dutch cove has a posse (funny_riddle remix)

Zhivago once fled with his lover to the interminable snow plains
across the barren landscape of revolutionary Russia. Reaching a place
that most resembled the center of nowhere, they stopped. The
Bolshevik police followed on their heels, moving at a different
speed, chasing a desire that escaped their comprehension. They
knocked at the door, asking, what is your agenda, what are you
plotting against us, what do you plan to do here? Live, he answered,
just live. If understood slowly, this is not the fatality of
hopelessness or a sign of passive acquiescence in the face of an
obscene demand. And if it is an insurrection, it is not the
insurrection proclaimed loudly on the center stage of capital cities
whose success is measured by how many times the police beats it to
the ground. Knowing when to disappear, it does not ask to be
represented. Although there are many who live it today, outside the
speed of the media spectacle, their names would only be invoked in
vain, as the idols of yet another manifesto thrown on the rubble-heap
of history.

Dialectics never died. It lives every time another tired exhibit of
the relics of dada or situationism opens at the houses of culture
across the world. It lives when the hackers who haunt the net repeat
the slogans and gestures of the dead and then congratulate themselves
when they are finally inducted into the halls of power of the Venice
Biennale or Ars Electronica. It lives when the theorists and
cartographers of new deterritorialized flows of desire sell their
interests by entering a classroom to become functionaries of the
empire of production, offering packaged knowledge to students who
eagerly produce whatever stupidity is asked of them in exchange for
the general equivalent of a grade. It lives when the
anti-globalization 'multitude' faithfully ascend to the stage of
negation to recite their memorized roles, proudly displaying the
garments of an ideology that long ago betrayed its exhaustion.
Dialectics consumes the desire of life as it beats its wings against
the limits of the impossible. As Tzara once said, dialectics kills -
it lives by producing corpses, which lie strewn across an empty field
where the wind has ceased to blow. The field only reveals its own
folly and despair; and victory is the illusion of philosophers and
fools.

- duna maver (2002)

http://www.abcd-artbrut.org
http://www.neuralust.com/~curt/sop/
http://www.neuralust.com/~curt/fall/
http://www.playdamage.org/38.html
http://www.superseventies.com/sl_thankgodimacountryboy.html
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