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Ersatzkaffeelesen
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Michael F. Zimmermann
Courbet als Assyrer
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Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Jean-Luc Nancy
Après les avant-gardes
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the tame
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Joch
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
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Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
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Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
Über Realismus
Artur Zmijewski
Gespräch über ‚Glimpse‘
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Rums Bums auf der Treppe
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Blixa Bargeld
LISTMANIA: ABT. DIE DUEMMSTEN BERLINER FRISÖRNAMEN
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Luc Meresma
Capt. Norman MacMillan (Book)
Facebooks Bilder-Waschtrommel erinnert mich derzeit an meine erste China-Reise vor einem Jahr. Ich war beeindruckt: So viele Hochhäuser, so viele...
Ich sitze in der Lobby eines Hotels in China. Zum Hotel inmitten einer toskanisch anmutenden Landschaft, in das ich mit...
Diese Muster für Fingernagelschmuck fielen mir vor vier Jahren im Fenster eines »Nailstudios« in Salisbury, Südwestengland, auf. Nailstudios begannen mich...
Kürzlich wollte Facebook mit mir feiern. Zu dem Zweck hat das Unternehmen mir einen Eintrag auf meine Pinwand gepostet, die...
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
In der Folge von Georges Perecs Erinnerung 480: "Ich erinnere mich… (Fortsetzung folgt…)"
…rather alarms, to truth to arm her than enemies, and they have only this advantage to scape from being called ill things, that they are nothings…
I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...
Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...
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»Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since?
If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. BASTA! I will see
if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.«
James Joyce
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.