go any near that group of people I tell you, it will be disappointing to see you there…
The author is a human-shaped person who sometimes writes songs. Some you can hear at diliandilian.com. He is kind and has long hair.
The Intern Apprentice
by Jan Galligan
Today is my high-school student’s, last day. He’s been with us for the past eight weeks, starting the day before I left for vacation.. As a part of his assignment the school requires him to write a daily diary. Here are some excerpts:
Journal: 7-12
Because Jan is on vacation, I am working with Bob (the bookie). He showed me the mailroom. We went there three times. Then he showed me the xerox room, two times.. After lunch - cheese pan pizza from Pizza Hut - I returned and played with the computer. With two hours left Bob and I had to make copies on special paper. The copier kept jamming. We finished and with fifteen minutes left in my work day I once again sat down and played with the computer.
Journal: 7-24
Went to the mailroom. At least I don’t get lost anymore!. Had to make a picture look better by stippling it. I watched the printer make seven copies of a thing that is too hard to explain. Then Jan and I had to send files from one computer to another. While this happened, Jan took lunch to his daughter and I went to lunch and had a turkey sandwich…
Journal: 7-26
Brought lunch but as I was almost done eating (outside) it started to rain… Finished another project and now I have nothing to do. I guess I’ll wait for Jan to come back…The rain ended up being a downpour. Now, I get to go around and shoot video of water damage.
Journal: 8-9
When I came back from lunch I played some solitaire until Jan showed up.
Journal: 8-14
Today I scanned in thirty-four images and then after lunch adjusted their levels and cropped them down to a manageable size.
Journal: 8-21
Scanned an image of a dog for my friend and transferred it to the 486 to put it on disk. Then went to lunch. Jan said the projects for this week are already done. That means its going to be slow. That’s right, FINAL WEEK. Hopefully he can find me something in animation.
Journal 8-23 (Last Day!)
Today is International Day. I had fried dough, then I had a Strawberry-Banana shake… Jan showed me how to use Netscape to search the WWW for information about animation. That wasn’t very successful. Now I’m just hanging around.
Indian Summer
by W. Andrew Sterling
you begin to learn the piano, and
you think you know all about it.
you grab a piano and
tuck it underneath your arm.
you sit at a piano think
that your parents’ room is
hotter than yours,
and that you must get practice there
too before you can consider yourself
thoroughly done.
under the goregous panorama
of an indian summer
you smile at a piano and
your mind wanders. a similar
vowel sound to the English
word raw is pronounced
by a piano in New York in
the second millenium. an olive
and a potato are following you.
you gaggle and none
of your initiation will pay off.
you cannot find another olive and potato.
you can now play ‘jiggle truck’
on your piano and you have only
played piano twice.
your friend has also played piano twice.
at night you go
hunting for a piano
when your friend brings
you a coke. you open your coat and
find a piano.
