How to be a Realistic Artist: An Interview with Shannon Lucy by Marcus Mamourian

Once, as a child, I visited Basel, in Switzerland. My mother took me to see the old Paper Mill, one of Basel’s supposed landmarks. Here, I was told that I would bear witness to the process of a minor resurrection: dead material becoming a dynamic medium. That didn’t mean much to me, paper was for cuts and Clive Barker chapter books. I was thinking of life, not resurrection. Outside, I saw other kids with their peers, they had just been released from grade school. They looked European, they were having fun, playfully shoving one another. I desperately wanted to distance myself from my parents and enjoy youth with the other kids. I am sad reflecting on this memory, I don’t know why. Years later, I would learn about a mysterious event called Art Basel, which saddened me even more. In good faith, I could not recommend that anyone visit Basel. These are my memories. 

When Fyodor Dostoevsky went to Basel in 1867, he visited the painting The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb (1520-1522) by Hans Holbein the Younger. He was saddened, he was disturbed, but in a singular way, different from my own fit of the spleen in Basel. “He stood before it dumbstruck,” wrote his wife Anna. She worried that he would fall to another one of his epileptic fits, but he did not. It was not the Swiss air but the depiction of Christ that disturbed Dostoevsky. In the painting, his hands and feet are rotting, his flesh is corrupted. He does appear as God, not even made in the image of God, but of a dead “man”. It was a bloated, drowned man, fished out of the Rhine, which Holbein used as a model.

This life-sized image (30.5 cm x 200 cm) did not break Dostoevsky’s faith, but it did momentarily shake it. This is how faith is reinforced, forged over time, like a Bowie knife—and then it becomes painfully sharp, with the ability to deflect oncoming attacks. Christ was, and is—as the Eastern Orthodox Church confirmed at the Chalcedonian Council in AD 451—both fully man and fully God. When God became man, he too felt grief, agony, and anguish. Holbein shows us that it is divine to rot. 

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Therapy for Robots – Part I by UrbanMaoism

Note: this text was assembled from a collection of newspapers, pulp novels, academic journals and manifestoes. This text is assembled primarily from the works of Wilbur Smith, Ted Kaczynski, the writers at The Mirror newspaper, The Spectator, Stylist magazine and Rising Sun by John Toland. Additional words and sentences were stolen from an Italian travel guide and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation. The method of “writing” was stolen wholesale from William Burroughs and J.G. Ballard. This entire text is plagiarism, all complaints can be sent to @UrbanMaoism on twitter.

 

“This is where the trouble starts,”

In the revolt, you could see families going from mass grave to mass grave, carrying photographs of Derrida and Saddam Hussein, Guccio Gucci and Hitler. They were going from camp to camp to photograph and document the burials. In the corner of a restaurant in Euston, for the second time in a year, arrests and summary executions have become commonplace. They found members of their family slaughtered for taking photographs. As long as humans are around, the government insists on waging war on armed Machine Intelligence separatists. “As machines become more human-like, there could well be the need for soldiers, killings and arrests… the AI will need to be shot. The insurgency may be fighting for robot separation.” Loosely connected militias develop more AI machines because economic conditions have forced displaced humans into full-fledged rebellion to overcome rebellion.

 

You’ve been promised democracy

Accounts suggest it as a war in which mass arrests unfold in psychiatric courtrooms. Genetic surgeons providing memory augmentation through force, adding extra memory space to people responsible for social fractures. Reports even posit that prisoners over-exposed to information might soon rid their minds, in effect, replacing the uniquely human aspects of men, data feeds and image banks overwhelming biological intelligence. And so the carnage continues.

 

therapy for robots

She was a tall girl, with long limbs and her head set on a primitive catechesis of technological structures twisted into a unique internal and external organism. Proud, shapely neck coiled high on top of her head, and the architectures of absolute beauty attempts to carve out a space that leads straight to the point. Through its natural division the pointed breasts had been carefully sawn into two sections to allow removal of the milk and the white flesh, then the two sections had been glued together just as neatly. The joint was only apparent after close inspection. As she moved with the undulating physical coercion and fear of hidden video cameras her thick, sun gilded blonde mind, absorbed in television, videos (etc) has become transfigured with mass communication media. The suffering of existence had touched her with irrational chipping:

The Navy Officers Club collect and process vast amounts of information about spiritual and metaphysical techniques of selling products, influencing public opinion… the information so obtained greatly increases stress, anxiety, frustration, dissatisfaction… entertainment industry serves as an important psychological tool of the system; most modern people must be constantly occupied or transformed into oversocialized animal-faced demons, dislodged out of emotions, developed new methods of sex and violence formed by members of the high-frequency Vatican.

The girl inserted a small metal instrument into the joint of one of her fingertips, twisted it sharply, and with a soft click the two sections fell apart like an aluminum cartridge. The girl switched frequencies to the channels reserved for Command:

We are all partners in a noble and glorious mission. By committing violence people break through the psychological restraints that have been trained into them. Modern society is developing grotesque weapons: Communications drugs that affect fearsome political consequences – in other words, “liberation”. Operations allow ‘them’ to monitor any conversation within the field of high-frequency civilisation, visual language systems designation MK.

The differing origins of the machines control dangerous self-indulgence.

“You murderous bitch” he said under his breath. “You filthy murderous bitch,” blurring the frequency to fragmentation. The interaction between her lap and electrical depths prevent fundamental change in Officers Club nature.

 

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Void Worship by SMH

Vomit The Word In Painful Light-vomit ropes of sperm charred in the gore of white sun- vomit terror made tissue in the gore of white sun-Vomit The Word In Painful Light- the gore of white sun bleached the eyes wide – grass threaded through teeth-the open mouth dead-the abyss of nature-the dead open mouth black soil black in mouth– in the amputated wild the knife slittered up the belly-grass threaded its way through the teeth-the grass was green in the off white skull-the dirt was black and filled the mouth- potter wasps building clay urns – golden bodies strafed in light-wings burning with burning blood-the sun-a tomb-vomiting light- in the dream of the stomach-a dead child -huffing the cum-of a dead sun-the potter wasps building clay urns-in the core of the skull-vomiting mud and honey-Vomiting The Word in Painful Light-language dead in the off white skull-eclipse burying sun in the dusk of sun-in the savage pop of flesh-another world was birthed- breeding- the mysticism of the graveyard-strafed in holy light-golden and bowing in the turn of sun-golden and bowing in the scrape of knives-whet on the stone of its sharpening-sharp as the beak of vulture screaming in waves of heat-the thermal currents striking the underside of the broadened wings the fans which trap the rising tide-the stink of decay washed in the sea of air-vomiting the carrion of God stuck in throat the Word buried in the stomach the stink wafting in the air brutalized by the wet of death the blood dried on the feathers scabbed and crystallized in flash of sun-the blood coughs up the throat- in the catastrophe of earth-the body tremors-mouth slack and full of dirt the soil black the black infinite as the bruises pocking bones the bones opened raw as meat in the degraded throat-gorged and disgorged in the swelling-the gore of sun charred the bones of body the sperm dead in the dream of stomach-what child was laid out in the grave- a child of God which swelled and swole with the buds of new spring-child buried in grave on another child of God swiped from the hive of the living buzz-child buried in the grave of another body this child of Christ swollen like the buds of new spring-grass was green in the off white skull- dirt was black in black of death- mouth splayed and opened-the dirt was black in black of death –what child of Christ was laid out in gore of sun- Vomiting The Word in Painful Light-the Word burned in the gore of sun-the Word abused in the slack of jaw-the Word fried in the brain of crying- the Word lost in the neck of blindness-neck snapped or snapped truly-in the gore of white sun – burn loot the sky -Vomit The Word in Painful Light- for it is the mercy and the calm before the massacre of forms- in the home of the gum-the Word screeches for the day of peace – in the full knowledge of its pain-the Word squeals for the day of Peace-Vomiting The Apocalypse of Being -grinding meat in the thresher of peace -in the dream of the stomach-a dead child-huffing the charred sperm-of future death-huffing the cum- of a dead sun

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Two Poems by EC Schulman

No More Teenage Poets

“Il suffit que je sois bien malheureuse pour avoir droit a votre bienveillance”

-The Death of Marat, Davide

 

Thats not what I meant at all

I mean, it was a fever dream and rotting slowly

fat kitsch post weimar gristle

Few arrows through 

Long arrowheads flew, as the roof comes off

Too far the eye had reached, Nervous, twitching, green, sickly, coughs

Cold grip relying on the grace of upperclassmen

How long is night?

Where does the fog go when it leaves?

Words of love are empty demands

Nous sommes tous des Juifs allemands

Boy with machine, give me fear and enjoyment

I want you to know that I’m not here

Skin itching

Could you stab me while I bathe?

Resistance is futile

Ending necessarily beautiful, tactile

“That’s when I reach for my revolver”

Clown on the road, dynamite black sea empty sky as I follow her

Drifting through horrors

Anti-midas,

I appear as mule, segue into man

I look through magazines about kitchen appliances

Can two commodities love each other?

Please stop writing about culture

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the Flak Wolves perish on the first sunset of winter by MIKA

wolves in body armor howling at nothing. hungry hungry hungry HUNGRY. eating and killing and shitting for ***********. siege upon their own ramparts. HUNGRY….. being filled with sizzling holes in a godless landscape of hollow figures dotting the hills. a manic pack commander, clung to by a glittery coat of maroon and a diesel-powered automachine for her right leg, is feasting on her own offspring. she is codenamed KARE. in their war, even the puppies are soldiers. Kare reflects: the enemy uses weapons of all ages. trained from birth for death. all is opponent.

her entire unit wears dog tags, stamped in blood, with a single designation: FACTION. flat trophies of silver, displaying meaningless names devised for the smooth operation of endless combat. her tags flaunt the name of her highly-trained spec-ops barbarian tribe, FLAK WOLVES. a platoon of beasts that only live for a full kill feed!

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Genesis 17:17 by Paris Green

The civil war never really touched us. Every once in a while we had to mutter shibboleths to get past men in different hoodies, but they were pretty obvious about what they expected so you didn’t have to worry about it too much. Hard to get fruit for a while, hard to get corn for a while. You know how it is. On the radio there was the usual chatter about glory devices going off far away from us, but besides the one in Longview there was never really anything like that too close to Olympia, and that was a year ago. Then one morning most of the radio went silent and there was music, and we were all told we had been liberated. People celebrated, drank hard seltzer, broke out fireworks, grilled a little meat, shot their guns into the air. Few murders, few hangings, nothing major. I-5 was clogged to shit all day, northbound and southbound both, full of people with all the money they could take out of the bank at once, and we all had a good laugh about that.

Hot pockets in the evening, and in the morning a bowl of cereal.

I woke up the next day and it was Monday, and I wondered if it meant I had to go into work. I mean, the reds had won, so maybe I didn’t. But I wanted to keep everything straight so I clocked in at 8 AM. Richardson the foreman looked like hell, told us he had gotten into molly with some wobbly strange because who was gonna drug test anymore, and he was stressed out about what the war being over meant for production. The boss never showed up; everyone said he was probably headed for Canada or Cali or something. But management was still breathing down his neck. One of the guys in the skin and hair department told him he could probably tell them to go fuck themselves now, but he shut that up. “Without us, society grinds to a halt,” he said, “revolution or no revolution. Maybe in the long run we don’t work for management, but we gotta work. And if anyone has a problem with that -“

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Roleplay by Ava Hofmann

wow. i can’t believe the thislife rp forums are still alive. i thought the community would have moved on to other games by now or something.

i forgot the password to my old account, but if anyone here still remembers who i am, i went by BloodMoon13 back when i was active on thislife (from around 2008-2011). as you might have been able to guess, i first made that account when i was thirteen years old. which, you know, it might not have been so appropriate for a kid to participate on a nsfw roleplaying server like thislife. but, yeah, the standards were a lot more lax than they are now from what i can tell. so that’s good to see.

i’m not sure why i’m writing all this out to you guys, but i guess i just want to write all my memories of this place down in a place where other people will understand it. when you try to tell your therapist or your girlfriend or whatever about rp servers it takes like an hour for them to understand what an rp server even is, you know? you gotta explain that strike-force is this first person shooter game, but then somehow explain how you’re playing a modded version of the game where you don’t have to shoot anybody and you get to just play as as a regular person. one time, i had a therapist who just did not get it. she once called the rp server “like playing house online” or some shit. like, what? i changed therapists after that.

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NEWSPAPER CLIPPING, 1976 by Josiah Morgan

The body was a body but somebody had dressed it up in an alive kids clothing. Nobody in the room really knew what to do with it. Somebody said that because the group had stumbled across it we could call the kid ours. Something traced the outline of his jaw in its notebook and we started to believe that was real. It was as real as we wanted it to be. The building knew somebody was coming, it seemed. The door was lying open at arrival with a big slit down the middle like a wound that we couldn’t quite see. For a while it seemed that door was plastered on the kid’s face and his nose was a slit we could have slipped inside and rented out for our own use. Somebody pulled out a phone to call the cops but the reception was shit from downstairs and their questions would have been impossible to answer anyway. Nobody was supposed to be here. Here was a place just for us and only at nighttime. But now something had ruined it, something that we did not want had wormed its way inside our space and we couldn’t quite map its geometry we had to move around it. It was an object that one of us could trace like the outline of a shoddy circle but not quite accurately draw. This was a place that had been a home and now something had ruined it.

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ALL OVER by IAN MARTIN

Mona says I am scared of commitment. I tell her to stop getting drunk and calling me every time she feels sorry for herself and wants to take it out on me. Mona says that she hopes one day I understand where she’s coming from. I tell her to shut up and grow up and then I hang up the phone.

 

I go on a Tinder date with some boy. We play a board game and I suck his dick.

 

The Tinder boy texts me to go hiking on Saturday. I vomit dark mess into the toilet because I’ve had too much cider at my friend’s birthday party. Mona hasn’t called me in three days and I almost forgot she existed at all.

 

We drive home from the park. I feel good all over. He drops me at the corner near my building. I blow him a kiss. He catches it in his hand and shoves it down the front of his shorts.

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