VOH lexicon-magazine 03

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U O Y L L E T T ’ N O D I E M L L E T O T W O H , O D O T T A WH E M L L E T T ’ N O D SO O D O T W O H E M L L E T U O Y T A WH .

O D O % T 0 4 [ z e u g i r d o gR n i d n e B r - Bende

] ! t s e hon

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RISIBLE VOLUME 03 VOH LEX-MAG IS A JUST-FOR-FUN KINDA' SHIT, COMPOSED IN A COLLABORATIVE MANNER BETWEEN INSPIRED-ZOMBIES FROM AROUND THE ORB; AND SO FAR HAS EXPLORED MAINLY CONTEMPORARY CREATIVE DISGORGEMENTS. CURIOUSLY-DIVERSE LEVELS OF IDIOTISM FLUCTUATE THROUGHOUT, WHILE IT'S NOT SURE ANYMORE IF THE ZINE IS GOING TO REMAIN OPEN FOR REVAMPING BY ANYONE WILLING TO BEG TO DIFFER. WHAT'S WORSE, HOWEVER, IS CONSIDERING THE RESTRICTION OF UNCERTAINTY WHICH DEMANDS THE TERRIFIC PROBABILITY OF A NEW VOLUME BLASTING ITS WAY SOMEWHAT IN TIME. SO, DEADLINE, YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT THE REQUIREMENT IS!

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A FANCIFULLY FANCYLESS MEDIUM OF UNVARNISHED NEWS. - W. QUINE

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magazine design: Positive Vibration editor: Dushmanin co-editor: Sawlar Vu spell-check and datalink: Google copy-writer: Too kind to be included. covers: Oing Le

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YOU ARE PURE, THEREFORE YOU ARE IGNORANT.

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THIS IS YOUR BAPTISM 53

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John Reuss Weird thoughts: Am I real? Are you? Common core or 100% subjective reality? A bit of both?

I pose questions. Not sure how I like answers, though.

I constantly feel like I am drowning. Once in a while I try to let buoyancy push me up to break the surface and breathe. But somehow I always regret it - and honestly, I have a penchant for sinking in, drifting towards the dark deep instead.

I prefer working at night.

I really like ears!

John Reuss (b. 1973) is a visual artist born in Germany but now living and working in Denmark. Being a self taught artist, John Reuss originally studied Computer Science and Multimedia, and has professional background in graphic layout & design, marketing and communication. www.johnreuss.com

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UNTITLED

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HE KEPT DISAPPEARING 43

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TIME DOESN’T GIVE A SHIT

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MASTER MANIPULATOR

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ADVISORY WORDS FOR THE ABSURD Utter Nonsense! adequate - Loganic

For the love of brain damage!

‘Tis the undoing of loose screwing Outer territories we’re new too, not yet used to.

Unfamiliar with now information, once vowed by unsure vets.

We’re rollin’ on ego. Addicted to ol’ certainty’s vice.

Figure estimations to spout from computations reviewed, often checked twice.

This is a plea against facts. Heads versus Hats.

Word for words for sentences, pulling for corresponding differences in instances.

Fools, ye born of impotence, there are no rules!

All that’s true seen through false eyes framed by glass focused into view Foresighted, given glances forlorn forwarded Seriously though, Ernest Lee, don’t take this too seriously, for leisure lies in wait of heavy laborers And we must separate the Non from the Known-Sensical.

The polluted science from the bulging conscience.

Suffice to say it as to risk it. Strictly twisted are logical statistics.

A lil’ somethin’ somethin’ minus something. Digits add up to nothing.. for some things. ...And on others, offspring sprout out mothers.

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Shouting out make-believe lovers.. men of lay, Child’s play, I do believe.

Be relieved when you toss aside possessions. In essence, lose reputation!

Preparation in succession. You must plan to fail.

Rather that than bore’em with abhorring decorum.

Or pomp & circumstance before all Earth and France.

Travel much, lightly often. When they go about garments to bear, stand naked close to your enemy with breeches breached. Fly open to the unexpected.

Prognosticate procrastination. Habitually ignore routine.

Deaf to the chimes! (“Häh? Deaf mimes?”)

Alter street signs & show them the way of counter-clock time.

What way? The whey of quark? Nay. Quatsch!

Quibbling wobbly whiffles. Simply surely, jest no joke unjustly.

(Amputees cutting through square-shouldered conversation.)

Where be our consolation? Be it compromise or prize?

Put away your findings and presume not that we have before assumed. Rest assured.

You would do well to do wrong right.

With dirty speech & impeccable behavior.

Murmuring utterly audibly Citizen Kane lain in an immigrant’s strange plain.

Remembered, lest we forget ourselves.

May we find ourselves fortunate to adverse effects on apt adversaries, formidable foes and sinister frenemies.

We are the organic hybrids conjuring a large order of chaos to go, from whence it came & went without a blueprint As gents gibber the intent, to mince words of no consequence, Speaking sphinxes of riddles akin to Mxyzptlk We shall commence.

If not, scream, “Utter Nonsense!”

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I want the meatballs-I got the meatballs!

A rational oink. erotic disgorgements - Florance With The Submarine “7 little miniatures dedicated to ‘Silicone is never too much’.”

Besides my sudden waking in the morning, this time she wasn’t ‘sitting on my face’. While drinking my cup of cherry-berry period water, she suddenly appeared asking me to do her again…

Then I realised - it wasn’t me, IT WASN’T ME! The dishwasher ate my bikini sauce and I had to clean it up again,and again…it is like drawing picturesque abstract paintings with my pussy tongue, expressing onto my underwear.

I sense myself sophisticated when I fart in times of war. It’s like: she, the fatty, teaching me how to do a diet compatible with a drilling chocolatedildo up my asshole.

So, I had nothing purposeful to do but read my morning newspaper on my Pad in the afternoon, laying on her bottoms, healing her cellulites.

Once again at the cl oset: That Bulgarian Bitch, ‘sitting on my face’ but not cleaning the dog poo in the closet, you know… Anyways, she is pretty refined; her meatballs, my meatballs, it’s just as if they are made by the same mother from another father. You know, the taste of similar vaginas, how they call it - “Golden Helmet.” It means to do the grandma

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VOH first, then her daughter-the mother, and the daughter`s daughter for desert. But this time she left and I had nothing to do but clean the toilet brush and fix myself in the middle of the night standing there like a statue and crying for my lost ambition, for my good-old self-esteem, for my ruined ovaries, and for the necessity to see my gynaecologist... …that fapster, little bastard with spoiled vagina-dreams. When he was a little boy he had this strong affinity to touchy-touch-touch-vaginas, so he went to university to study this bloody medicine for suckers, while still hasn’t seen any….

Now he is paying back life for his tragic past by raping bags for money.

His nasty young is like miserably used sandpaper; liking my insides went all wrong.

Now I told her to relax, to sit on my trolley and feel the horse speed, we are in the net gallery; it’s a valley full of vomit in all digital colours.

This is a story for my dog, my can, my clitoris, and my gynecologist, all soldiers and victims of the Bulgarian protest attacks.

Vagina wink (;) and kisses to all

YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO YOUR BODY, IT HAS ITS OWN OPINION (occasionally)

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10 WAYS TO INFURIATE A GRAPHIC DESIGNER delightfully stoned -Maya Normusbutt

It is highly probable that each one of you has had the chance to meet a graphic designer for one reason or another. After all, we are living in modern times and even the hawker down the block (selling backed potatoes) has a ‘conceptual’ business card which proudly says ‘edible roots distributor’.

Let’s assume for a second that in a glimmer of sound judgement you have come to the realization that it is not quite proper for the neighbour to design your business card in Paint, so you’ve decided to contact a professional.

Except that designers are an annoying bunch – not only do they charge you for this tiny little rectangle, but they dare to think that they are more competent than you! Not to mention the horror if, God forbid, you’ve decided to order a sign or a menu ... This is why I’ve decided to furnish you with a quick tutorial on infuriating graphic designers. It has been tested over the time (more than five years of field tests) and delivers reliable results.

1. “Can’t you make it pinker than that?”

This line is perfect for warm-up. It will notch up tremendous success if “it” is actually blue.

Result: a 50% rise in designer’s heartbeat, signs of rapid breathing 2. “We should consider including more information from my resume in the card.”

A fruitful field for your improvisations. Don’t be afraid to request the designer to fit absolutely everything you can think of on your 45 cm2 business card, for example, the name of your pet, the waist circumference of your wife, the license plate of your grandma, and so forth. It is also very effective for newspaper adverts.

Result: designer is nervously tapping their foot under the desk, a sound of teeth gnashing 3. “Are you serious??? An ad with less than 20 images???”

Be sure to bring your 0.6 megapixel camera and request the designer to include all the blurry photos you’ve sent. Do not give in to feeble attempts, such as “But they are 5K each…” or “And where am I supposed to put the text then …” What makes a true designer is the ability to find a way to fit everything, so that every square millimetre is used to the best advantage!

Result: bloodshot eyes, nervous tics of the left hand 4. “Wonderful! This is exactly how I imagined it … only slightly different.”

A brilliant line. It gives the designer a flicker of hope and just when it seems that the tenhour odyssey with you is about to end, you suddenly plunge the knife into their back! If you find the designer to be physically healthy, boldly request a fundamental remake of your advert or business card – new dimensions, new text, new images … in general, ask them to do it all over again. In fact, you can use this approach even if the designer is green about the gills. Heart attacks are treatable these days.

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VOH Result: visible hair loss on the back of the head, bloody claw marks on the palms 5. “What an eyesore! Look at Coca-Cola’s ads and then consider a retirement …”

Bravely undermine you designer’s confidence! So what if Coca-Cola pays considerably higher amounts for advertising? They are not the one to rub it in! Make your designer feel as insignificant as a flea on a dog’s back and, before you know it, their nerves might shatter and they might give you a discount …

Result: nail biting, two or three smashed keyboards 6. “My wife/cousin/brother-in-law gave me a wonderful idea…”

That’s right – you must be ruthless! Show them who’s boss! Otherwise they might suddenly start to think that all the years spent in front of their computer servicing people like you give them some kind of advantage… Ha! Finish them with your family’s ideas, then let them try get wise with you!

Result: uncoordinated eye movements similar to bosseyedness 7. “Can’t you use a more dynamic font for this?”

Warning: here you can encounter some elements of opposition. Crush them without scruples, no matter how much the designer explains that more than one font on a business card and more than two fonts in an ad are unacceptable, or that you favourite Vivaldi and Monotype Corsiva are as legible as a second hand toilet paper, and that sans-serif and serif are not the names of some gastarbeiters at the local cemetery.

Result: crimson face, first signs of a stroke, molars grinded to the roots 8. “Make it creative/glamorous/exclusive” The more buzzwords you use, the more you make your designer feel like a cat in a strange garret. When they ask you what the hell did that mean, just smile enigmatically and change the subject. Their schizophrenia is dead sure.

Result: standing in a fetal position and thumb sucking 9. “See this last-year newspaper? I want the same advert, but not exactly…”

Recent studies clearly indicate that only 3% of the graphic designers who have heard this sentence fall into manic suicidal depression, so get rid of the guilt (in the event that you feel such at all).

Result: emotionally hugging the display and bursting into tears 10. “You should know that he who pays the piper calls the tune!”

Warning: use this line only as a last resort since it causes irreversible damage to the designer’s brain. Faced with the dilemma of whether to send you on a short trip with a sexual twist (i.e. tell you to go f**k yourself) or try to bite your throat much like a character in a Stephen King’s book, most of them cannot bear it and go bonkers. The rest is the work of psychiatrists.

Result: white lab coats and padded walls until the end of the miserable designer’s life P.S.: For the sake of not offending all the wonderful designers out there who do an amazing job, I shall share the only way to infuriate a customer:

MAKE THEM PAY! 90

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NATIVE STRANGER

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Photography: James Mountford Fashion: Tamer Wilde Make-up: Adam DeCruz

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BEHIND THE GLASS fashionista - Tamer Wilde, UK I see the world look back at me, my glass had tint, I couldn’t see, I’m seeing things I’ve never seen, It’s nice to know, your very keen, So I decide to brake my dome and meet the world, as i’d known, that with all the pain that I would see, my glass would shatter and never be, my tears would fall, I wish I could crawl back into my dome.

The thing that I never knew, was once it broke not even glue, could bring it back the way it were, What would happen if I tried was shattered pieces of my glass, would grasp attention of the rest, to take advantage of what’s left, until my glass would never be and all that’s left was me.

Alone and unprotected, I would feel, oh so rejected, now that all my glass had gone, It seemed like no one wants what’s wrong.

A default of protection will no longer be perfection, See the sadness in my eyes at this world full of despise.

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BROKEN PEOPLE

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THE - Olya Ninja, Varna/Bulgaria Murphy’s got a hold on red.

7 “Grammy” Awards undoubtedly snow.

Eat vinyl mingers. Real men elephant only 1 maybe.

This keepsakes too advanced psychedelic?

I envy a blue.

Unsubscribed elderly van.

Oh maybe Thursday grass can swim eloquently.

Lost circumcision umbrella.

Will curry marry a printer?

Visualize hot searches in full sink.

Excitement is to be squirrel at the gulf-stream.

Not cool to tractor yourself.

Could tiny water droplets be the scull?

And I wow effect rings.

Neurotransmitter is forthcoming.

Basic magic proclaims ox.

African drums should be slowly mixed with cinnamon.

The most difficult part was jealous.

I want the focus to be orgasm.

Two beats per measure or the equivalent thereof.

Can you step enough electricity ever?

Despite the pink introduction of door we planet today.

Sunglasses will really be erected.

This is mostly a false singular.

One tooted device is cut into dark.

Broom the jar and let the tees toggle on.

A Mediterranean bottle is found in the obesity.

I’m talking about real percentile.

It does not matter for snowboarding strings.

Imitate never ending chopsticks gang.

At the end of music coffin vacation, onions can never smile.

Marriage is room disco.

Only lamas in this cigarette filter.

Tea is the main reservoir.

The rocky president and the sunflower hammer down the rhinoceros.

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BLOG SEFTE

schizophrenic analysis - Нищо Подобно

Току що установих, че нямам идея, нито пък представа за какво конкретно смятам да графоманствам, така че за пореден път се хвърлям с рогата напред в нещо, за което нямам никаква информация, опит или пък дори причина да правя. Това е и моят малък трик, да си създам някакво предизвикателство, за да си размърдам закърнелия мозък. И веднага се сблъсквам с първия проблем - налага се да си изградя нещо като план и структура които в последствие по котешки да пренебрегвам. През главата ми прелитат бая теми на които бих им разтегнал локума, но пък изброяването им би ми развалило ефекта на изненадата, когато реша да ги изнасиля брутално, докато те се дърпат, дърпат... така че ще се обобщава... Сега ще реша дали това ще е публичен дневник(ква публика бре), в който ще твърдя, че пиша за неща които всички останали пренебрегват,(кои са тия останали, то ни един блог не си зачел до сега...) ... момент да изключа шизофренията, че така несретния нищо не подозиращ читател ще върже връзките на мозъчните кецове и ще разплиска злъчна слюнка по монтира заради неспособността си да проследи една сравнително проста мисъл... готово... вече наместих в псевдо структурата на всичкото дето ще ми излиза изпод клавишите наоколо идеята шизо отклоненията да ги изнасям под линия, всяко с неговия си цвят, за да е ясно кой за кво изобщо и така... и ако се случи да прочетеш някоя от собствените си мисли, май няма да навреди да се замислиш за невъзможността да бъде приложена концепцията за собственост вътре в света на идеите, след това да се посмееш на абсурда на патентното право, което криво-ляво бута света отвъд тебе напред в последните век и нещо, тоя същият свят, дето само заради последния абсурд е абсурдно да го наричаш реален и чрез силата на една простичка математическа операция, абсурд по абсурда, майно льо, да проумееш само от един ъгъл невъобразимата устойчивост на тоя създаден от взаимно изключващи се модели “реален” свят, който за една бройка пропусна да свърши зимата миналата година и май затуй вдигнаха цената на тока... но стига софистика, или както майка ми и вика дървена философия, марш обратно в блога... ...което неизбежно ще се преобрази в едно чесало за езици на найзлободневните теми и автоматично ще ме изхвърли от бизнеса* при мойто магаре-на-мост заинатяване във века на масовия социален информационен ексхибиционизъм да не употребявам средства за комуникация от типа вестници, телевизии, мобилни телефони и други печалбарски начинания. С други думи ако го карам по тая плоскост ще 5

VOH се озова в неизгодната позиция индиректно да се запознавам с нещата от реалността, за които не давами и лайно. Обратния вариант също не е цвеке за мирисане, щото пък тогава конкретно ще трябва да се информирам за нещата, за които не искам да става и дума наоколо. Е това е то, направих си капан, влезнах си в него и в момента кротко си пуша цигарката*, докато на капана не му проблесне, че или аз, или той не съществува, съответно няма как да съм в него, нито пък той около мене. Добре, светна се и изчезна, бравооо, добър капан, следващия път ще те измисля с грапав език и учестено дишане. Щом така не може и обратното не става, ще поддържам илюзия за структура, достатъчно стабилна, за да създадава необходимото разбиране под формата на усещане, че тоя хаос не е произвол, защото би могъл да съдържа всяка структура или никаква структура, а всеки произвол е изначално структуриран да съдържа собствения си ограничен диапазон от варианти. Ще го опростя още малко. Значи нямам идея за какво точно ще пиша, писаното до момента се изгенерира от самия акт на писане, заедно с всичките си разклонения, но това дето ще го напиша в никакъв случай не е ограничено от някакви предварително зададени граници на това, което бих могъл да напиша, защото не е произвол, а си е чист хаос, който си блика от мене и може да земе каква ли не форма, или пък никаква. Освен това ще е живо, или пък най-малкото с подчертана виталност, така че ако го ритнеш може и да те захапе за глезена, всъщност квото и да направиш с него, все ще има някаква комуникация. Във всички посоки, както си е. ...aре стига толкоз, че ше предобриш и ще го избиеш на полурелигиозен онанизъм. Не го взимайте на сериозно, работата е там, че тук сме всички и сме в такава фаза, в която образно казано всеки е обърнал гръб на другите и усилено се прави, че те не съществуват, по същата тактика като с капана, и всеки сам за себе си има усещането за самоличност и желанието да е единствен, очевидно неосъществимо, а ръцете са само две... което ме насеща за един виц: Пич влиза за първи път във форум, и си сваля файл. Няколко дена покъсно влиза в същия форум и поства следното съобщение: “Здравейте. Преди няколко дена свалих от вашия форум един файл, който вече не ми е необходим и сега искам да попитам къде да го върна?”

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-MATEJ ZET 60

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Schiller always on line, or for it - Sokol Ferizi

I lost something. Or something lost me.

Laughter drained his skin, sight and hearing destroyed his kin.

Because memories stuck with permanence in his fingertips he touched me with his past.

Sun is a tyrant.

The carving that is my mouth, the void that is my future, is the craving for that stranger.

Like Archilochus who drank resting on his spear I slash my throat and start singing leaning on your Achilles heel.

I carry you.

I discover.

Fascism is a hidden rash on the skin.

In the back of the upper thigh, between inner buttock and prostate.

You discover it thanks to your lover looking for the perfect spot.

You scratch it hot, it bleeds.

You itch it softly like a guillotine.

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Ghost lover, you submerge your mythic passion into my heart, with exquisite gesture of indifference.

Your orchestrating wand - that is the piece of hair out of your nostril by which you deaden my voice and excite the pangs of my world-pain pulls the levers that release me into that abominable sphere of freedom, so that you can enjoy the symphony of gradual abandon eternally playing eternally bereaving under Southern vistas of vain and acrid Sun, that keep your chair dancing and bed electrifying, in the guise of a meaningful run.

You stifle my hunch that, drowning, seeks to remind that every love in investment in betrayal.

Now I’ll go to kiss you where it hurts the least!

I have sinned, of course!

How else to soak the parched mouth devastated by a smile?

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Roaming as with a mission in the dreamers’ death row, I realize my tragedies are epidermal.

They don’t bleed, just tickle their way to laugher.

Yet I saunter my way to the death row, with the weight of my longings deeply comic and slow like an ancient sunset littering with dusk a western tomorrow.

From the book of poems, ‘IN A WORLD WITHOUT GERMANY WE COULD BE SO GOOD TOGETHER’

by Sokol Ferizi

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LEIF LOW-BEER

Leif Low-beer is excited about an empty room with simple perfect lines under the same roof with a warm room cluttered full of odd and unexpected…

But seriously, he was born in Pennsylvania, raised in Toronto, and studied at the School of Visual Arts in New York. He now lives and works in Brooklyn. His sculpture and drawings have been shown at galleries in the United States and Canada, including a recent solo shows at Beginnings gallery in Brooklyn, Okey Mountain in Austin and a large-scale installation at Socrates Sculpture Park in Queens. His work was also included in MOMA’s book collection.

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SCIENCE AT ITS MOST FUNDAMENTAL LEVEL IS NOT MADE OF EXPERIMENTS OR MATH, COPPER TUBING OR SILICON CHIPS, SCIENCE, AT ITS MOST FUNDAMENTAL LEVEL, IS MADE UP OF STORIES BECAUSE THAT’S HOW HUMAN BEINGS UNDERSTAND THEMSELVES AND THEIR PLACE IN THE COSMOS. - Adam Frank

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HOMO SAPIENCE substantial блям-блюм - Homo “had no idea complex-conjugate prose can go from terrible to (minus) terrible… up until now” I could proudly propose myself as the real differential of us humans among the rest of the animal “kingdom”… but I won’t since I am just a sexrealignment-male-lesbian -- a lesbian “spirit” that was “trapped” in a male’s body, topped off with a hysterical pseudocyesis -- one of the true faces of nature -- all due to the neutrality of evolution I reckon, irregardless of the fact that I actually wanted it! Was I a simple hedonist though, who had left the seeking of happiness due to the instant misery achievement in order to pursue something else… to achieve happiness.

I had it not considered yet I knew, if I was no longer alive I would have been already taken seriously as a Homo sapiens, but I’m and until I cease to be, as terrific as it is, considered could I only be, technically speaking, a Homo in transition.

Somnambulating throughout the woods not quite sure I was, while liking a finger and seeking the direction of the current, which woke up an erotic flow in me and helped me operate along within a sensual manoeuvre. At the time, I was wearing black, I had lost someone -- it was “me” I had lost -- so, headed I was on my regular self-search, when all of a fuckn’ sudden two shadows bumped into me. As expected, they were two parallel selves of mine with hairstyles that couldn’t have been of less favour. I wasn’t sure though, was it my morning ayahuasca already hitting… but I simply concluded: nah; it wasn’t real enough; besides, it wasn’t even morning. Thereby, it must have been, due to obviousness, hacking Fermi’s Paradox.

Nevertheless I felt slightly potty, you know, facing “Dicky and Wonky,” from two parallel membranes, “just around the corner,” they said; and had accomplished their arrival with a wagon or a trike-y, I couldn’t say, it was way too claytronical for me to dig. The parallel info-bags had met previously while one staunchly tried to data-rape the other, but it turned out to be futile…. Hence, they had measured the outcome of me as their next target and had come over in strict order for a trine (ah, as if the law was not clear enough already). It was sorta’ making sense. They had arrived in a realm in which, we didn’t believe in such parallel-jumbos. Rather, we believed in a bubble reality which constitutes nothingness as a basis but which has 49

VOH the ability to switch settings according to the frame of references of that nothingness. And don’t get me wrong, we were not even sure about the inference of “our own history,” which we haven’t observed anyway, since we acknowledge that the act of observing affects the réalité we are inferring to… I mean, poor kitty!

And there they were, the two me-s right before me -- one cumulative and yet coherent Eww. They were pretty straight, at least, in manifesting their protocol valuables of storing-out my memory-data, or try so, since they were fresh graduates, one of Schizobiology and the other of Thought Topology, both doing parallel statistics in order to determine how indeterministic our universe actually is; as a side project. As if it was relevant. On top of that, I knew, knowing a correlating brain chemistry doesn’t tell you much about a memory, nor it is a sure candidate for equivalence. Nonethefucknless, they explained to me that their machinery operated in an EM-pattern-decoding manner and thus I shouldn’t worry too much. (Well, at least they weren’t using fMRI scanning, the current blow-job of cogni-science, which doesn’t even measure neuronal activity -- that which is supposed to be the basic unit of mind. “Not that their former approach would be much to differ,” I thought.)

Honestly I as well suggested that they could have achieved better than me, at least some-paralel-me with a high school diploma. Though, I had once almost graduated a course on Ancient Parody and may have that been the case.

I thought I should not wait any longer than I should, plus, by the look of their phizes I could already say they didn’t mind helping a dog chase his tail, so, I invited them for some spree time. Although I didn’t feel like bibbing, I politely asked if they would like to go to the first bar we encounter. They agreed, though they disagreed to being boozers cuz graders. Тherefrom, we all went to look for a place to which none of us wanted to actually go… all from being too kind.

And so, as we all conducted ourselves awkwardly along the way, abruptly out of the shaggin’ blue Oliver Sacks appeared. “I’ve got from the strongest ones this time,” shouted out dear Oliver, combining the while with trying to hand over a couple of LSD’s. I had to refuse his cuteness since I was madding enough already, though, we were long time besties with Mr. Sacks since I was one of his most frequent hallucinations. Besides, Oliver seemed in quite a hurry to find his hat, who had gotten away with a truck driver from the bar they started boozing at; and if nothing, at last we managed to get our bar-direction….

And it may have seemed a high level accuracy within just a given level 26

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power of a greater predictability, but we found The Bar! So, three of me walk into a bar, the tender looks at us and awfully says: Ugh please, this can’t be a joke, now.

We casually ignored that since we expected something with more of a haha value. Thus, I led the realisation of ourselves to be seated around a table closest to the exit, in case I got somewhat surprised and declared my customary way-out.

Despite his rigorous look and ever no engagement with drinking the mug of beer, Wonky simply splashed his face instead… “that’s how we do it in our parallel,” he mumbled, “but down to business,” he said he could extract my memory if he tuned on his CMTR (computational-magneto-telepathicresonator) apparatus, attached to his back, but it wouldn’t have worked since we were not as far away from one other as required by the manual.

And the problem was not the unshared physical system; no-no, we were sharing one, but we hadn’t had it realised yet. I told him: Look sweetie, I could phone Doc. Persinger to help us out; but he got afraid that Persinger could decode the rest of his abstract memory storage, and that he would be the one feeling poetically banged. Besides, I knew that EM waves could potentially carry partial information -- detectable, yet senseless as objective; but obviously in their parallel was a total trend.

Dicky suddenly got anxious, certifying his ability of turning-on his pocketsize machine, subjoined with an electrical helmet and a handy hammer, he said and get to know me; and he hadn’t done it priory cuz it takes a huge amount of bloody work. On top of that I was too volitional and not just excusably passive…

“That was a hell of a thing, missy. Any practical application, wot-so-ever?,” arguably attacked Wonky; “that’s why it didn’t work between us...”

“You aksk me what’s the practical application of this?,” Dicky continued nastily; “you first tell me what’s the practical application of humans? Except, y’know, the metaphysical…”

In trying to mute the fuckn’ volume, I explained to the mutsies that the occasional problem was less likely me… or, most likely them. I was not quite sure yet, but I was surely getting there.

I continued in a more or less common parlance, with my usual bitterness of becoming epistemologically circumstanced -- wooh -- explaining that no machinery could help them, since, in actuality, the memory they want to 78

VOH store-out didn’t even exist as settled in my head but just happens to happen there as an (imaginative) action-response. A memory is kind of distributed outside in the environment as well (or within a given circumstance), triggerly, not simply inside of me like a stored junk -- or, an academically suspicious looping engrams (and no, Aplysia slugs aren’t proof); so, we were facing extra problemas regarding this interactive perceptual process -- one of two related extra intras; or just one related to its own dynamics.

After all I may say, “why bother to store information about the world in my head when the info is freely available right in from of my eyes?” But yet that isn’t explanatory enough since It cycles in-between, relationally -- as one zen buddhist once told me in the toilets of Berghain while giving me the spanking, trying to demonstrate how I was nothing; luckily I already knew that… but I did enjoy the spanking, anyway.

(It was obviously a catch, and not Catch22, cus if it was the latter we would be facing a paradox and here everything makes perfect sense [as if].)

I also told them what I read in my grandma’s newspaper Retro, that the act of “retrieving” a memory alters it -- which is to say, clearly, act of composing an entirely new one. And even if I did prompt to compose one such, it was -- in the name of science -- inevitably going to be flavoured through my current spirit, who was nevertheless te-rr-ific. (And I thought I was a simple retrospective negligee.) On top of that complication, my mind could, in tenet, easily assume a foreign memory as its own. So, in duty, already obstacles with the authenticity itself. Not that I much cared.

Although our brain physiology does change with experience, it does so in order to be able to respond appropriately, which doesn’t equate with “storage” in our common understanding of the word. Memory isn’t a “thing” but a process. Logically, the same “circuits” in the brain may come to be responsible for two, or more, distinct memory formations -- which seems already possible to accurately determine via light-field microscopy in vivo, and promising; but right after the eventual resolution of mathematical insecurity towards the variable spectrum of synapse-spike-frequency in any given neurone at any given time. (Btw, Mr. Markram, modularity might bankrupt I.B.M.) Injudiciously and speaking in poorer terms, I could, as well, outline my memory-ability as an illusion. Why not? It’s pretty fashionable in some corners of philosophy of science, postulating biological functions as illusions (very slippery); as if it’s doing to some an ease to their lack of substantial logical faculties.

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VOH Modelling a complex system, such as memory, as Richard Levins has pointed out, having too many parameters to measure, leads to analytically insoluble equations that would exceed our computers’ capacity; but the results would have no meaning for us even if they could be solved - and that’s where subjectivity comes about, respectively.

An excellent way to appreciate the depth of uncertainty is to try to imagine how terrifyingly complex the problem of measuring cognitive functions is empirically. However, as a combinatorial of cogni-mentalism and behaviourism -- in relation, instead of putting them at odds -- the best cognitive measure of a mind can be performed by another mind, not by a machine; nay the black-box logical ignorance; and yes, this approach may be flimsy but it’s the best we can get; and no, I’m not referring to the fallacious concept of “mirror neurons.”

Unfortunately as it seemed, Dicky and Wonky didn’t know themselves well enough to accurately carry-out any measurement…

I tried to make it clear to them that my memory had not just a biological or radiative resting place, but a conditional one; despite the TOTAL necessity of an organism’s awareness, reflection and eventual dis (but anyway, let’s not complicate the matter any further). What I knew was that their condition in the situation was far from relaxed. Imagine, it was becoming a total mahatma and I had already cold-shouldered my own notion of curiously looking FOR, for it to be superseded by getting sick in looking AT myself.

Absolutish, it was almost getting lame and I was just about to beg to drastically differ, when my widely-employed-attentional-tracking-system managed to sense a bunch of evolved-apes on a side. Oh-Yeah, it was a cluster of excellencies orbiting a table near by us and obviously tripping Dawkins, who was lost in his infinite regress of explaining the explainable, rather extremely and enchantingly selfish, pitching an accent of ultimate ambiguity; of course, Dennett, who was laughing at me pejoratively, wearing labeled t-shirt, ‘YOU MIGHT BE AN ATHEIST,’ followed by a cheap joke; Sam Harris, with his kindergarden-y logic, who was elegantly thrashing his daughter in order to demonstrate her lack of free-will, fairly finessed; and nonetheless, Hitchens, who, besides being just a 1/32nd Jewish, had himself already beaten up a few religious leaders cuz laughing was supposedly not allowed; he was obviously bored to death -- poor guy -- having waited for a renewed enlightenment the whole night but only scotch was there to align.

He was calling me to join their tripping troupe, oughting to have a great deal… for his own conscience.

“But how the overall set of four illusions can contain itself an essence?”

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VOH I asked myself. “Well, it can, and in this given incident is the essence of virgin laughter,” I kind of answered. But let the greats be given their due -- “what a suck-fuck,” I mean, not that religious leaders were any better than selection-sermonizing atheists, but I could also not pardon myself any longer. At the outset, should one tolerate intolerance if intolerance would destroy the possibility of tolerance? Of course not, and yes.

Although the increased risk of collision due to my increased navigational precision, I turned my creative engine 45 degrees backwards, where my lefty-triple-expostulate had already given me the frenzy.

My conscientiousness seemed to wave an earnest goodbye since that setup had no more but the gist of enabling any communication to develop [profoundly] into blockage. And, yes, I chose to see no alternatives, deterministically speaking. I was outraged. I had a damn pedicure appointment, so, understandably, I had to jog off. And as a rational choice could easily be made between two possibilities of equal value, I, personally (however abstract), was getting ready to be heading out of there, already. ...and whatnot, likely by an asymmetrical miracle, they happened to grasp it; two parallel-sapiens trapped into a homo’s joke. And I wasn’t putting them to the roof, nah, they were sick as well of listening to my crap.

“Relax losers,” scientifically I said before leaving. Instead, I could narrate an essential story, more or less the sum of what I think i’ve got. But they refused by means of preferring to go with nothing but empirically affirmed data.

Stubborn bitches, one shall-may suppose. Had they apparently no idea what’s the power of a story. Not only did they remain with no data, continuing to loop around parallels looking for truth (and we were here just making it, and sometimes even selling it by kilo), but they also mistocomprehend the purpose of their own visit in the first place. Possibly due to its selfevidence-y.

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WE ARE NOT WHAT WE THINK WE ARE - ROBERT BURTON

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IT HAS BEEN THE BEST SUPPER OF MY LIFE down the rabbit hole - Maria João Duarte Lopes da Conceição Fortunato It has been the best supper of my life! said Maria, still eating part of the table, and jumped on the sofa that had a small hole on its arm.

Juve looked astonished…

What about Mozart’s Requiem? continued Maria, or Der Titan, of Mahler, Juve?! Have you tasted them? Hum, delicious! But I swallowed all of Gardel’ tangos, they were maybe a little salty and spicy, but, oh, such marvellous food, you’ve got to come next Friday and have lunch with me by 8:00 p.m.! Or do you work too much on Sunday, the day before? If you want we may change it to April, you know, I love you and I’ll do anything to please you.

Juve closed his wide shut mouth, that had become rounder than a big, big Oh… … he had a logical thought but couldn’t understand what the hell had happened to Maria, he couldn’t understand anything at all…

And I’m so glad I have so much less money, you know, now that these pair of smarties, Mr Coelho and Mr. Portas are prime and vice prime ministers, it’s such an adventure playing the poor, so really exciting leaving in Palturgol nowadays!

At that point Maria started getting redder and redder, like she was not breathing, and said to Juve, I’m sorry, dear, but I’ve talked too much and if I don’t get any sleep for a while, I may as well die…oh…cough… OH… COUGH…I must sleep …NOW !

Juve collapsed to the floor and hit his head on what was left from what it seemed a part of a book, someone had took big bites of…

He couldn’t understand which book was it, until, by miracle, part of a page could be read: “Why is raven like a writing-desk?”

“Come, we shall have some fun now!”, thought Alice. “I’m glad they’ve begun asking riddles – I believe I can guess that” she added aloud.

“Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it”, said the March Hare.

“Exactly so”, said Alice.

“Than you should say what you mean”, the March Hare went on.

82

VOH “I do”, Alice hastily replied, “ at least I mean what I say – that’s the same thing , you know”.

“Not the same thing a bit!”, said the Hatter. “Why, you might just as well say that ‘I see what I eat’ is the same thing as ‘I eat what I see’ !”

“You might just well say”, added the March Hare, “that ‘I like what I get’ is the same thing as ‘I get what I like’ !”

“You might just well say”, added Dormouse, which seemed to be talking in its sleep, “that ‘I breathe when I sleep’ is the same thing as ‘I sleep when I breathe’!”

“It is the same thing with you”, said the Hatter, and here the conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens on a writing-desks, which wasn’t much.

Damn it, it’s all about logic! said Juve loud and clear, and began tasting the sofa that was really yummy and had a juicy red, blue, and yellow tissue.

DAMN IT. IT’S ALL ABOUT LOGIC!

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CHRONICALLY LOGICAL out of the blue - Simon Wells, UK

Where did this illogically come from. Has it always been with us, or did it leak into existence some time in the past, to abuse the unenlightened thinkers, to criticise wrong ideas and to keep the mind pure from messy thoughts, actions and deceitful liars.

I assert that what is illogical is also reasonable, and makes sense to most people, most of the time.

We go to work, stare in blank screens, push litter into heaps, prepare a recipe.

We have built great institutions, universities, places of democracy, places of worship, and travelled to the moon.

And this is all done according to rules, conventions, taboos, myths and rituals.

For a ritual is done for no other purpose than to share a secret world and a code to communicate how to build great institutions and tall buildings that defy nature.

This is how we think we evolved, a storey about ourselves, a myth to perpetuate our existence.

We share an illogical world, based on this shared illusion that this world is the real world.

We are actors on stage playing our games, putting on masks, telling lies, not even pausing for reflection.

Francis Bacon studied nature to reveal its secrets, Rene Descartes split mind and body and brought new anxieties about the self.

We have cocooned ourself in this comfortable blanket such that we have retreated from any sense of visceral harm.

But, what if we were to fall, fall, fall from the stage to the ground by accident because we fluffed our lines, and feel the physical pain rebounding on our senses, that feels real, a gravitational pull, calling out as you hit the ground, a guttural cry, that barks back to an earlier time.

Our direct descendents did not build railways, bridges or buildings high into the sky.

They sensed fear at every turn of evolution, but this also propelled them to evolve and become fully conscious, introspecting and reflective humans beings.

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VOH And then for a time there lived a human in direct contact with nature, fully conscious of a past, present and future, and the ability to adapt to nature.

But at the same time driven by a primal fears of day to day existence for survival.

Hunting and gathering and preparing food for consumption, sitting down together, sharing the bounty of nature, and thankful to the world for providing them sustenance to travel into the future tomorrow. A tomorrow to ask nature to provide again.

But as the world revolves so did humans revolve, the constant challenge of fear had all the life squeezed out of it, and the world turned upside down.

Instead of fear of nature there was fear of gods. Time stopped as nature was mastered.

A clean break from messy evolution and progress descends into existential anxieties.

Dictators, hoarders, and gammblers swept up nature and its attendent fear, and replaced it with the illusion of instiutions, tall buildings, cars, and stock markets.

An unreality that is hard to break through; do so and you will be hurt more by the opprobrium of broken taboos than if you had fallen and hit your head on the ground. So how do we break this irrationality, this complicity, and illogical headlong rush into climate chaos, and all this agreeableness of existence.

Who knows? Fluff your lines, walk from the stage now and again into the messy amphitheatre of reality, adapt a little so at least you will (hopefully) be ready when this world becomes the new Atlantis sinking below a pyramid of illogical lies. Â

IF NOT, BE SURE YOU’LL HAVE A DECENT AMOUNT OF EMERGENCY CASH. 29

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MIDDLE LIFE CRISIS айляк - Nishto Podobno

Everything suggests that nothing matters. Meaning exists only based on the ability of someone to express it. Statements often border on mindlessness, which in turn is the foundation of humanity. The momentary situation is constantly trying to become a routine and deprive itself of its only quality. Apparently those statements will not pass without an example… There we go: Nobody stops playing while winning, but when there is nothing left to lose.

Life is constantly trying to die. Shortly before he passed away, my grandfather told me ‘Today we cannot even afford to die, it’s just too expensive’. All the time there are some non-existing things constantly bothering me, claiming that I’m gone and I’m not who I am, if not now, then soon (already). I’m ignoring them while walking on their graves. To forget myself slower than others remember me – that’s how my beard turned white. One night I found a way to reverse the process: I said some things that normally I would never repeat, things that created a longlasting impression and I found that others may feel more strongly about me than myself.

Nothing new under the stars – the world continues to fold in on itself, I keep getting older and looking for those kind of relationships that do not put me in immediate dependence with what is happening around. In this race with entropy one can gain only a temporary feeling of advantage whose durability decreases proportionally with age.

It appears that disappointment is not a bottomless pit and at one point transcends into a twisted parody of happiness by adopting the so-called inevitable, otherwise I cannot explain to myself the existence of adult individuals. The social situations I fall in with their representatives are more likely to be filled with subreptions which, as I read in their eyes, I should understand intuitively and not discuss. I like to be quiet because this is my only known method to hear something, I like to listen because this is one of the fastest ways for me to understand what’s going on, and I like to know what is happening just to be able to get out of there in time.

And I want to talk about those things that everybody wants to be silent about.

They are silent about the way considered to be the only one available for someone to continue to exist – to wave the white flag. If you were not able to die in time, you need to understand that you will surely die at some not so distant point and you have to be aware of that and to be satisfied with the illusion of continuity, which is available in abundance around: from DNA to art. They are also silent about the sense of personal insignificance, 76

VOH which is an inevitable consequence of the entry within the maturity (suitability for consumption). And mostly they are silent about the feeling that you have no other choice... that really pisses me off and makes my horns, tusks, antennas and so on spring up. Naturally, against hundreds of monetary units per hour you can be silent with a professional on these subjects, who will methodically and very slowly offer you a suitable illusions to ease the situation.

If anyone was fooled to read all this and still is not clear on the subject and purpose of all this yack... the answer is happiness. Or, more specifically, how one can be happy given that it is required in the prime of one’s life to admit one’s mortality. The usual solutions: shrinks, selfdeception, illusion, lies, religion... Other solutions: total ignorance, not giving a damn, denial, me against the world. Or some combination, it doesn’t matter, whatever works.

The funny thing is that these all are in essence temporary solutions to a temporary problem, which ultimately always solves on its own. Generally, there is only one supposedly serious event in life and it’s the end of it, as life itself can be represented as series of comical attempts to avoid the strong finish. There is no data for success till now, or someone keeps it up his or her sleeve, which will be quite understandable taking in mind human nature.

So cheer up, nobody knows for sure that he or she or it would die, until it happens, the rest is assumptions, statistics and interpretation of superstitions and none of this will matter if it is not allowed to matter. Life is pretty funny, death sometimes even more, and if you are not careful enough you can fatally burst out laughing.

P.S. Beware of hangovers, they can make you write similar stuff that are supposed to be funny…

JUST AN IDIOSYNCRATIC SUICIDE...

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IT IS QUIET AND SOMEWHAT CROWDED...

WITH ABSENCE.

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Traffic, Facts, Crossroad Inspired by ‘Psychosis’

The author hardly cared for being credited.

Nightfall, arcade, faulty fluorescent lamp flickering.

A girl with her back against the wall: I scrambled up this street for the ninth time – just like a cat sinking its teeth into the last life of its boulevard existence. I miss you, and the wind is so saturated with the flavours of bygone eras and far-off Thursdays. When I was a little girl I knew I would grow up to be a composer; I would have been Wagner, Mozart or Strauss. I was able to write an opera glorifying the great discoverers of their own intimate felicity.

Now it is quiet and somewhat crowded ... with absence. I made your features the logo of my confused desires. They are the brush strokes I use to confine the space between the lines of my mind with the only hope of being understood.

A boy comes out: It’s late and ... dark. Why are you here?

The girl gets up: I’m in search for something, though I can’t remember what. I am supposed to meet somebody I have never met before. Maybe you? Or somebody other.

Does it matter when autumn is upon us, when the traffic lights gleam in blue and the crosswalks have stripped off the face of the earth?

The girl goes a few steps.

Boy: Where are you going?

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Girl: Alas, the edges have already been projected, I only follow the sidewalk beneath my feet. I must admit it’s indeed a little weird that I shuffle along many places but I always come back here, again and again. Always chasing my own footprints trailing from the mud puddle of my irreversible past. But when the sweltering breath of the street asphalt inveils me in its humid cloak and its poison fumes start to crawl into my lungs, the dragon in me wakens; my scaly wings widely spread, I glide over tiny little towns, so utterly defenceless; my fierce blaze engulfs them and all the defenceless puny toddlers in them, as well as their grown-up yet defenceless mothers. Their wailing and shrieks and the deafening roar are viciously pulling me down ... but further and further I speed, ever higher and bigger, monstrously-sized ... and then my angry flight would come to an end when winter conquers this domain and the ice bitten streets are no place to loiter. And so forth for the ninth time, for the ninth winter, for the ninth one, and that one is no one.

Boy: My God! You are bleeding, does it hurt?

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Girl: The wound is deep inside me and it’s rarely starving; many people feed its razor-sharp teeth, ripping raw stories apart from their own unfortunate biographies. As for pain, it’s been gone for so long that I might just meet it someday soon, back there on the road, but already travelled the globe.

Only this time I’ll snub it, I swear I’ll snub it! No greetings, no shaking its crooked-clawed hand, no penny for good luck.

Fortunately, I still have enough blood flowing in me. I will worry for transfusion and AIDS when my disease grows into survival, while you come to be a metaphor, and it turns out that the boy who’s questioning me at this place forsaken even by the pickpockets is in fact you, as well as the old geezer from the newsstand, just like the main character in that movie.

This is my pep rally of unfulfilled fantasies about your presence that did not take place. Then here, at the crossroads, surrounded by a static phase of movement, overtaken by countless flying facts on paper, then and only then I’ll be sure, then more than ever, that among the heaps of strange people I yearn it here, solely, tI crave it in my neurons, in my cerebrospinal fluid, even in my bone marrow, I long for being here all alone with you – so simple – only you and me bearing meaning amidst the multi-coloured crowd.

Both constituting the lines of unsolved theorems, signifying the phases of reproduction or symbiosis.

Alas, I know that shall never be. Because of your predatory nature. Because you left in your express train, in your jam-packed carriage, with the ticket we both paid for under the counter, at half the price.

So now I’m looking for another beast having twelve lives, if possible.

Somehow I fail to succeed at being a cat.

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Public Tracks Hubert Blanz

Over the last few years the importance of virtual social neworks has greatly increased and has significantly changed the way we communicate. This is especially true regarding communication via images in the form of photoblogs or photo albums, for example. The majority of profiles are immediately filled up with images from digital cameras or mobile phone cameras and, in the main, document the predilections and activities of the profile owner. In my work, public tracks, I am particularly interested in this new form of photography in the World Wide Web. From the mass of photos belonging to a selected profile owner and the structure of their network of friends I attempt to create a “virtual portrait” of the person. In the process the size of the network and the connections within the circle of friends and acquaintances is decisive and has a corresponding effect on form.

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public tracks, 03, c-print, diasec on dibond, 147 x 189 cm, Hubert Blanz

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public tracks, 04, c-print, diasec on dibond, 147 x 189 cm, Hubert Blanz, 2010

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public tracks, 06, c-print, diasec on dibond, 147 x 189 cm, Hubert Blanz, 2010

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public tracks, 05, c-print, diasec on dibond, 147 x 189 cm, Hubert Blanz, 2010

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public tracks, 08, c-print, diasec on dibond, 147 x 189 cm, Hubert Blanz, 2010

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WHY HUMAN BEINGS ARE CONSIDERED ZOMBIES. AN ACCURATE SCIENTIFIC EXPLANATION. - MICHE KIROWSKA

This page intentionally left blank. Guess why.

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IF YOU HAVE ANY IMAGINATION LEFT, NOW’S THE MOMENT.

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It ain’t necessarily improbably so.

- BURKARD POLSTER AND MARTY ROSS, AUSTRALIA Much to our surprise, we were recently involved with a fully functioning Southern Star. No, not the giant wheel at Dockland that remains immobile.

In fact, we were contacted by Matthew Dunn, a reporter forThe Great Southern Star, Leongatha’s local newspaper. Matt wanted to have a chat about a rather amazing coincidence. It seems that the Chapman family of Yarrawonga had just celebrated a new arrival, a bouncing baby Ebony.

Ebony was born on May 6, the birthday of her great grandfather, Mark Chapman.

That’s notable, but hardly enough to make the news, even in Leongatha.

However, Ebony’s sister Brodie also shares a birthday, October 28, with their grandfather, Ross Chapman. Moreover, their older sister Abbey shares her birthday, April 14, with their father, Mark Chapman. Now that’s pretty cool!

Matt contacted us, hoping to discover exactly the chances of all this happening. We obliged as best we could, but it was not as straight forward as one might imagine. The tricky question is, what exactly has happened?

At the simplest level, the chances of two people having the same birthday is about 1 in 365. So, for three pairs of matched birthdays we multiply 365 x 365 x 365, giving about 1 chance in 48 million.

Perhaps we also want to include the fact that it is three sisters matching with the Chapman men. There is 1 chance in 8 that the three children will all be female, and so the overall chance is out to about 1 in 400 million.

However, perhaps the odds are not so extreme. Imagine, for instance, that the three children had matched birthdays with the men, but in a different order. Undoubtedly, Matt would have still contacted us to find out the odds of this “happening”. But, with 6 ways to match children to adults, the odds are down to about 1 in 8 million.

89

VOH We can go further. Consider all the parents and grandparents and great grandparents together, 14 in all. What are the chances of the three children matching with any three of the adults? There are 364 ways to choose the three adults, and the overall odds are then about 1 in 130 000.

Still impressive, but not in the millions.

So we have hugely divergent answers: roughly the difference between winning Division 1 or Division 2 in Tattslotto. Which answer is correct?

The answer is, there is no answer.

Probability is about the analysis of repeated “happenings”. In order to calculate the probabilities, we must declare the precise events that might occur. With a coin or a pair of dice that is easy, but in real life it is not so obvious.

Before an event has occurred, we are pretty much forced to declare the exact event we are imagining. However, after the fact, we can characterise that event in all sorts of ways. For each such characterisation, we’ll have a different estimate of the probability, each with equal claim to correctness.

Further, our innate desire to see patterns means we’re very likely to see, or imagine, the specialness of events. This results in estimating probabilities at the high end.

Probability theorists know well the danger of ill-defined events, and the distorted view of hindsight. Alas, some others do not. Consider the current fad of Intelligent Design, religious creationism but with the gloss of mathematical respectability. ID-ers spend much time examining bacteria and whatnot, arguing the mathematical unlikelihood of certain biological characteristics. Unfortunately, the same uncertainties and flaws in our Chapman calculations are rife in these ID estimates. Einstein famously declared that God doesn’t play dice with the Universe. The flipside is: dice are a very poor way to discover God.

editor’s note:

i.e. GET WASTED. (GOT IT!) 7

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Earthquake on May 24

by Yovo Panchev, (kindly translated and remixed by Divine Design)

N-24995 Two and a half generations of digital graphics in color and monochromatic put some questions to the impartial spectator.

Besides the questions these images give answers to the common delight: not at all connected to the questions. They lack realistic reference, which is far from meant abstraction. Clearly visible human logic. As you would write a science fiction writer in the Soviet block, “imbued with the heavy smell of a man.”

Proportions in the compositions are human, that is humane, according to the preliminary report of the first cellular gelatin-plaster accelerator for bipolar detection of alpha channel projections between time-divergentdripping pixels – obviously subject to gravitational forces.

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VOH The graphics have been made on this earth and if made on any other, surely - a land with a similar effect of gravity. It could be argued that the overflowing images, cluded in gray and vibrantly colored perforations have a corrosive nature. What is this widespread corrosion that ruin the matter, which has become the tectonic grid of some other reality?

Celebration of Bulgarian culture is May 24. From noon to 12.34 now, about 17 hours there have been 19 earthquakes in the Aegean island of Samothrace. The first earthquake was palpable not only here but even in the Romanian capital Bucharest. After a while I go to the administration of President of the Republic at a cocktail. Yalov tradition. Both traditions are generally barren and errors - potent. This is part of another response that gives us images without someone having been asked for them.

494 There are several plans and possibly horizons influenced by different types of erosion - organic, chemical, mental overlap a surface-screen. The projections form the central basis of speculative-protoprophetical Differenzempirism and are in fact screen of clearly distinguished scrap structure of a deliberate policy construction in a logical way of controsition. Complexing two figures on canvas dominate the feeling of leaving behind a swarm of smaller pieces - probably another generation or consequence of a previous interaction between each other.

2959 and 42i4 are associated with performative computer-based Delphi survey’s untenable specifics of memory. Clearly distinguished between overlapping layers, probably archaeological layers - physical objects superimposed on one another, historical - one above the other, conceptual - another over the other, and ultimately: visual - in an abstract plane. It could refer to any cultural layers, and even surplus specific assumptions: Maria Luiza tram tracks passing over the Roman Forum and takes us from the city of wisdom through the northern gate. Now it’s like underground landmark unassuming municipal project space in the dungeons of a bingo hall. What a seductive metaphor.

294, 2994, 2995, and 24995 have a lot in common but with bingo as a life strategy and symbolic creed of apologists’ democratic traditions of the pixel-oriented subdivision of CERN. So I start from its structured rules in the upper left part of the compositions - a veritable canvas of socio-political cadastre of Europe. Then the order is picked up by enemy radar of the human heart and the whole idea of a shared community with equal rights goes to hell. Gravity of human sabotage after trying to restore order and organisation.

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N-42i4 79

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67

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N-2994 15

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N-494 56

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84

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N-2995 8

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N-2959 22

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N-294 69

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INVALID PROOF. OR HOW A GLOBALLY COHERENT SYSTEM EMERGES OUT OF INTERACTING STATES OF DECOHERENCE. splendid analysis - Ludi Crous “if you ever happen to declare a joke relating life, be prudent, cuz you are the joke” - Jocu Laris “I am inlove with You, Life,” I dreamed it out loud, knowing it was not only one there to harken.

“Are you sure?” wailed the deepest desire, twisting itself in enchantment, oozing in progressive madness; simply and shaggy.

Why did I have to proceed to a choice when there was primarily only ONE to be chosen of? Duuh. “It is just a joke, one communal bluff,” I was clearly talking to myself, but nonetolose I made my intention out of WHOM the conundrumic collision of social momenta reflected upon my very own disordered agenda. Or was it my ordered momenta reflecting upon a sick social agenda?

“Haah, I know, it is both,” said twisted in despair, the mind immersed in social bare.

Wandering around, looking for home, though, it was not home I was looking for. Only right before the front doors was I able to actualise, the basic of the basic of the crux did I meta-realise, that it was not He but Coherent Jealousy in our stigmergic-space-trajectory… … while at precisely the same time reaching into my pocket to get my door key. Although I had 3 detached keys, within my probable reach I happened to spot out the correct one by chance. This relational symmetry was the clear validation of my meta-realization hitting my cephalic constellations.

And while the latter validation-reflection was taking space in my mind, I was trying to unlock my entrance door, but I couldn’t, you see, I was repeatedly missing the hole with regard to the lack of conformity…

One hilariously-twisted-meta-slap a.k.a. misticus-semanticus-paradoxicus.

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REALITY IS ALIVE. HAVEN’T YOU NOTICED?

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THE NEXT STEP IN MENTAL EVOLUTION, I SUPPOSE, IS MAN’S COMMUNICATION WITH HIMSELF, WHICH UNDOUBTEDLY AMOUNTS TO THE MOST SOPHISTICATED EXPRESSION OF MIND ON PLANET EARTH TO DATE. -Guy Murchie

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