blög - page 2

  • some new old poems are up


    i added some new poems to poems: send without subject, how will these exposures turn out, now what, family, i, digest or cubicle, work that failed, hi everyone, and a paragraph.

  • alkahest -- an a4 booklet from 2014


    here’s a booklet i wrote in 2014, back when i was a completely different person and all the shit that went down hadn’t gone down, layed out more recently in latex.

    link to pdf: alkahest.

  • new translations


    I added some new translations to the translation page. Texts by Denis Roche, Hölderlin, René Char, Apollinaire, and Henri Michaux. Some of them are deranged.

  • definitions of shit (from scrapebooks)

    […]

    “our neighbour has been cancelled and it will seem miraculous and then youll win oscars and ppl will be written by my bot-homie.

    totally dystopian shit. i find my ppl on this shit. “The crisis has shone a light on this shit, anarchists, bums, drop outs, hegelian conspiracy theorists… shit i just follow someone from the web interface into the dot dot dot menu and the whole shit crashing down? at the exact same time and being the whole shit, the whole world!!! ahhhhh!

    holy shit i just wanted to write.

    thx for this. thx for this. thx for this. thx for this. thx for this. thx for this.

    & lets hear it for it not-so-recently-discovered planets for good measure too. dig.

    (more...)

  • michel foucault answers two questions on march 17, 1976

    note

    At the end of the final lecture of Michel Foucault’s fascinating 1976 Collège de France course entitled «Il faut défendre la société» [“Society must be defended”], he responds to two questions asked by an audience member. Normally there were no question sessions following the lectures, and in this case Foucault sounds like he doesn’t much want to respond. His replies were not included the published transcripts, but the audio of the courses has now been made available online at Free Foucault by some good Samaritan pirates (finally!). In the final lecture, Foucault introduces the idea of biopolitics as a new regime of state power that he sees emerging in the late 19th century, which surpasses and reconfigures both the old logic of classical sovereignty as well as more recent (since the 18th century) disciplinary regimes. It also subsumes and transforms the radical historical discourse that Foucault has been studying throughout the course, that of a war of the races.

    Biopower, Foucault explains, makes people live and lets them die, rather than letting them live and making them die, as classical sovereignty had. Death goes from being a matter of open and well-nigh universally observed public spectacle to almost a matter of indifference to the state, which instead concentrates on manufacturing and optimizing the life of its subjects. Foucault returns to the historical discourse of a war of the races that he earlier elaborated in intriguing detail, attempting to explain how the transition to a biopolitical regime through the French Revolution and its aftermaths more or less amounted to the effacement of such a war and the essentially partisan perspective it implies. At the same time such a transition triggers and necessitates the emergence of a novel kind of biologically-constructed racism as an essential instrument of state power. This new kind of racism doesn’t focus on an external enemy that must be defeated as in the old discourse of warring races or nations, as that mode of war has been eclipsed. Instead it is organized around the preservation and advance of the race and the nation (both now in the singular) through its purification and management at the level of the population. Within the parameters of the new biopolitical regime, Foucault argues, racism is the sole means by which states can now exercise their sovereign right over the death of their subjects, and as such it becomes a fundamental technology or mechanism of the biopolitical state.

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  • undays


    well, what have we, nothing much. slow days, random open time days obsession with useless crap days. some work days, not much essay days, a break from essay days, no writing days, no reading days, no solving my flight refund from huge collapsing airline days, they don’t even answer days, they don’t even let you wait for hours on the phone for them days, i didn’t really really finish my essay days, it was shit anyway days, will i fix what i know i should fix in it days, avoiding doing much days, a few notes days but never edit them days, it’s kinda like just pissing in the dirt days, foucault days though actually, so there are those, foucault war and the origins of feudalism + the origins of modern nationalism days, russian hackers signing up to my server days, and i don’t even have a privacy policy which makes it technically illegal in germany days, and i probably shouldn’t risk it days, i deleted all these packages coz i didn’t think i needed them days, got obsessed with slimming it down days, then realized it was stupid to risk bugging up my shit up days, and restored them all contritely days, what were they even days, were they even days?, slow libidoless days, writinglessness days, uncaring about my ongoing failingness days, nonce days, indifferent to indifference days, breathtakingly beautiful tropical autumn days, but we can’t live them days, because we are fucking stuck up here in this tower days, our snake left its tree and never came back but all the birds came back days, they sit and sing on the branches the snake used to live on days, ive seen nothing else but this ancient mountain face world outside our window for months days, unmoving days, unmoved days, the days are all the same days, and its kinda my own fault too days, mildly drinking days, flattened to really flat days, shortened days, cropped days, will i ever leave this apartment and will i ever cross the atlantic again days, fuck the fucking atlantic give me the pacific and the fucking southern ocean any day days, i never was one for the atlantic days, at least not the european side of it ive seen days, it was like a tepid bath days, but from rio i have respect for its power days, not that i’ve seen it in months even though i’m staying only 5 blocks away days, feeling old and boring days, sapped days, eating endless piles of vegetables out of boredom days, roasting or frying the shit out of them days, kefir days, green tea days, cancer food and drink days, amazingly amazing salted bacalhau days, tropical fruit juice days, cashew juice days, cramped limbs days, lame stretching attempts days, am i getting even skinnier days, no haircut for months days, strained eyes days, rsi arms days, solving problems that don’t exist days, streaming half a film until the computer conks out and we still don’t know why maybe its overheating days, the solution recommended in the online forum worked for someone else but not for you days, your mileage may vary days, why did you copy some random commands posted online ten years ago and execute them on your system you idiot days, but at least you read it days, you might as well not even bother days, console days, terminal days, command line interface days, side-by-side but not really together days, in that we are all similar to items in an archive days, wholly engrossed in something not at all urgent because that’s all i can do rn days, what else am i gonna do days, what do you expect me to do or be days, pyjama days, letting it all go days, doing it all and not letting it or anything else go because what else days, the same old albums days, and same overwhelming memories days, keep neurotically switching fonts days, trying to be interested days, trying to remember how to move days, trying to be around days, unable to be anything else than around days, everyone robotting days, except the wonderful bots days, liberal imprisonment days, same old hideous aqua glass table and our moist oily handprints on it days, awful interior decoration days, plastic fake wood grain days, undays and undays and undays.

  • made redundant

    note

    i guess this is a kind of draft write-up of a tirade i wrote on christmas day last year. why not share a tirade. you can also read the pdf version of this text.

    null beginning

    Nothing is happening, but you are not where you are. You are emptied and filled, tied down and thrown overboard. You go to move closer to where you are, but where you are moves as you do. Is it a kite in the wind strung to your waist, is it straining to elude you or indifferent to your straining. You are continually ‘acting’, in both senses of the word, you have to, yet you are also a kind of atmosphere or field through which broken scraps and threads of thought continually flow, and these needn’t have any necessary link to any of your actions or acting. You go to seize them as they flow out of and across you, but you are not where you are and nor are they. You go to fix one, as a garment to a table for trimming, but it frays and the threads wriggle away to combine anew or miraculously multiply to become other flowing scraps of thought. They flow through your atmosphere, obscuring the massive, implacable rack-work of logic it is also home to. It seems like anything could be constructed with and upon this rack-work, even an upturned world. Yet in this atmosphere it moves through anything, the scraps flow right through it, it cannot net them, cannot be recruited for your project of pinning them down to tailor something. It is organization itself, but for its own sake: it is completely useless for the actual practice of organizing something in particular, least of all your own self. You dream, you are dream, you are so filled it seems a miracle, so filled it hurts too, it hurts to be this filled openness, and so exposed. You are filled and falling, you are far, far below a sentence, a proposition, you see it as a possibility as one sees a scene from underwater, blindingly bright yet impossibly contorted, unattainable even as inner vision. And you see it far, far below you too, like a stone glimpsed by a flying eagle, a stone in a pile of stones. And yet reams of language bottleneck inside you, you’re awash with it, riddled with it, with both its ethereal flow and the pitiless density of its arms, arms that sometimes reveal they have the power to split (and fuse) anything. This power, does it come from the scraps, does the rack-work secrete it, does it make the scraps and the rack-work. Do they have anything in common at all. Would you maybe know the answer to these questions if you were where you are, or can that power maybe help you get there. Is it the way or the goal. Has anyone ever known anything of all this in a way other than you are straining to now, which is to say, other than this not-knowing-shit-about-the-lot-of-it, the lot of it that you are and are also failing to be.

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