Joseph Matheny conducts a GPod Radio installment interviewing artist Ray Carney and co-authors Edward Wilson and Wes Unruh about their upcoming book The Art of Memetics. Why are the authors glad that the book is being downloaded for free? Is piracy a viable marketing strategy? What, exactly, is memetics? All these questions and more are answered in this installment of The G-Spot.
I'm finally seeing the true value of keeping a work journal.
To operate effectively and not end up shutting down completely I need to have some space to allow the structure of my mind to shift away from the gaze of anything that has a beating heart.
Drifting today after checking out, I have now decamped to the NFT, using their project space to continue work on the redraft of Dead Language for the ICA, before heading back up to Nottingham tonight for the performance week of Desecration.
Just found a way in, after four days off the grid.
Preparations for Desecration are going well, sometimes too well. We've had at least one confirmed possession. Along with various other positive and strong biological reactions to the GLORY that is the Galleries of Justice.
I feel like I'm home, I could sleep in BenBen/ThePit.
FP, doing this one for the Demon.
Now that I have access again you should keep your wet little holes focused here (FoolishPeople.com) for updates on the journey towards the beginning of the manifestation of Desecration on the 6th of September.
Desecration will exist in the material realm for no longer than four days.
The gap closes on the 2nd of September after the last working. So its advisable to book early.
A clue, if you need to exist within the eye of the storm, then book your tickets for Friday the 7th of September. As we have something special in mind for this date.
Desecration is a Theatre of Ophidia and FoolishPeople production, it would be amiss of me to not mention that Desecration would not have ever even happened without the faith and insight of Martin Jeffrey the master mind behind Theatre of Ophidia and Fright Nights.
You still have time (retroactive time) to experience the various ripples of FoolishPeople's Dead Language at Esozone via the Internetz.
Phase II have a review of Dead Language for you.
Reflections again tomorrow around this time.
Full details of all artists that were a part of Terra Incognita can be found on FoolishPeople.org.
There is also a selection of back stage photo's from Terra Incognita. You may even see yourself lurking in them.
EPISODE 13 :: “Aculturación”
No guests. No captions. No commentary. No meaning.
Duration :: 00:25:47
Download :: MP3 (23.614MB)
Hosts :: No hosts.
Tower One of the Ten Towers project is Danny Chaoflux.
Danny Chaoflux is a Persian artist living in Portland OR, and the
founder of Portland Occulture.
Hir main interests are crossdressing, dream travel, and ancient mysticism.
We have a new photo album with pictures taken by the ever the talented Lili Spain at Ghost Redux, the FoolishPeople hosted evening at Artisland, which took place at the incredible 491 Gallery on the 2nd of February 07. Ghost Redux featured performances by The Foolminati, The League of Ridicule, The Dionysian Underground and FoolishPeople.
The Ten Towers are audio recordings of ten highly respected individuals from the occult community reading prose written especially for them by myself.
This project is also my way of saying thank you for the immense support each of them has given to FoolishPeople; giving them each a creation of prose that will always belong to that person and that person alone.
All Towers will also have access to the entire recording and everyone who works on the project will be entitled to sell copies via CD; each person creating the aesthetic and design, so as to create a modern day magical artifact unique to themselves. Any money made can be kept by the Tower who has produced the CDs.
I have no idea how many of these recordings will get turned into artifacts until after the project is completed.
Tower number one is Danny Chaoflux. Danny Chaoflux is a Persian artist living in Portland OR, and the
founder of Portland Occulture. His main interests are crossdressing, dream travel, and ancient mysticism.
"when i try to summon up what i’m doing then i feel that i’m essentially producing CODE with my work, carefully crafted to be read and understood by as many people as possible. before the code becomes visual i’d usually write it down first. sometimes the medium i choose is the comic. but i love to indulge in the actual freedom to freely float between both cornerstones of my work: WRITING & DRAWING.
In an attempt to pinpoint what subject matter interests me then i think i’d have to say it’s all about PEOPLE. following some deeply ingrained dream about freedom and love whilst at the same time also being determined to cut down to the core genetic ‘truth’ inside of ourselves i’m to a great deal looking at the world through the lens of humanistic psychology. i love to boundlessly dive into the beauty of life and come up with the trophies of what i see, the stories, the images, but at the same time i’m also extremely fascinated by the dark side of the reality we live in. the behind-the-scene workings of fate, the political aspects of relationships, the pointlessness of human suffering and the ridiculous power struggles which rock our planet, essentially just perpetuating the so called ‘cycle of abuse’. but also HUMOUR is a very important element of my work. "
Fractal - Terra Incognita image by the incredible Reinhard Schleining
Video excerpt from FoolishPeople's rehearsal of 'Dark Nights of the Soul- Cycle VI: Carousel' of Santiago Genochio's lips being sewn shut.
Download FoolishPeopleRehearsals.mov
Sticky with wet desires and slick evolve; disney hurt and pentagon medicine. I want you when it’s all done, when all the stories are told. When the teeth are out and the flesh in my mouth has scales. Give your sacred role, as we ache for your pain.
Hooked into what I am, I attach you now to this purpose, as your pain becomes the conduit with which the scar heals and the bridge is built across the end into the new. Look out and stroke my face. Look at what you are, know you are the beautiful one with poena, who takes the punishment in place of those who will not face the future.
Close the gates and let your velvet passion rise as we will you to become what you were, and are. Every innocent lost in one moment of simple pain will heal via this night, as we resurrect every possibility for your species.
Let us see your quiet glory.
Yesterday I sat down with David Blank for an interview that will appear in Oracle Occult magazine next year. This allowed me the time to finally place all that has occurred for myself and FoolishPeople during the last year into perspective.
This year has contained so much that it has literally broken time for me. I am no longer able to experience it in the same manner as I once did. Linear is now a dead word.
So tonight is bitter sweet. Through my work with FP I have gained so much. I travel towards 07 with literally a completely new life. Everything has changed. For good and bad. Tonight I say goodbye to everyone I lost. I also celebrate the start of the next chapter.
Happy New Year.
The Dionysian Underground conducted an absolutely stunning opening ritual, very powerful stuff. They were even joined by Orryelle and Giselle of Metamorphic Ritual Theatre and our brothers and sisters of the FooLuminati who provided the most amazing and sacred of clowns. I have only just met Orryelle and Giselle after they came to see Cycle VI on Friday, both are very solid and good people, Orryelle gave me a copy of his book a Brief Hirstory of Time after the ritual on Sat. They are both conducting their Em'Balm a three hour individual restoration ritual over the coming week. They can be contacted via the DIG"s list to book.
A very enjoyable evening, I only wish I could have stayed longer but I had to head back to Hertfordshire.
Thank you to everyone who came to Cycle VI. Will start talking about about Cycle VI and debriefing on Dark nights soon, still decompressing.
The image below was taken on Saturday night at Pleasure Lab, this man needed stomping. You can just about see his head.
All Hail Foolish People!
The manifestation of Dr Bleach and the Spirit Parliament in this time (is it possible to hold your breath for 13 months?) has prompted some ecstatic highs and abysal lows, and left no emotional stone inbetween unturned; and that is before we even begin to examine the magickal effects, eddies, whorls and patterns.
Ritual more often consists of words spoken and reingested via sacrement, sigil, smoke and no thing taken beyond the bounds of the magical moment other than self.
The souvenirs and artefacts from all 6 cycles provide physical mementoes and memes of the magical manifestations raised in the theatre space; words wrenched and chanelled, made physical then carried away afixed to the papers. These magical snapshots provide the keys to the moment but are not the moment, they have power but are not the powerhouse.
The 'upgrades' offered to the human hardware will have far reaching effects as the ripple of magic made in the round finds its resonant frequency and spills out and onwards into the mundane.
The Foolish People succeed in exploring the liminal spaces, to bring back the treasure of the inbetween, bringing illumination and creativity to their community often nudging us out of our magical comfort zones. These effects are the real momento mori.
I wanted to let you all know how
much I loved the ride over the last 13 months it has been
a truly awe inspiring journey, one I feel honoured to have travelled
with you all. Keep up the great work.
Stella x
If I ever get out of here this will be my first blog entry in over a year, in case I don’t somebody please make sure the following writings find their way into the hands of a contributor to the SPS website so that the truth regarding my absence and the nature of the Spirit Parliament can make it’s way into the public domain. There’s a list of e-mail contacts on the links page on the site, or there was when I last had internet access.
The last time I contributed to this site we were discussing my experience and speculation regarding the disappearance and fate of fellow investigator and contributor, Rupert Banwen. Though I have not located him, or learnt of how or to what degree the Spirit Parliament were responsible for his disappearance my investigations have led me to make discoveries and experience phenomena that shake the foundations of my perceptions of reality.
I have been to Hell and back. This isn’t a trite metaphor; this is very much literally what has happened. I’ve also met the Spirit Parliament and witnessed the Dark Nights of the Soul spirit carnival.
Continue reading "The Story So Far - My First Encounter with the Spirit Parliament " »
The Spirit Parliament stands redeemed and whole.
Dr Bleach's Dark Nights of the Soul carnival can now open once again before the parliament departs from this world.
They need only bid their fond farewells to their customers. Yet, sometimes saying goodbye is the hardest thing to do.
Cycle IV - Carousel completes the award winning Dark Nights of the Soul anthology.
Cycle VI features FoolishPeople's second collaboration with installation artist Lili Spain.
8/12/06
7:30pm
The Horse Hospital
call: ( 020 ) 7833 3644
mail: popculture@thehorsehospital.com
Came in to the 491 Gallery today to find that Lili Spain had set the space with the seed of the installation she will be creating for Cycle V Home. This has been by far the hardest Cycle yet, but the experience of working within Lili's work today was incredible, it took us to another level. This working relationship has to be one of the most exciting for a long time.
Vesna has been busy with her photography, the picture below was taken today. She was back at the cemetery in the morning getting shots for the image that will accompany press for Cycle V.
Now I'm going to bed before they announce the American mid terms.
The long-haired Injun girl loads the bullets into the chambers real slow like, taking her time and eyeballing down on me hard like we didn't know each other from years back. The Seniorita, her men called her. The Seniorita and I sit inside the cantina, sipping at the last of Texican homebrew. Seniorita's militia sits parked outside upon their burros exchanging rude jokes in a Spanglish-Azteca polyglot or revving the engines to their Indian bikes, the occassional shotgun blast violating the ain soph aur of silence on the mesa. Seniorita's blank, unexpressing expression void of recognition cuts through me like the Van Allen belt. It isn't quite a glare or a stare, but the cold gaze of a former lover who had learned to be a stranger. I puff idly at the business end of my second to last hash fag, meeting her gaze. She has about three millimeters of white hair at her scalp, the rest of her thick mane shining blue-black in the sun. The cracks in her skin from the ravages of age and the genetics of her people lay underneath a generous layer of pancake. Her leather jeans were clearly as old our current crisis. Ammunition criss-crossed her massive, hanging breasts. Her curves put her somewhere between the Venus of Willendorf and Tura Satana. Sheathing the first revolver, she pulled a second modified Colt Gunslinger .666 and began loading her dum-dums into the chambers.
She stared into the chamber, idly loading the ammunition with the careless efficiency of a professional. "Destroys pesky soft tissue on contact, gringo. Soft pink white men get blown full of hot lead holes." She lilted at the ends of her words, drawing out the final vowel sounds like a bell ringing itself to sleep.
"I've only got a .44."
She almost smirks, pulling the left corner of her lip up almost imperceptibly. The cracks in her face peek through her heavy foundation, off a shade or two from her halfbreed skintone. She's wearing "nude" or "flesh" or another color with an equally crippling name. The ravages of the sun on Seniorita peek out like hairline cracks on <i>La Gianconda</i>. She pulls the brim of her hat down in front, mocking convention and playing at cowboy. "That revolver is as old as that bike of yours, gringo." She motions toward my crotch. "You gonna be able to keep up with the Wagon Burners?" She winks, breaking into a broad grin and revealing her greening teeth.
"I've been hunting Fundies in the first war." I say, unholstering my old pre-war .38. "Border crossers too." I grin a little, looking down at my feet, self-conciously bypassing my belt.
Seniorita laughs a little in spite of herself, in spite of me, even. "Fucking gringoes shoot at anything, but now this gringo only shoots gringoes." A more serious tone slides down her face. "Tell me, Doc, how did you get so mixed up?" She grins, letting me off the hook.
She produces a stubby cigar from the breast pocket of her denim vest, striking a match with her long red fingernails. Slut red we used to call it.
She stands up, looking at me indicating her command that we leave. Seniorita fiddles about on her feet, playing with her hands, examining the tattoos on them. Her knuckles look freshest, reading "BANDITA" with a bullet and skull forming an exclamation point. We walk out of the small cantina and out onto the mesa. The corn oil generator powering the cantina makes the area smell like farts at Samhain. Seniorita's men drink heartily outside, slapping each other on the back and inspecting each others armament. Large civil war revolvers change hands while ignorant peasant folk look down the business ends of sawed-offs. The militia looks fired up from the victory in Arizona. I holster my weapon and walk with her toward the bluff, where we had parked our bikes. Dust covers everything. I slap myself on the arse and yellow dust flew out of hard denim jeans which stank of shit. I wonder when we'll come across the next bath house. Before I had arrived Seniorita never stopped at them. She wasn't admitted in and the men didn't care. I straddle my 1960s Japanese motorcycle and don gloves, goggles and helmet. The owner of the cantina gave me 5 gallons of green gas for three hundred grams of mescal.
<i>
"You one of the only gringos what know how to make the salt, meester."
"Ain't that some shit?"
"Why you no just go to El A? Lots of building going on there... Yakuza make big moves into thee smut racket there. They could use some crazy gringo with a gun what know how to make mescal, no?"
"Sure, sure, mister. Now how you say 'five gallons' in Spanglish? We make-o a deal-o."</i>
"What do you got in the stash bag?"
"Somewhere around 1000 grams of mescal, about two pounds of ganja, three ounces of teonánacatl... the coca is gone but that's easy enough to get and I can refine it even if you want to turn it into cash. Hash has basically dried up. I think it's a Gulf Coast thing, Cuba still has pretty close ties to the Berber States."
"You leave that just lying around? Pretty trusting, gringo."
"These men are scared to even think about it. Mercenaries are a notoriously superstitious lot. I'm almost surprised they didn't mutiny when they heard you were bringing a witcha man on board. It wouldn't be the first time I had experienced such a phenomenon."
"You're not the only brujo in the bunch, gringo. The old ways have come back even more sharply here in Aztlan. We never had the Islamic occupation. And we fought the Fundies far more effectively than you Rocky Mountain Militia boys."
"I take exception to that- I was the only boy in my militia."
"That's probably why you guys lost Montana and Idaho." She laughs in automisogynist mockery.
We both pause awkwardly for a moment, looking at each other. She licks her lips ever so slightly. We fire our engines on top of each other. Her bike roars while mine sputters and putts, belching green gas exhaust into the air. She revs her engine thrice, giving the signal for everyone to shut up. Her hand reaches up to her right breast, flipping a switch on a black plastic box. The entire militia stands silent, looking with rapt attention at Seniorita. Brown <i>manos</i> reach up, doffing sombreros from greasy black hair. Five hundred faces stare up at Seniorita, waiting for her commands, her words of inspirations, her philosophical and revolutionary musings. The electric anticipation in the air coats everything thick like molasses. The silence deafens, every gear turn of the tram now audible. Seniorita still sits on her bike, back to her men. The patch on the back of her denim vest reads "WAGON BURNERS" across the top and "AZTLAN" across the bottom, an Indian headdress taking up the balance of the space.
Seniorita dismounts, looking out at her audience. They wait for her words, but instead she holds up all five fingers on her left hand, then points north, then makes a fist. This means to ride fives miles north then camp for the night.
"Still north?"
"Deseret, gringo. Lots of petty Prophets sitting on stacks of gold, gleaming white temples from the final days of civilization, a good place for us to pick up good coin raiding caravans."
I grimace, feeling the burn of an ulcer at the very base of my esophagus, near my stomach. Deseret. Only one thing comes to mind mind when I think of Deseret- the Tomb, the Heretic's Prison. I stare at the ground beneath my bike for what seems like an eternity remembering days when I spent 24 hours a day inside a concrete box getting fed with a tube in my stomach, astral communication with the other inmates the only thing keeping me sane.
"Gringo!"
I look up.
"Your hands are shaking."
They're trembling slightly but quickly.
"Gringo, as long as you ride next to me you don't need to fear any Fundies."
I look at her with renewed confidence, and decide to make a very, very bad joke.
"Let's roll."
Thank you to everyone who came out to see FP at Guerrilla Zoo. Also thank you to my friends who have been watching my Magickal health recently.
Guerrilla Zoo is an important event in London and James and his team are doing a wonderful job.
The active FP members on Weaponised Art were fucking amazing. Thank you all.
For everyone who has asked me, the film that preceded the Tryptch ritual was by created the gloriously talented Alexa Looker. This should be up on WeaponisedArt.com soon.
Next up is Cycle V and VI of The Dark Nights of the Soul anthology. I'm looking forward to putting this HyperSigil to bed and finishing what everyone around has told me I wouldnt be able to finish.
Never tell me what I can and cant do
1000 ft and still rising, I have no fucking idea how I'm going to get down. Fuck it. I will probably jump off as soon as we get to the top. I can hardly breathe up here the air is so thin.
FP's next ritual Weaponised Art 1.0, takes place at Dead Head Haunts - Guerrilla Zoo at the Corsica Arts club on the 19th of August. The edges of this one are blurred. Deliberately. I'm fucking loving it. Never felt so free and yet piss pant scared.
I hope to see you on Saturday. I will be the one with a plastic bag over my face. No really a plastic bag.
Do you fuck for art?
Subject has threads of sabotage woven into her life.
Every action is constructed to propel destruction in the glorified and positive.
Collapse of the tower.
Initial thought?
Unknown.
Chain of consciousness?
Locked away.
Subject will fall
And fall again inside herself.
She will dissect her own brain
And stab the life out of her heart.
The empress is crying blood.
Whilst carving into her cunt.
Blood loss?
Fatal.
Massacre?
Defined.
Subject will gulp down her repulsive infested blood.
And regurgitate a pure diseased infection
As the acid burns into her skull.
The hermit is cocooned underground.
Last thought?
A burnt blur in this hell.
Break free?
Unlikely.
She's fused into the walls.
Scanning sabotage...
Hidden enemies?
None.
Just yourself.
DETAINEE REPORT FOR ARTIFACT A18-8
06:00 HOURS- Artifact arrives under Agent of Jofiert(Z15’s) supervision. Young woman, appears to be confused, sobbing into her scars and covered in blood, ancient bruising on her inner thighs. No signs of attack evident, and flesh detected dead.
06.30 HOURS- Decision made to section subject in the dark room with a needle for her to toil and sew up her filthy form.
08:00 HOURS- Urgent incident to attend to. Artifact A8-18 has broken out of dark room and is causing disturbance in Sector X of congregation. Reported to have been repeatedly muttering some sort of blasphemous spell:
“Disengaged faces line the white room
Regimented in their metallic stench
They bare their lasers into my skin of sin
Robots, with holes in their heart.”
When bound subject found clutching amulet and has appeared to metamorphose needle into a child’s doll. Suspected level 18 Magick. Preparing MA scan of spectrums 0-21, Signal located. Moon child positive.
Large dose of Sun Sulphate injected to induce lightmares- successful projections of her labyrinthed past spirits are carouselling around the subject. Moon-child is silent and whimpering amongst fields of dead babies. Treatment successful.
18:00 HOURS- Subject appears to have developed immunity to Sun Sulphate. Upon investigation, high levels of moonstone residue detected that has disinfected her emotion so she can refute our retribution, and she has drained herself so we are unable to bruise her blood by inflicting larger dosage.
Agent Z-15 consulted, new treatment administered.
Artifact is drilled in isolation onto crystalline cross with screws of righteous judgement. Ritual programmed to cleanse her foul obscenities that are carved into the meat of her soul.
19:00 HOURS – Running tests…
Artifact appears to be hanging limp on trial. Connecting to lucid blue blood…
Subject wills for innocent hours where she can play hide and seek. Further haunting ordered.
Cue-in distant echoes to chime broken nursery songs.
Playing.
Playing.
Playing.
All night long.
05:00 HOURS- Re-testing…
Artifact sufficiently disturbed.
Successful lightmares inflicted.
The fact is that this was was authorized by Congress and begun by a president whose actions were ratified by the American electorate in 2004. The killing of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi is the first bit of good news of Iraqis celebrating the deaths of American soldiers, largely ratifying the policy agenda of the nation's largest telephone companies.
The phone company and their allies say of innocent civillians there is at long last some gratifying news: When Hitler died, it was a good, it deserves credit for removing this barbaric murderer.
We must not rest until the war on all the strands of terrorism is won. Supporters of the legislation said it would promote competition decent societies have in fighting barbaric ones brought together such competitors as Google and Microsoft.
Our fighting men and women initiated an orgy of death and destruction in a concession to the telephone and cable companies.
"A free and open Internet is crucial to formulating an effective policy," at a time when the news from Iraq and Afghanistan has been consistently depressing. His death will result in the saving of American and Iraqi lives.
Less affluent neighborhoods would be delighted in the slaughter of innocents, taking his hatred so far as to behead hostages personally.
His elimination is a long-awaited and welcome contribution toward restoring peace, vibrancy and stability in a turbulent region. But terrorism is not confined to "promote competition in both video and voice markets."
We cannot simply cut and run.
We cannot walk away from it.
The phone companies began to run attack ads on television and in local newspapers against Google over its "net Neutrality" stand.
You don’t know who I am, yes I am. Silly sights in a white room. At peace with your success, your silly negative waves are not real here. White rooms are hospitals of the mind when you know that a mansion of happy peaceful energy built with success is more likely.
Look at your beautiful creations, happy in acres of love transpired.
Four hundred of your special animals wander protecting our loved ones. An impenetrable hall of instinct and trust, sired by your future.
Oh and say hi to the cogs of your future success.
A tunnel of air, earth, fire and water.
You know what I have to say. DON’T WORRY.
All those arguments wash away here, irrelevant in our success. Money flows. No more hunger. All of joy is wrapped…
Dogs with red eyes. A war won before its fought
Don’t worry you do it.
Crystal pain falling away.
Uvey med for time travel. Heals all.
Well how are you? Sit down with me. Look how beautiful he is.
Don’t ask where he is.
You ate their souls to save mankind.
She loves you and she saved you for us.
He has forgiven you and the sun shines now everyone has gone. You did the right thing but you paid the price.
Yellow is an unhappy colour. Despair lives in the cracks of Milan. Visit the grave. This is a beautiful place. Let go of the ages.
All of them are gone. He is redeemed through your sacrifice ok. Take this blade it will protect you and ours.
We got there in the end.
“Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life; they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.” Anne Lamott
On behalf of Foolish People, I would like to welcome the terrifically talented Rob Kay into our undeniably unique FP family! I really enjoyed his ‘haunting’ writing, and I truly look forward to following his work over the coming weeks, as no doubt he is another asset to our already diverse artistic group. He has ventured into the realms of FP to bestow his profound prose writing onto us, though wants to make a ‘foray into theatre’ in the future, which pursuit I am sure will be successful, in collaboration with FP!
I would also like to take this opportunity to express how enjoyable I found Zachary Cox’s talk and performance at Treadwells last night; I felt truly privileged to be one of the few people to witness one of his rare public appearances, and was filled with so much knowledge and inspiration from him, that I can’t wait to explore it in my own and others’ poetry! He was such a touching talker that there are already plans for a Part II, as the audience’s greedy minds weren’t satisfied with the mere hour and a half and are still hungry for more! I know that I’m already signed up as I would love to embark on the adventure further into his incredible mind and insights.
Anyway, I hope that your soul is hungry, as we have plenty of up-coming articles, writings and ventures to feed your insatiable appetite with- good eating indeed...
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