Puck

How to cook a breakbeat in the kitchen.

I am a traveler.

I am a man
of the Goddess. I say:
We are entwined.

We seek, each
some others.

Soul makes images:
my soul is a mare;
my librarian is an owl,
catalogs eels of words.
A four-year-old boy
captains my ship.
My bear is warder of dark places.

My wolf
wants into your temple.

My bag of water bones
is subject to the dialogue
of the world. The wind
knows our fates.

Andrew Macrae, an Australian writer and artist, wrote to say that although he lives

a long way from the centres of cultural production in the northern hemisphere… maybe there’s something of interest in an antipodean perspective.

Oh my. The man knows how to write a pitch to snare an Irrepressible, no?

So check out his typewriter art (I suspect Photoshop or Illustrator, not an “actual” [or "Real," as Andrew says below] typewriter, but I could easily be wrong; and don’t get me wrong: I respect and admire mimicry): Acid Head War. The thing that grabs me about Macrae’s pieces is the bridge between the dot matrix and the typewriter. All you can see here is the dot matrix; to get the typewriter detail, you need to visit Acid Head War.

What we’ve got here is the translation of photographs into typewriter art-via an algorithm which offers, I can only imagine, a good deal of user control. (Indeed, I suspect that each character is handpecked, but I’m a Romantic.) I have no idea of how many languages Andrew speaks (other than an obvious fluency with English, that is), but translation–or anyway, the engineer’s strategy of bridging–is clearly a forte. In that regard, check out Ordinary Magic, “the ecstasy of everyday things,” a minimalist WordPress blog in action. Read the rest of this entry »

I just got mail from a fella in Spain name of Abel. He writes that he’s working on a dissertation on the great (if that’s where your boat floats) American writer, Charles Bukowski.

Abel wrote to ask if I, in the persona of Puck et alia, had ever published Buk.

Nay, says I, tho I was once published on a facing page with a poem in a short-lived zine called 10,000 Flies Can’t Be Wrong. Shall I send you a copy of the Bukowski poem? I asked.

Please, replied Abel, and supplied further needs that convince me he’s for real. (There wasn’t any real doubt anyway; who the hell is going to put Puck and Bukowski together and think, What a perfect mind fuck I could play on this guy!?) Here’s part of Abel’s slightly less than colloquial but perfectly rendered reply:

For bibliographical reasons, I would need copies of the Bukowski content as well as copies of the cover and masthead pages. Of course, if you have any spare issue that you can send or sell to me, I would appreciate it. I have to wade through tons of paper to find things here, while mags and books are tidily kept in the bookcase. If that’s not possible, then scan/xeroxes will do.

Actually, most of my books and zines from that era are untidily shoved in boxes hiding under other boxes in the back of a closet, but I get Abel’s point.

Which is, help me out if you can. I’m going to go rooting through old zines and have myself a walk down memory lane, digging for that brief brush with fame when I, your humble blogger, was published not just between the same covers but on the facing page from the bodacious Buk.

So I thought I’d throw the word out to you, the old contributors to my various literary outings, and others: let’s help this guy out. He’s working on a detailed bibliography of Buk’s zine publications, among other things, and that shit is ephemeral as hell. Hard to find, hard to pin down. (Abel said my explanation of my publishing history was “confusing.” Yeah. Well. How many librarians have said that to me? Let me count the leaves.)

Contact Abel (cirereta AT telefonica DOT net) before he graduates, gets a tenure-track job, and has to start writing some serious bullshit.

Dick Cheney is POTUS while George is under anesthesia for a “routine colonoscopy,” say White House reporters.

It’s a chilling thought,” one passerby told AXcess News when asked if they were concerned over Cheney’s short-term rule of the White House.

Girl-gone-wild Cheney says, “Give me my nuclear codes. Give me my everyday fuck you, Corpus Christi be damned. Give me executive power and I will coup like a dove. Give me ’till the bitter end and I will change you forever, America.”

Too late, asshole. Too. Fucken. Late.

fiction by Brian Charles Clark

“I’m in heaven,” Orkney sings as he and his little black bag bloom through the door. I’d swear he was gesticulating wildly, but no, it’s just his aura flaring.
I’m smacking cornflakes, sitting stoic as a reader in bed.
“Where ya been? Been specten ya.”
Orkney trips another step into the little yellow room. He grins like a refrigerator door swinging open, waves away my question.
“We’re in the news,” he says.
AWOL, base police, truncheons, court marshal, the Group W bench.
“I’m trying not to jump to conclusions here,” I say. I feel like an old felt hat. Too comfortable to have much backbone. I eye Orkney suspiciously.
He hands me his cache, snicks it on. I click the Morning with WNN bookmark automatically.
“Click on obituaries.”
“Scu me?” But I click anyway.
Flip me. There we are. Our names.
“We were killed in the war.” We were killed in the war? Did I miss something? Read the rest of this entry »

More fun with the letter Q and the binary number of the beastbot: exQorpse, a PHP-driven dadabase from Shawn Rider. I say “more,” because Shawn has done other things–many brilliant, weird, and irrepressible things–like this before. exQorpse is premised on a sound idea shared by surrealism and new media: conversation is an art. Shawn may go wrong in leading the initial player of the Qorpse into negativity; there’s a lot of spamnet negativity. But, interestingly, the user can come back into the poetic conversation with a new nickname and find him/herself quoted (out of context and databasically; not all the words are ones you wrote): nicknames carry on with a life of their own. Interesting, and very Shawn, this persistence of memory. As some sort of expert system, the concept of the exquisite corpse game has intriguing use as a brainstorm device. This isn’t it, but it approaches proof of concept. After a few zillion more hours research and programming (and yo mamma’s gonna pay for it in taxes, guarantee), this Q of a brainstorming machine may be looked back upon as a forefeather. Read the rest of this entry »

a musical offering by DJSkrotekkki

I’m not sure what all goes on in the mind of DJSkrotekkki, but it is surely wondrous strange. I’ll let him speak for himself:

My latest assault on the sonic front emerged from the trenches of a creative block. After countless months had come and gone without any progress being made on another music project, I thought something less demanding and more “fun” might un-jam the rifle, knock loose the crust of mud, blood, sweat, and grime that had accumulated on it during its time on the battlefield – something like… a cover song. Being a fan of the sardonic, ironic, and just plain hilarious (and being unsure of my own vocal abilities), Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy” seemed to be the perfect target. The fact that I’d had the idea in my iron sights for a while didn’t hurt either.

The song’s structure is such that I could throw all sorts of things into my rendition of it, providing an opportunity to experiment with a plethora of production tactics. And test my pipes.Honestly, I’m not sure how to gauge the vocal performance. Given the constraints (or were they restraints?) I was working within, I suppose they’re okay. After all, they are intended to be humorous and definitely succeed in that regard.

More work went into the music than I’m willing to admit – or type about. However, I will list the hardware and software used and abused during the (de)construction of the song: bass guitar/amp, guitar/amp, microphone, Goldwave and Fruityloops. I also sampled the kick from Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer”, drums and sounds from Skinny Puppy’s “Left Hand Shake”, various sounds from Microsoft Instruments, and of course, a Timothy Leary interview.

Bring your lawn chairs and enjoy the battle.

And here’s DJSkrotekkki’s “I’m2Sexy” for your download and/or streaming pleasure.

music by DJ Funken Wagnalls, video by vjvz

It ain’t Hollywood, it’s Puck. Less than 4 minutes long.

Beatmeister James Greathouse writes:

Terrence McKenna reads the opening to Finnegans Wake by James Joyce.

Made with Audacity and Sony ACID XPress 5.0 (both free).

Made on a Dell I rescued from a dumpster with a 930 MHz Intel Pentium III processor and 512 MB of RAM. All I did was add a CDRW drive rescued from a dead computer and reinstall the OS. It is hooked up to a 20″ Trinitron monitor pulled out of a dumpster. The keyboard, mouse and powered speakers came to me the same way.

I would hope that the mention of James Joyce and Terrence McKenna speaks with more meaning than anything I could say. If these artists go unknown to the audience then I have little expectation that my musings would prove illuminating. It seemed appropriate to me to use Finnegans Wake in a layered mash up. Truthfully, I doubt any other text could be more relevant to such a process.

This is placed in the genre of general semantics. The great debt semiology owes to general semantics recently came to my notice. Thank you Alfred Korzybski for saying, “The map is not the territory.” Anyone who reads Roland Barthes ought to find this meaningful. And if you don’t read Barthes, then the meaning is still up for grabs, isn’t it?

When you die, hearing is the last of the physical senses to remain.

Greathouse submitted two versions of Shot; I like them both (especially The Fall in First Shot), so here they are: First Shot and Second Shot.

Learn more about Terrence McKenna here–and download goodies, including more of McKenna reading Finnegans Wake.