This is Not An Audience

The University of Bentbrook opened its doors, which recently earned inscriptions, advertisements as a haven, safe from recession.

The teacher's head totters when we discuss anything that's worth talking about, at least for an hour an fifteen minutes two days out of a calendar week for several months until summer comes and we can go about the business of mobility - arrivals, departures, ways to escape, displace oneself preferably away from a safety net that was so kindly knitted by people deemed worthy for whom to sacrifice your narcissistic self as a clock tells you that things are actually measurable, mobile, from place to place inside of one place.


"There's the talking head syndrome," she posits.

So we read from Umberto Boccioni's Genius and Culture. It goes a little something like this:

THE WOMAN (without looking) Oh well, he's an artist...he wants to renew himself, and he hasn't a cent!

THE CRITIC (bewildered): Strange! An artist! Impossible! For twenty years I have profoundly studied this marvelous phenomenon, but I can't recognize it. (Obviously with archeological curiosity.) That one is crazy! Or a protester! He wants to change! But creation is a serene thing. A work of art is something done naturally, in silence, and in recollection, as a nightingale sings... Spirit, in the sense that Hegel means spirit...

THE WOMAN (intrigued): And if you know how it is done, why don't you tell him? Poor thing! He is distressed...

THE CRITIC (strutting): For centuries, the critic has told the artists how to make a work of art ... Since ethics and aesthetics are functions of the spirit...

THE WOMAN : But you've never made any?

THE CRITIC (Nonplussed): Me? ... Not me!

THE WOMAN (laughing with malice): Well, then, you know how to do it, but you don't do it. You are neutral. How boring you must be in bed! (She continues putting on her rouge)

THE ARTIST (always walking back and forth sorrowfully, wiring his hands): Glory! Ah Glory! (tightening his fists) I am strong! I am young! I can face anything! Oh Divine elextric lights ... sun ... To electrify the crowds ... Burn them! Dominate them!

So we continue to talk and understand, and then we moved on to the Dadaists, where one Tristan Tzara put, "Philosophy is the question: From which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena? Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important thatn the choice between cake and cherries after dinner."

He became Surrealists when the WWI ended.

The Surrealists were less egotistical, because after all, they relied on the partition of the mind, as desinged by Freud. To create the marevlous, more than on one is needed. His terms are one side of the equation.

Creval notes: "The narcissistic individual, the one has remained in the expressive stage, has eaten up the universe and because he has devoured it, suppressed the objects, becomes himself the object, and thereby not only becomes insuffiecient unto himself but destroys himself. In the island whose outline is that of his littleperson this isolated being succumbs before the mirror he has questioned - he was questioned the most mediocre, the most vain, the most superficial of waters."


Surrealism can partly be summerized as a combination of art, philosophy, and psychology.

"How would Breton respond to Tzara's decree in Dada Manifesto of 1918, "Logic is always wrong," the teacher asked.

Logic is always wrong when one considers logic the only path to rightness.

Sick of it!

I did some automatic writing in class, but I (concisouly) wasn't a part of it, which is a Surrealist tradition, which isn't really tradition at all; in fact, it's against it. Though I remember promising to myself once never to speak truthfully here, so who knows?


A frowning achievment across the light source of minds couteracts with a contempt for life. A human, can only react against contempt, but a static moment encompasses an amplifies from the inside out in a infinite cloudless definition of items found at o0nce on the underside of our eyes, which, in rotation, grow into a garden of mirrors.

The castles built on hills lack the experience to give life to a child, and thefore give experience away in birds, plastic, metal made of now depleted raw materials of an earth that is not ours to know, but to forget as a senseless explanation of impluse.

I've been reduced to a delusion. The characters are inhuman. Shall I define myself as anything less than a fish in the net of a fisher alone and eating, selling, farting, and itching each piece of flesh once jostled by a mother who held nothing but a placid fear, like that of a white breeze?