(Dis)integration and ‘Nanette’ by Zechariah

I had the misfortune of watching Ms. Gadsby’s ‘comedy’ special, although watching is a strong word, for in between sips of still Pabst and Pure Lacroix, submerged limp in oriental cushions, I forgot my environs, sometimes projecting onto the astral plain where I’d beg the spirits to kill me and to free me from the tortures of this aeon, and nonetheless, for you and for you alone I endured, and I must say that the moments I did let my eyes collect moved me, for here in this story of being gay, and a woman, and a disabled (Australian), I noticed that she was actually talking about something boomer-dad Nick Land is rather concerned with: (dis)integration.

The (dis)integration Gadsby is concerned with is much more personal than cosmological, although it is nonetheless still reflective of dying stars, like light in a mirror, or sands in the hourglass. Her main move in her special special is to announce that, although she’s done with jokes, she’s down with stories.

“Stories, unlike Jokes, need three parts: a beginning, a middle, and an end. Jokes are two parts: a beginning, and a middle. And what I’ve done with that comedy show about coming out, is that I’ve froze that incredibly formative experience at its trauma point, and I sealed it off into jokes” (Hannah Gadsby).

‘Nanette’ divides the symbolic operation of jokes from the sign exchange of stories. What is interesting is the confusion of the disintegrative power of jokes with the subsequent integration that happens within the social field. “I sealed it [the trauma] off” and it “fused,” she says. Deterritorialization goes hand in hand with reterritorialization; disjunction leads to conjunction; and Gadsby then extrapolates from this reintegration that the symbolic exchange of the joke, wherein the beginning is reversed by the end, is insufficient.

The poetic destruction of the identity of a symbol in its reversal is not enough, for it must be reintegrated; the schizophrenic condition of the joke, which dissolves the trauma, becomes a threat to her, for the trauma is the identity, and the loss of identity a trauma. Gadsby rather needs to tell her story and to tell it properly. Since the joke, in its reversal and absolute destruction of the premise, reveals death/life as a false distinction and their eternal play as the primary process, the truth is likewise revealed here, in the thanatropic drive; and Gadsby sees this, saying that “through repetition, that joke version fused with my actual memory of what happened.” Yet, Gadsby as a good liberal and a good stand-in for pomo liberalism, must not accept this proposition that the joke makes her, for the orthodoxy of monohumanism establishes integration and fullness as the sufficient condition for heterogeneity (and thus personal identity); therefore, the joke for her hides truth rather than shows it.

For what is her truth but her identity? her unified experience? No wonder the yin-yang of the joke, the eternal flux of the symbolic, is swept away for the Trinitarian formulation of sign exchange found in the story and its promise of an integral subject. In other words, ‘Nanette’ is trash.

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ANNOTATIONS OF COMPOSITION OF SEVENTY-THREE BY ANDREI MONASTYRSKI by Katherine Beaman

  1. first thought: implication of a climb and moment of ease
  2. occupation and tools of labor → work
  3. smallness
  4. separated halves like images from prior work, isolated body parts
  5. whimsical, tender view of life
  6. possessive without object, occupation or hybrid human-object
  7. “box” and “rowboat” are shapes to return to
  8. play on variations of meanings derived from a root word (“dressy, dresses, dresses”), sexual 
  9. shelter, tools of labor, resting place
  10. use of verbs which may also be plural nouns (does this happen in Russian?), actually forms something of a coherent sentence, wordplay of “doers”
  11. brings up coherent imagery of stormy waters
  12. girlish
  13. rhythmic, still coherent groupings of objects
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  15. seems to tell something of a narrative of a sea journey, “pony” stands out as an outlier word or a stand-in
  16. death and war
  17. playful, seemingly with the idea of death
  18. wreckage, something toddler-like
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  20. very disruptive from flow like a rest in sheet music, says as much as a melody does
  21. detritus
  22. boiled-down landscape painting of seascape
  23. creates a rhythm from invented words
  24. mythological–possible allusion here
  25. is the poem moving through the seasons? 
  26. land-oriented, agrarian, seasonal professions
  27. gritty and sinister killing professions
  28. inversion of playfulness of death with the darkness of infancy and birth
  29. (29-1) number system begins to deconstruct; word inventions using root words that have previously been introduced; each “word” is a complete idea in and of itself–this breaks down our notion of the role of words within sentences as fragments of meaning; (29-2) harsh break from preceding cluttered words; nouns made of superlatives; word inventions from combination of previous words; words lose meaning the more they are altered and built-upon; single “word” broken into parts made of actual altered versions of words; (29-3) landscape description becoming increasingly fleshed-out and revised; (29-4) dedication to A. Rabinovich is specific — who was this person? why dedicate only a portion of the poem? de-constructing into seeming nonsense, but we know nothing is truly nonsense for to deem something as nonsense is to find some sort of meaning in it, if only that it is nonsense; unpronounceable, placeholder letter combinations–first Monastyrski deconstructs the word, then the letters within the words; creation of self-contradictory “words”; (29-5) here I give up on annotating and read the words aloud with Hayes and Spencer on the Joe’s Coffee patio
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  73. culmination in exaltation!
Continue Reading ANNOTATIONS OF COMPOSITION OF SEVENTY-THREE BY ANDREI MONASTYRSKI by Katherine Beaman
In His Image By Durban Moffer
Black and white high contrast marble texture, desaturated high contrast image

In His Image By Durban Moffer

He’ll never live down the reality of himself. He’ll never live up to the folklore. Nothing to see here. No deformities in sight, only pressed flesh and tight corners. As long as top-tier firms are backing him, you’ll be snowed under. The glitz of his blitz. He isn’t real anymore–– if he was, ever. The influencers know what you want. You don’t want real: only real stupid. He can do that with help. His finest role yet is a viral load of underwear catalogs, proffering cum-streaked screens and auto pop-out order forms. 

He’s got that flash-in-the-pan je ne sais quoi.

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Cleaner 𝑏𝑦 Milo Valentine

i came home from work today to find that every piece of furniture in my apartment had been cleaned. all the tables had been dusted and wiped off, some still slightly damp. guitar picks that once scattered the floor now filled a small ceramic bowl on my dresser. the mildew scent of wet carpet and cleaning supplies still lingered in the air. nothing had been taken or stolen. all my valuables still resided where they were last, money still hidden in the sock drawer, expensive razors still stashed behind empty bottles of buspirone. hell, the TV still looped the Netflix advertisement i had left it on last night, although the bottle of brandy i’d left on the coffee table had been wiped and put in the fridge (who refrigerates brandy?) 

i had locked my door before leaving this morning, and no one else i knew had a key to my apartment. i had no maid, nor did my landlord offer these services, a short-tempered boomer in his late 60s who preferred giving me passive aggressive remarks as I was exiting or entering the building, rather than to confront me directly on any single issue he had. i had no close friends living nearby, much fewer ones who cared enough about me enough to break into my house in the day to clean up for me. 

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Maskenfreiheit 𝑏𝑦 James Krendel-Clark

“the opening of attraction and the negligence welcoming the person who is attracted are one and the same”

 

-Michel Foucault, The Thought of the Outside

 

Rex Hairdo Orifice IV was a genius and America’s leading art critic. He represented a new generation of critics who rejected the post-critical for good old fashioned judgement, although not without integrating the stylistic and conceptual advances of the post-critical vernacular (he had the instincts of a Greenberg and the theoretical acumen of a Krauss). He was also a veritable Don Juan, a Pierre Klossowski, a Phallic Prince, in short, a Mephistopheles, whose rhizomatically predatorial animality always arrived at its destination, and he surely clawed his way into the hearts of millions of homesick waifs yearning for the latest information on how to be erudite. Behind his expensively framed glasses were eyes that swiveled diabolically-robotically, saccadic crawl of mindrich divots spinning at the end of the terminal interface that churned the core of his surfaces and crunched the math of his machine moustacheface, whirring rods and pumping pistons straining towards the futurism of his smirk, intestinal situationism slimily sidled over to tzaraflirting artgirls in a woven sharpchat witword clunk glut deleuzian stutter of galactic oh wow what a brain you have gaping the void run abgrund against her sweetgleaming worldlyways, he oozed with goo, wisdom barfed its alphabetic associations into a holographic hieroglyph of true truthcave, we all nestled into its shadowy light, adequatio, correspondentia, convenientia, to on hos alethes, mellowly whispered clockworklike guruvocals, gigglesheheardhim alightwenton, comeintomycave, swirling negative dialectics, every charm known to enchant these cynical screen-kids and it knocked resonating like gong, clever clutzy cutesy nerdyouthgothtightskirt of today right on their cute asses. Oh, and tonight he was slyly relaxing awaiting most graciously the advent of the artwork whose author he intended to seduce (this time a charming young man with a ravishing hairdo and a well-groomed orifice, Rex whose name was a rhebus of features that belong to both genders), Ralph Overdo Dilletante’s long awaited gesamtkunstwerk (no doubt the start of a promising artistic career; Ralph’s name a rhebus of a universal tragedy of youth confronted with its own promise) with this imposing yet sincere presence, the raw bones of Rex’s robot-being were neutral and almost clinked like the ice in his drink, and almost invisible like a psychoanalyst’s fists clutching the pen that carved out an inky diagram of this fancy lad’s psyche, the revolutionary capacity of his s’words (god Rex could remember so much, the archive of his mind was archeologically organized with histories of movements ever kindling, ever going out like Heraclitus’ matches, tossed idly into a fountain one by one as the sun goes down and the sublimated dialogue barely conceals the genital topology within; Rex scratched his head and soothed his hair as he remembered the history of the avant-garde, its futility, its majesty, its excess and momentum, storming the museum, formalisms inverted, deconstructed, shattered). Glasses clink and polite chit-chat flit through the resonant hall as the lights dim. 

 

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Eyes, Uber, War Games 𝑏𝑦 Sam Russek

When I’ve had this much to drink, closing my eyes
gives me a kind of vertigo. My life is
Here, between the blinks
Nothing else is safe anymore &
In the morning & forever after that my pulse
Differs too.
I haven’t told the doctor yet, or my therapist.
It’s just dust in my eyes
            & anyway
Much of the time normal can’t mean anything
But a series of anticipated in-
            consistencies, behaviors already with a more generalized safety net. The power’s
Out, but by the time
My eyes are open again the lights are on
            & my neighbor is telling me not to worry that’s normal around here.

He gave me some unsolicited advice
That is
To search for something new always, meaning all the time
To ignore the landlord’s rules, which are bullshit anyway
Not to drink the tap water, to use the oven sparingly, check
For mold regularly
            & finally, he said, a wise rabbit never only
                        digs one hole.

Continue Reading Eyes, Uber, War Games 𝑏𝑦 Sam Russek

Left Behind 𝑏𝑦 Rickey Rivers Jr.

I’ve been left here by my owner. I’m lonely and cold. She left me here, well not here exactly but here in this stranger’s place. She went home with him, his home. Beforehand, they had drinks. He bought her one. I suppose that’s unimportant. What is, is me, here, he slid me under here. Under where? The bed of course and she left to go, where? Home I guess. Yeah, I guess she went home, our home.

Maybe she’ll come back for me? Maybe he’ll look under here and find me and mail me back to her? I can’t imagine so, though it would be nice.

I wonder if she’s made it home. She was wobbly when she got here, wherever here is. She must be cold without me. She has to have noticed my absence. Then again, there are many others at home.

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Kept Underground by Sam Machell

Thumping thumping muffled thumping outside airlock the queue moves slowly thumping from the thumping from the thumping bouncer grimaced holy the thumping night the thumping air the door a thumping gateway downstairs thumping they queue and sway and sway and the drunk men thumping leer and taxi’d honk and thumping whistled wolf with lights bloomed astream through thumping vomit chunks and din road wheeze and toppling flashed they toppled the motion the thumping words in queues forgotten they smirked stretch rustled their hidden baggies sweaty knead their thumping feet with no sir thumping shoe sole asshole cavity grassed gasp flashed a creep in coat dust smell and wrinkled member rimming plastic bottle and thumping fell to the blood speckled floor the fell to the flashed the fell to the bouncer in frowning flashed old gum go on then go on for not the shoes ushered flashed the thumping skull the stairway pendulum flashed the way down through queasy thumping flashed the way down to the club flashed drowned in flashed light drink and sour thumping smell they made the thumping thumping lewd acts in shadows and banshee wails flashed the blue strobe hall with thumping jacket leather jacket squealing rodent observed cross union and organised jumping to the thumping to the thumping to the main room thumping piss stained revolution serf round dancing.

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