Four Minutes to Midnight 01

23:56 ISSUE ONE AUGUST 1/2 2004

IT HAS TO START SOMETIME WHAT BETTER PLACE THAN HERE WHAT BETTER TIME THAN NOW RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE, GUERRILLA RADIO

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“psst, I was told that there’s a machine that resides/hides in the ether. It roots us out in our complacence, it wears down our intuition/instincts and it counters our reasoning/rationale. It whispers as we slumber, seeping into our thought processes—attaching spores of faux-fear onto our actions and reactions...

four minutes to midnight

DISSONANCE

...pass it on.” –dbj

Dear Brothers and Sisters, Dear Enemies and Friends, Why are we all so alone here?

Built then Burnt { Hurrah! Hurrah! } the silver mt. zion memorial orchestra and tra la la band

All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy.

All we need is a little more light, a little less weight, a little more freedom.

If we were an army, and if we believed that we were an army, and we believed, but everyone was scared, like little lost children in their grown up clothes and poses; so we ended up alone here floating through long wasted days, or great tribulations... while everything felt wrong.

Good words, strong words, words that could’ve moved mountains.

Words that no one ever said.

We were all waiting to hear those words and no one ever said them.

And the tactics never hatched.

And the plans were never mapped.

And we all learned not to believe.

And strange lonesome monsters loafed through the hills wondering why... and it is best to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever wonder why.

So tangle — oh tangle us up in bright red ribbons!

Let’s have a parade. It’s been so long since we had a parade, so let’s have a parade!

Let’s invite all our friends, and all our friends’ friends!

Let’s promenade down the boulevards with terrific pride and light in our eyes: twelve feet tall and staggering, sick with joy with the angels there and light in our eyes.

Brothers and Sisters, hope still waits in the wings, like a bitter spinster; impatient, lonely and shivering, waiting to build her glorious fires.

It’s because of our plans, man; all our beautiful ridiculous plans.

Let’s launch them like careening jetplanes.

Let’s crash all our planes into the river.

Let’s build strange and radiant machines, because Jericho is waiting to fall.

Pessimism of the intelligence. Optimism of the will. antonio gramsci

the ascension it was simple, we wanted to start a design magazine — but not another design john stuart mag, and we met, sporadically over the years, spending a lot, well all, of the time talking. that was the thrill, breaking from routine, to meet, to talk about creating something new. we had names and ideas; print this!, ascender, and the briefly lived (for one evening with Marc and myself), frankie teardrop (let’s hear it for frankie!) — we were going to address important things; the ups and downs of working with non-profits, constellation’s beautiful record sleeves, we’d throw our voices into the dying embers of the ‘legibility wars’... we even had a long and nuanced interview with Ellen Lupton. not bad for a bunch of kids out of Montréal. of course Kevin Lo along the way life continued to happen, people fell apart, I REMEMBER THOSE days and nights, before the concrete and glass moved on, dropped in and out. hearts were broken. wars of Toronto, before the loneliness of Breda, before the madness of started, thousands dying for dubious “causes” London. I remember all the cigarettes and coffee.

I remember the Mile End. this current incarnation (what you hold in your hands) formed out of (a ball of pain) felt on different So what is this now then? There’s no way to be sure... frequencies, by all of us it seemed, over a long december visit, a wake, ...it seemed a reasonable place to start, out of an experiment in collective authorship – by which I don’t the sadly gentrifying mile end. only mean ‘writing’ between myself and my friends, but also the borrowing of words from the past, from the mouths of others, to initiated by graphic designers, and expanding outwards converse with the dead. Dangerous territory, I know. Equally as to draw others into the fold, outside the stream,, we dangerous as the assumptions and assertions we’re making here (illegible) daily, hoping to divert thought out of self about what ‘sounds good’, about what will make people talk. Naive defeating patterns... it will work,,, trial & trial & trial, and perhaps pretentious assumptions about what matters. i can only imagine, i can only imagine, i can’t wait. a ‘zine, a network, a movement; a stupidly beautiful, lame, poetic gesture flung at the face of a stifling culture of neo-liberalism. Four minutes to midnight is the moment when we begin to speak openly again, the moment when we realise time is running out, when we no longer allow cynicism and fear to silence our voice, when we sing, dance, yell, whisper, laugh and cry, when we commit to doing whatever we can to resuscitate dignity and hope in a culture that is geared to make us feel inadequate and insignificant. when we fight to win.

DISSONANCE dissent is an oral tradition

it starts with no and ends with yes is found in the mouth it is never a direct path – it wanders it is what you always/never wanted to hear creation is the last process we can call our own. everything else is bereft of voice due to the relentless co-option of communication and the social structures which claim to represent our voice. our will. we are silenced by a velvet glove rather than an iron fist. but we are still smothered-mute.

So we step forward with this gesture. words on pages. in the hope that somehow they snowball. that they inspire you to send thoughts words pictures sounds. whatever you want which can inspire change. the dream, the hope... is that a chorus of dissonant voices will begin the long journey we all need to take to eliminate this silence.



an investigation of rhetorical language – these pages are full of it. ‘good words, strong words’, persuasive and seductive/hollow and vacuous? perhaps, but rhetoric can catalyse movement, and movement is change, and I think we could all use a little change.

a simple reaction – to life, to work, to an academic brief, to an alienating boredom. collected responses to a simple question; what’s wrong? a memory – because I’m tired from trying to forget. a luxury – enjoy...

Hmm... the problem. Isn’t that obvious? Moneymaking CATERPILAR for the benefit of NO ONE crawling over the surface of the planet eating EVERYTHING in its way. Even GOD couldn’t accomplish THAT much.

Mediated SLAVERY to obnoxious SPONSORED LINKS on websites no one needs to really BE. Ancient WISDOM of what man REALLY NEEDS

And you, are you so forgetful of your past, is there no echo in your soul of your poets’ songs, your dreamers’ dreams, your rebels’ calls? emma goldman

The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting. milan kundera

I must become the action of my fate. june jordan

overtaken by CHEAP THRILLS in hundreds of FLASHES per second per second. Positive DECONSTRUCTION of old social structures leading to INSECURITY in our short-term memory. Asking more QUESTIONS than can possibly be ANSWERED in a LIFETIME, I.E. what’s wrong?

–Anonymous

Time is on the side of the oppressed today, it’s against the oppressor.

Truth is on the side of the oppressed today, it’s against the oppressor.

You don’t need anything else.

Malcolm X

I must become a menace to my enemies. june jordan

it’s all moving too fast, so much i want to do and so much time full doing these things and still i want to take on more and do more and do it now and do it properly but i’ve got this feeling that it’s too hard and i don’t have time and i should be worrying instead about getting myself financially secure but how much time will that take and how much time will i have to spend maintaining a secure position... it all comes down to fear... i’m scared that something is wrong... maybe nothing is wrong. do you feel the way that i feel? laurence

We are the end, the continuation, and the beginning.

We are the mirror that is a lens that is a mirror that is a lens.

We are rebelliousness.

We are the stubborn history that repeats itself in order to no longer repeat itself, the looking back to be able to walk forward.

We are neoliberalism’s maximum defiance, the most beautiful absurdity, the most irreverent delirium, the most human madness.

We are human beings doing what must be done in La Realidad, that is to say, dreaming. subcommandante insurgente marcos

Slavery. When opportunity is being taken away from us, and in return we have yellow hats, pink sneakers, fizzy colas and a plenitude of t-shirts we save for that right day. The right day being Friday night at the bar with a room full of smartly chosen t’s and organized hair talking about him and her or that band, discussing the movie of the week with the pleasant pauses interrupted by a fresh gin and tonic, whisky soda, vodka cranberry. Stumbling home, popping an aspirin, drinking designed water and going to bed at 4:00 am on 350 thread count sheets. Waking up, feeling like shit, getting an alongé at 11:30 am, eating breakfast at some chicken themed restaurant at 2:15 pm, deciding to rent a movie to talk about at the next Friday t-shirt showing, and renting a documentary that informs you that third world countries cannot feed their own people, due to the undercutting cost of imported foods (milk powder, only one of many examples) from the united crates of America. Seeing a country that can only buy and not sell (WTO). You ask what’s wrong, I think this could be it.

Documentary: LIFE & DEBT Jay

A new lie is sold to us as history. The lie about the defeat of hope, the lie about the defeat of dignity, the lie about the defeat of humanity. The mirror of power offers us an equilibrium in the balance scale: the lie about the victory of cynicism, the lie about the victory of servitude, the lie about the victory of neoliberalism.

Instead of humanity, it offers us stock market value indexes, instead of dignity it offers us globalisation of misery, instead of hope it offers us an emptiness, instead of life it offers us the international of terror.

Against the international of terror representing neoliberalism, we must raise the international of hope. Hope, above borders, languages, colours, cultures, sexes, strategies, and thoughts, of all those who prefer humanity alive.

The international of hope. Not the bureaucracy of hope, not the opposite image and, thus, the same as that which annihilates us.

Not the power with a new sign or new clothing. A breath like this, the breath of dignity. A flower yes, the flower of hope. A song yes, the song of life.

Dignity is that nation without nationality, that rainbow that is also a bridge, the murmur of the heart no matter what blood lives it, that rebel irreverence that mocks borders, customs and wars.

Hope is the rejection of conformity and defeat. subcommandante insurgente marcos

IMAGINATION TAKES POWER. Graffiti from the Paris uprisings, May 1968.

WE WIN, CALL THE COPS. Graffiti from the demonstrations against the WTO summit in Seattle, 1999

Hey Tom, here’s a very hacked up summary of the email conversations we’ve had over the last few months. I hope you don’t object to the rather vicious editing. I know a lot has been left out, and the depth of our discussion gutted, but it needed to be concise. Hopefully it still gives a nice taste of what was said, and what needs to be said. Let me know what you think...

KEVIN LO I want to start an art movement.

Obviously one doesn’t simply start a movement, and I’m not doing this with the ridiculous belief that it’ll actually succeed, yet I’m allowing for the absurd possibility that it might.

TOM GLEASON I’m not sure that you can’t start an art movement. We can talk about broad movements that kind of grow out of sociopolitical conditions, and certainly those are important trends to explore. But design history is chock full of ‘movements’ that wouldn’t have So my approach to starting this movement is happened unless some individual took the based on the idea that cultural movements are initiative. I prefer a view of history that says not really started, but that they are catalyzed by “yes, we can take action, and we are not just the the socio-political conditions of artists’ work. products of our environment.” We’re always in a situation, but those ‘movements’ didn’t have to happen, did they?

TOM Art reveals ideas. Artists are not dictated by the ideas around them. Rather, they reveal those new ideas. That is just a thought. Art has allowed for the kinds of ideas that are floating around, and the ideas flow back into art. The ideological dimension is bound up in the artistic process; it doesn’t simply determine it.

There’s a dialectic of ideas and work.

ON ‘STARTING A MOVEMENT’ KEVIN You’re right. I suppose the questions that need to be asked are why and how. I think the why might come pretty easily, but as far as how... I’m obviously thinking about that and am hoping that this conversation with you might help to develop some ideas.

TOM The why and how of starting an art movement. Why? Because we’ve chosen to interpret history in a certain way, for reasons that come from our artistic souls. Art IS agency, it’s essence is freedom. The fear (or maybe just skepticism) of the academic approach comes from its tendency to simply restate, rather than to reveal. It feels scientific, rather than artistic.

The great movements in academia, however, are artistic at heart, yet they hold more sway over the intellectual climate because they are more thoroughly grounded. They can have the soul of Beat, Hippie, or Punk culture, but have developed the semantic bridges necessary to be understood by an intellectual audience and to be able to carry political weight.

KEVIN Definitely. the process of “making art” is dialectical, however, what I am positioning as a starting point is rooted in a criticism of contemporary art and design culture. I think advanced capitalism in the west has largely separated art from life and in many ways broken the dialectic. Most contemporary art, and design work has lost any reference and meaning to a broader public. Graphic design has become, more than ever, a tool to advance business interests and contemporary art has become so damn convoluted and narcissistic.

TOM I agree that advanced capitalism has largely separated art from life. But of course I have my own take on that: style is more than ever important to Americans. But we have acknowledged that this is not really what we’re talking about when we speak of contemporary “art”. I think it goes back to the theme of banalization, emptying art of meaning. To reinvest art with meaning, yes, discussion is essential.

AND A FEW OTHER NOBLE IDEAS: KEVIN Yet the inverse of this is also true... these cultural expressions, in music, poetry, visual art, zines, all make bridges between the intellectual argument to lived experienced and action (not that the intellectual realm is not “lived”), and help to bring ideas to a larger audience. I don’t think I would ever have become as politicised, philosophical, or just plain curious if it wasn’t for the cultural expressions I found in music, literature, art and graphic design.

TOM But don’t forget that those more superficial, less critical, although revealing, expressions of resistance are always very quickly emptied of meaning and made into hip, status-quo-legitimating, consumer goods.

Academia can run into the same problems, of course. But I have to be skeptical of a militant anarchist, while I admire how academic anarchists like Chomsky seem to be so much more effective in raising the general level of critical awareness.

Rebellion is always around; and a new punk movement can be inspiring, but for me, the choice is whether or not to rebel in the most tactful way possible, given that we should rebel and that there are more and less effective methods. It is certainly ironic that Chomsky at

KEVIN I’ve always been fascinated by how expressions of resistance are so easily coopted and have tried to develop strategies and tactics against this in my work. I don’t see these expressions as superficial, at least not in their original forms. And I don’t think their revealing nature should be underestimated.

Is there a way to develop a visual language that cannot be co-opted—is this even desireable?

I think so, because it fundamentally comes down to issues of autonomy of language.

These visual expressions, though they can be exclusionary, also contribute to the creation of community, and the facilitation of discourse.

TOM Is there a way to develop a visual language that cannot be co-opted? You think so, but I don’t. Sure it’s desirable, but some desires are silly. We want a visual language that is not only a sign of resistance, but a sign resistant to change. That’s one or two steps away from idol worship, because we would be able to absolutize the meaning of these designworks.

They would be timeless. Think of the Bible.

People wanted that to be the absolute Word, but that has been proven impossible. But should we fight against co-option or not? That fight is a fight against change, not FOR change.

A movement which desires any kind of change should promote the possibility of change.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN MIT is funded by the Pentagon. But it is realistic KEVIN Issues of effectiveness are crucial, but to realize that it may be more effective, in the they are extremely individual. I learned this long term, to work from within the system. quite clearly in a demonstration in Quebec City against the FTAA early on in my political I do understand that simply “working within education. I went to demonstrate peacefully, the system” is unlikely to produce results, but more as a critical observer than anything else. you might see that for me, working within During a march, we walked past a group of our ideal (if not actual), democratic system Mohawk Warriors, ready and determined for means respecting the fact that our existing a fight. Though their militancy shocked me situation does have legitimate elements that at first, it also made me realise that from my have to be untangled from the illegitimate position as a middle class graphic designer ones. Problems are more complicated than who has not had his entire community we think, and I have no answers other than to subjected to two hundred years of genocide, talk more, and to not take an anti-intellectual that I was in no position to condemn them for position. Sure, it would be great if everyone their anger. They were at war, and have been at was a responsible anarchist, but we have to be war for the last two hundred years. And in my realistic as well. mind they were justified to rush the barricades, regardless of its “effectiveness”.

KEVIN I wasn’t really suggesting that there was a way to develop a language that couldn’t be co-opted, I think I was more just curious about the concept, and the process of cooption itself.

TOM It’s a tough problem. What’s greater than defending the Flag and the ideals it stands for? What’s stupider than defending the Flag?

When the Flag no longer signifies what it was intended to, what are we defending?

We could choose to accept the ephemeral nature of these visual signs and simply abandon them once they fall out of our desired context, but what if we choose to see them as truly valuable, and worth defending? And I don’t mean to say that we should prevent them from changing, I’m all for change, but as responsible “parents” should we not try and choose the right path somehow?

To defend the Flag when “America” no longer means freedom, to defend “freedom” when freedom no longer means freedom... what’s the point? It is a question of what we are defending, I guess. Are we defending the sign? How does a fight like this get carried out? And what does it amount to? Whoever wins makes the sign mean what they want it to mean? How would they win?

Through a battle of other signs? Is it possible to defend the signified? Peace is what is important, right? not the Peace Sign. Does any connection to peace disappear along with it’s sign?

TOM GLEASON AND KEVIN LO I think, simply put, that my commentary pretty much comes down to my belief that a critical academic movement, which I agree has more staying power and long term “effectiveness” (why am I constantly putting quotations around effectiveness??), cannot be held in isolation to cultural production, symbolic representation AND direct action. They are complementary and necessarily parasitical.

The development of strategies to enhance their symbiosis are essential.

KEVIN The idea is not to ‘speak for’ people in the ‘movement’, that would be ridiculous and pretentious. It is more an attempt to ‘speak with’ them. In the sense of design and art openly embracing an ideological imperative to better the world based in the key (revolutionary) concepts which are (in my mind) representative of this movement (of movements). Concepts of autonomy, diversity, self-determination, defiance, networks, etc.

And also, equally as important, to reinvigorate methods of communication based in honesty, dialogue and personal commitment.

KEVIN From my vantage point there is a genuine, global, political movement that has been developing over the last 10 years or so, which has been labelled, among other things, as an ‘anti-globalisation’ or ‘anti-capitalist’ movement. From the global reach of the Zapatista’s struggles in Mexico to the massive and unprecedented peace demos that occurred on feb. 15 of last year, I feel a growing public conscience is emerging to confront the violent abuses of power.

capitalist separation of art from life has disconnected most cultural producers from the political avant-garde to a greater degree than has happened before. And it is this issue I want to address. I admit that these connections are tenuous at best, but I think there is something happening here.

Within our own field, the heated debates around graphic design’s social relevance and the possibility of it taking an oppositional position is emblematic of how at least a segment of our field feels that these issues are important. However, I also feel that the

TOM I like your focus on dialogue, and obviously I share it. That’s the movement, in many ways. But, to throw a wrench into it... to what extent have people already attempted to do this? Blauvelt and Bush, etc. have been saying this stuff for years. What is new to add? Are we endorsing this possible movement and making it happen? How, exactly, will we take it farther than the “theorists” of it all? My strategy has been to inject non-professional, autonomous criticism into the professional discourses, as much as possible. I have continuously tried to ignore (while ironically revealing) the unspoken rules and constraints of conversation, I have tried to push discussion as far as it can go, and encourage others to forget about fear or possible embarrassment, and just try to say something that hasn’t been scripted.

TOM I’m not sure I understand the antiglobalization movement, beyond the sense that we don’t want to lose our individuality and our different cultural beauties to a homogenization dictated by an inhuman system. The only check on that system is a revival of deep discussion about sincere human concerns, right up in the face of these forces. It requires a decision to be oriented toward freedom, and again I think a study of that central concern, through both dialogue and art, enables this.

Hi kevin, Sure, go ahead and use this. I know someone will think, regarding my last statement, that a lot of this stuff is pretty much cookie-cutter anarcho-art talk. It’s hard to break free of cliche, but this I think is a decent start. We tried!

Caminante, son tus huellas el camino y nada mas; Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace el camino, y al volver la vista atras se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino sino estelas en la mar. antonio machado

She’s on the horizon...

I go two steps, she moves two steps away. I walk ten steps and the horizon runs ten steps ahead. No matter how much I walk, I’ll never reach her. What good is utopia? That’s what: it’s good for walking. eduardo galeano

Speaking and listening is how true men and women learn to walk. It is the word which gives form to that walk which goes inside. It is the word which is the bridge to cross to the other. Silence is what the powerful offer our pain in order to make us small. When we are silenced we remain very much alone. Speaking heals the pain. Speaking we accompany one another. The powerful uses the word to impose his empire of silence. We use the word to renew ourselves. The powerful use the silence to hide his crimes. We use silence to listen to one another, to touch one another, to know one another. zapatista army of national liberation

What weapons do we have to secure our freedom? We can mention three: 1. Information should be corrected in the direction of poetry, the news decoded, official terms translated (so that ‘society’, in the perspective opposed to Power, becomes ‘racket’ or ‘area of hierarchical power’) — leading eventually to a glossary or encyclopedia.

2. Open dialogue, the language of the dialectic; conversation, and all forms of non-spectacular discussion.

3. What Jakob Boehme called ‘sensual speech because it is a clear mirror of the sense.’ (...) the language of spontaneity, of ‘doing’, of individual and collective poetry; language centered on the project of realisation, leading lived experience out of the cave of history. This is also connected with what Paul Brousse and Ravachol meant by propaganda by deed. raoul vaneigem

| shiri pasternak |

Words do not always mean hope. To some they mean despair.

Tortured and burned alive by the Guatemalan military a man asks the intellectuals before he dies: What did you do when the poor suffered, when the tenderness and life burned out of them?

You will not be able to answer those who had no place in your books and poems.

Subversion. Revolution. Liberation.

Without so much as stepping outside.

But language is an ancient city... a maze of little streets and squares.

To mistaken the apolitical intellectual for those whose words are licked in blood is to mistaken the neighbourhood for the city.

Language is a signpost.

The words tell us how to move.

Do you remember the days of slavery?

See the pictures: now look around.

Men with out arms. She, carrying the soft weight of dead children.

My professor laughs at me: We have never lived in such unrevolutionary times.

Black gloves leave no ďŹ ngerprints.

The scent is long and hard to follow.

Language is a labyrinth of paths.

At one end: blood-ecked teeth.

The other: a faint cry.

WORDS ARE ALL WE HAVE SAMUEL BECKETT

uncomfortable silence, click click of the keys, 10 people typing and point-clicking in a beautiful ofďŹ ce by the sea. friendly work mates, though there is little talk between the clickity clickities... we all face the ocean, as if on a cruise ship, sitting on the front deck, we feel far from the city and from people in this vastness. i feel far away from everyone (though admittedly i am in australia now and

that is far from a lot of what i know). i feel lonely, i feel alone, i feel far away and slightly lost in this vastness. paradoxically, my more disturbing malaise of late is feeling claustrophobic on footpaths walking amidst crowds in the city. the noise, the bustling, and the anonymity makes me feel lightheaded and slightly crazy, i need to get out... audrey

Inner breathlessness, outer restlessness ¶ By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath ¶ Grandma asked me what I’m running for ¶ I guess I’m out for the same thing the sun is sunning for ¶ What mothers birth their youngens for ¶ And some say Jesus coming for ¶ For all I know the earth is spinning slow ¶ Suns at half mast ’cause masses ain’t aglow ¶ On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree ¶ I’ve made the forest suit me ¶ Tables and chairs ¶ Papers and prayers ¶ Matter versus spirit ¶ A metal ladder ¶ A wooden cross ¶ A plastic bottle of water ¶ A mandala encased in glass ¶ A spirit encased in flesh ¶ Sound from shaped hollows ¶ The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion ¶ A man that cries in his sleep ¶ A truth that has gone out of fashion ¶ A mode of expression ¶ A paint splattered wall ¶ A carton of cigarettes ¶ A bouquet of corpses ¶ A dying forest ¶ A nurtured garden ¶ A privatized prison ¶ A candle with a broken wick ¶ A puddle that reflects the sun ¶ A piece of paper with my name on it ¶ I’m surrounded ¶ I surrender ¶ All ¶ All that I am I have been ¶ All I have been has been a long time coming ¶ I am becoming all that I am ¶ The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute ¶ Unheard, yet felt ¶ A gathered wetness ¶ A quiet moisture ¶ Sound trapped in a bubble ¶ Released into wind ¶ Wind fellows and land merchants ¶ We are history’s detergent ¶ Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath ¶ Articles amending death ¶ These words are not tools of communication ¶ They are shards of metal ¶ Dropped from eight story windows ¶ They are waterfalls and gas leaks ¶ Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf ¶ The tools of a trade ¶ Barbers barred, barred of barters ¶ Catch phrases and misunderstandings ¶ But they are not what I feel when I am alone ¶ Surrounded by everything and nothing ¶ And there isn’t a word or phrase to be caught ¶ A verse to be recited ¶ A man to de-fill my being in those moments ¶ I am blankness, the contained center of an “O” ¶ The pyramidic containment of an “A” ¶ I stand in the middle of all that I have learned ¶ All that I have memorized ¶ All that I’ve known by heart ¶ Unable to reach any of it ¶ There is no sadness ¶ There is no bliss ¶ It is a forgotten memory ¶ A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking ¶ There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless ¶ They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness ¶ But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence ¶ Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas ¶ like dead rats held by their tails ¶ so as not to infect this newly oiled skin ¶ I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane ¶ I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal ¶ I can think of nothing less likely to fly ¶ There are no wings more weighted ¶ I too have felt a heaviness ¶ The stare of man guessing at my being ¶ Yes I am homeless ¶ A homeless man making offerings to the after-future ¶ Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles ¶ A nation unified in exhale ¶ A cloud of smoke ¶ A native pipe ceremony ¶ All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps ¶ Snow covered mountains ¶ Lipsticks smeared and shriveled ¶ Offerings to an afterworld ¶ Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers ¶ Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls ¶ It’s all overwhelming me, oak and elming me ¶ I have seeded a forest of myself ¶ Little books from tall trees ¶ It matters not what this paper be made of ¶ Give me notebooks made of human flesh ¶ Dried on steel hooks and nooses ¶ Make uses of use, uses of us ¶ It’s all overwhelming me, oak and elming me ¶ I have seeded a forest of myself ¶ Little books from tall trees ¶ On bended knee ¶ Prostrate before an altered tree ¶ I’ve made the forest suit me ¶ Tables and chairs ¶ Papers and prayers ¶ Matter vs. spirit, through meditation ¶ I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation…

SAUL WILLIAMS, RELEASE

¶

A.

Glass bends, swells, breaks, s h

a

t

t

e

r

s

.

FIRE An apartment building burns. A young woman rolls over in bed, pulling the covers tight, tighter.

B.

Small flames dance in a trash barrel. A small group of homeless women and men stand around the barrel, staring into the fire. An old woman, slumped against a pillar of the underpass, pulls a newspaper tighter around her in a futile attempt to keep out the autumn morning chill.

A man leaves his place in the circle and casts a long, drawn out glance at the sleeping woman. He turns away, lights a cigarette and begins to make his way towards the gleaming skyscrapers.

C.

As he leaves the underpass onto a street, he chalk-marks a nearby wall with a horizontal line and a small circle.

D. UNDERWORLD Hard, dark, digital rhythms. A voice like rain. Pulsing lights. Pulsing people. A dank, dark, blue club. A man sits at the end of the bar, buried deep in his coat. Rows of empty drinks sit on the bar beside him. Everyone is moving but him. He is alone, scribbling into a thick notepad,

DIRTY EPIC...

The music stops, the crowd cheers and cheers.

The bartender takes his eyes off the stage, pours a drink and puts it down beside the man. “I’m sorry Saul, I’m really sorry.”

E.

SAUL ’s apartment. In a converted factory squat. The single room is large and empty. Tall windows overlook the river. There is a large bed, a desk with a computer, an old bookshelf, but not much else. In bed, Saul rolls over slowly, reaching for someone who isn’t there. He wakes up screaming and punching. Fist slams into wall, leaving a jagged bloody crater.

F.

FENN walks past a burnt out apartment building, the hoardings that surround it are covered with political and music posters. One announces the arrival of Underworld, another the arrival of Ward Churchill. Fenn takes a moment to look at the posters then continues walking. At the end of the block, a billboard advertises luxury condominiums. He sets himself up across the street, in front of the bank. He flips over a piece of cardboard on which it is written in chalk:

They steal your money, at least I ask first.

G.

Man on a stage under a red spotlight, speaking softly into the microphone as one speaks into the ear of the man who stole your lover, right before you decide whether or not you’re going to kill him; we dedicate tonight’s performance to quiet refusals loud refusals and sad refusals we dedicate it to the imminent market collapse we dedicate it to carpenters waitresses and drug addicts we dedicate it to secretaries, alcoholics and schizophrenics we dedicate it to the boys kissing boys girls kissing girls girls kissing boys and everything in between we dedicate it to anxiety attacks, hangovers, worried depression and all the other necessary by-products of trying to live free we dedicate it to any endeavour who’s ultimate unreasonable goal is autonomy, self-determination or joy we dedicate it to every prisoner in the world.

The vibrating draw of a violin teases. The music lulls, then pounds.

Another drink. Another drink. Another drink. And Saul is drunk. §§§

H.

Back home, as if a place like that could actually exist, his screen buried in his eyes, his shoulders hunched, a trail of smoke strangely following the crooked arch of his arm and back, Saul types: _wehat an amazzzzzinhg show! I loved it, Ii LOVED it ((more than anything)), I lovved it, I FUCKing loved it so much I HATEd it. pretentious random poetic or whatever And it hated me right back... perfection. I t was that good really.

He sends the email off to the small paper he works for as a music journalist. He looks up from the computer and smiles. He slowly, almost fearfully, walks towards the bed, considers trying to get in, then quickly turns back towards the screen.

I.

The office of the small newspaper. It is busy, everyone chatting or typing away in their cubicles. Everyone except for a young woman in a small corner cubicle. She sits there, with a look of astonishment on her face, staring at the dense blocks of text on her screen. She scrolls through a couple of pages, equally as black, and rubs her eyes.

K picks up the telephone...

J.

...the phone rings in Saul’s apartment. Soft light streams in through the windows. His desk is cluttered with torn paper and empty packs of cigarettes. The answering machine: “Saul, it’s K, what the fuck is this shit? If you don’t get your shit together The Boss is going to fire you! Pull yourself together Saul. Fix this article and get back to me. Soon.”

K.

Saul is wandering aimlessly along the riverbank, then through the maze made from the walls of discarded factories. Eventually Saul finds his way into a small park on the edge of town where he stops to sit on a bench. Birds chirp and people stroll by, leaving fragments of idle conversation.

L.

Saul crosses the park and into an old neighbourhood, very much under construction. He stops on a corner to stare at a giant billboard:

Your Place is HERE! ™ M.

Fenn sits by the bank, gently playing with a small white mouse. Saul passes by and stops to pull out some money. Digging through his coat pocket, he pulls out a handful of bills and some loose scraps of paper.

He tosses it all into Fenn’s hat and moves on. Fenn thanks him and starts unraveling one of the scraps of paper. The mouse scurries into the folds of his clothes.

N.

Whisky. Dirty orange lighting. Bad Jazz, but beautiful women. After the jazz, a punk band made up of three Chinese kids walks onto the stage. They begin to play. Strange... Stranger still, they’re good.

Whisky.

O.

The screen or the sun, which one is brighter on this foggy morning?

The screen is blue-white, the sun is pink-grey. Tik tik tik tak tik, plastic keys. Underworld in the background; any reason will do–any reason will do–any reason will do–any reason will do–any reason will do–any reason will do–everything–everything–everything Tik tik tik tak tak tak.

This or that, this or that?

P.

The office, less busy today, muzak drones in the background. K’s desk is covered in printouts, She holds a stack of them in her hand, looking over the pages intently.

These pages are no longer blocks of black. Large g a p s , rivers and lakes rip through the text, leaving lonely letter s to defend their territory.

Their struggles form chaotic pattern s o n patterns t h e page. kkkkk, K, confused, goes to the washroom…

Q.

…and cries. The Boss walks in on her and tells her to get her shit together. Still sobbing, she gives him an obscene gesture.

R.

K sits in a café, surrounded by paper. Pen in hand, she jumps from page to page, underlining, circling, scribbling notes and diagrams, connecting words and making images. She mumbles incoherently to herself, but it seems a melody is emerging.

S.

Through the window, a homeless man is arrested by police officers.

He puts up a decent fight, but soon ends up with his hands shackled behind his back.

T.

day turns to night

it begins to rain

U.

Saul dreams – his teeth are brittle, he can taste the blood on the tip of his tongue. Little pieces of tooth begin to break off, filling his mouth with the gritty texture and taste of calcium. Spitting into his cupped hands he stares at the mixture of blood, teeth, spittle and phlegm. He panics, and begins to run through the city, trying desperately, absurdly, to find a dentist to fix him. His shoes are missing.

V.

Another building burns. The wail of sirens in the dead of night.

Another tired cliché.

W.

Hardly any lighting, except for the blue sheen coming off the trails of cigarette smoke. The band goes off the stage. The crowd cheers. Saul is hunched over his hefty notebook, scrawling madly. He is in rough shape. K enters and makes her way through the crowd towards Saul.

She is holding the stack of papers tightly to her body. She orders two drinks, passes one to Saul, and tries to engage him in conversation.

He accepts the drink but is unresponsive to the conversation. She orders another round of drinks. Saul reaches over for his drink and she knocks his hand away, shoving the pages under his nose. She pleads with him to look, to speak to her, to make her understand. He looks up and stares at her coldly. The band makes its way back onto the stage. K stares back, desperate. The band is getting louder. Saul gets up from the bar, and walks into the crowd. K finishes her drink and orders another.

X.

Four minutes to midnight. K exits the club. The music is still raging inside. She’s angry. She walks by a trash can and throws the stack of paper into it. She walks on, but at the end of the block, she stops.

She turns around and runs back to the trash can, digging through it, frantically trying to rescue the paper.

A young couple passes by and snickers at her. She looks up and the young man stares back at her with such ferocity that she runs, leaving a trail of trash-stained paper behind her.

The young man laughs.

Y.

4:20 AM in an empty club. A janitor leisurely mops the floor, humming a strange melody.

Z.

Small flames dance in a trash barrel.

Early morning under the overpass.

A large crowd is gathered around the fire.

Facing them, standing atop a makeshift pulpit, Fenn brandishes a thick manuscript and begins to r e a d ...

¶

SIDEWALKSOMENSDREAMS

in mile end. passing through an unlit ruelle, sounds seep−muffled like footsteps on grass. this is a lost place. a willing fortress for reckless dreams. stolen kisses & solitude each street a sentence a memory. walking. each step takes me closer further away. from you. “i loved her between the lines and against the clock” left with notes from the past & the space between our lips before meeting... was hope. now dissipated – but not lost. my voice, wilted. & staggering. trundling down the ruelle. it slaps off the walls back to me to another memory. forwards again. towards hope. each shoulder shrugging for words that can make sense. of this stain. of this beautiful dirty place. i remember sitting (when “time was away and she was here”) and sleeping and walking were all so different. sitting out back. cold. cigarettes. talking. planning love. revolution and art. folly. we walked down here. bagels. late at night. leaving a trail of white seeds on black asphalt. that passage long since washed away by the filthy winter snow. still the ruelle’s texture. its refraction of life and hope cannot be smothered. walking again. new sentences. unfinished. footsteps, muffled. each one murmuring hope. love. now

“The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever” WANEING VOICES • TEAR DOWN THE DEAD EYED FLAGS • SUBDUE STAGE FRIGHT • AND DISSENT WHISPERED • WE • SO DETACHED • ALL OF US • MIRED • ALL THE VAST PROJECTED FANTASIES • ALL THE LOST FORGOTTEN CHANNELS • ALL THE FLAYED DREAMS • GUNS • BURNING THE NIGHT SKY • SLIP OUT OF SILENCE • THE PERVERSE SHROUD WE WEAR • STEP • ON TO THE PLATFORM • THE STREET • THE PAGE • I’VE HESITATED AGAIN • FROZEN BY CIRCUMSTANCE • AND MEMORY STRUGGLES TO OVERWHELM • THE DESIRE THAT IS FED • WILLINGLY • FORCEFULLY • DON’T FORGET • WHEN WE WERE OUT BACK • DREAMING AT EACH OTHER • VAST • UNCONTROLLED TERRITORY • FLICKERING • A NEW REEL OF POSSIBILITY • A LOT OF TALK • BUT • IT HAS TO DIMINISH • AS IT WEARS THIN • WITH DOGS&GUNS ALL AROUND US • THE TIME IS MORE DEAR THAN WE ALLOW IT TO BE • GUNS BLAZE • AND WE ARE STILL SCATTERED • SILENT • THE STORM IS GROWING • PACK THE A F P W P V WITH IN

IT

UP A M M U N I T I O N T T R I T I O N U T I L I T Y H R A S E S O R D S I C T U R E S O I C E S A WHISPER MY EAR HOPE • LOVE • NOW

too much hate.

Our love of life is total, everything we do is an expression of that.

Everything we write is a love song. crass At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality. ernesto che guevara The salvation of this human world lies nowhere else than in the human heart, in the human power to reect, in human meekness and human responsibility. vaclav havel

not enough love.

Erin Love offers the purest glimpse of true communication that any of us have had. But as communication in general tends to break down, love becomes increasingly precarious. Everything tends to reduce lovers to objects. Real meetings are replaced by mechanical sex: by the posturing of countless Playboys and Bunnies. True love is revolutionary praxis or it is nothing. raoul vaneigam

I begin to realize that all revolution has to start in our own hearts and minds, and only when you are free of negative baggage, insecurity and hatred can you ever hope to effect real change.

I have, like so many others, allowed myself to become a victim of the cruel world we live in and in doing so have lost the purity of heart and mind to change anything.

Our greatest enemies are not faceless conglomerates. Instead we should begin the battle in our hearts and minds — against narcissism, self loathing and hatred. Tackling the self allows us to treat each other with love, respect and equality, and then we can move towards making a better life, and a world where love and compassion are valued above greed and hatred.

John

i’ll get the pencils, and we’ll draw a new world.

Constantin and i’ll get the inky pens.

Colin erasers are counterproductive.

Tom

Marginality as site of resistance: I was not speaking of marginality one wishes to lose, to give up, or surrender as part of moving into the center, but rather as a site one stays in, clings to even, because it nourishes one’s capacity to resist. It offers the possibilities of radical perspectives from which to see and create, to imagine alternatives, new worlds. bell hooks

participate. the next issue builds on this one. respond, react. www.lokidesign.net/2356

montrĂŠal contact John Stuart johns_graďŹ x@yahoo.ca

london contact Kevin Lo kevin@lokidesign.net

”

Oak! Oak! Ooooaaaakk!

Eri

If we are to change our world view, images have to change.

The artist now has a very important job to do. He’s not a little peripheral ďŹ gure entertaining rich people, he’s really needed. vaclav havel