Quem me dera que uma ida ao ginásio envolvesse toda esta lycra em tons choque.
E música 80's.
E bolas de espelhos.
E perneiras.
terça-feira, 31 de maio de 2011
Get fit in Lycra
Quem me dera que uma ida ao ginásio envolvesse toda esta lycra em tons choque.
E música 80's.
E bolas de espelhos.
E perneiras.
sexta-feira, 25 de março de 2011
sexta-feira, 11 de março de 2011
terça-feira, 15 de fevereiro de 2011
Bitch Mutant Manifesto
Primeiro de uma série de posts relacionados com um embrião de projecto que por enquanto se chama No More Manifestos. Este é um dos meus manifestos favoritos até agora, de um grupo de mulheres australianas. Elas descrevem-se como:
"four bored girls decided to have some fun with art and French feminist theory… with homage to Donna Haraway they began to play around with the idea of cyberfeminism… Beginning as if by spontaneous combustion, from a few hot nodes in Europe, America and Australia, cyberfeminism became a viral meme infecting theory, art and the academy.“
Ei-lo:
The atomic wind catches your wings and you are propelled backwards into the future, an entity time travelling through the late C20th, a space case, an alien angel maybe, looking down the deep throat of a million catastrophes.
screenflash of a millionmillion conscious machines
burns brilliant
users caught in the static blitz of carrier fire
unseeing the download that scribbles on their burntout retinas
seize in postreal epileptic bliss
eat code and die
Sucked in, down through a vortex of banality. You have just missed the twentieth century. You are on the brink of the millenium - which one - what does it matter?
It's the cross dissolve that's captivating. The hot contagion of millenia fever fuses retro with futro, catapulting bodies with organs into technotopia . . . where code dictates pleasure and satisfies desire.
Pretty pretty applets adorn my throat. I am strings of binary. I am pure artifice.
Read only my memories. Upload me into your pornographic imagination. Write me.
Identity explodes in multiple morphings and infiltrates the system at root.
Unnameable parts of no whole short circuit the code recognition programs flipping surveillance agents into hyperdrive which spew out millions of bits of corrupt data as they seize in fits of schizophrenic panic and trip on terror.
So what's the new millenium got to offer the dirty modemless masses?
Ubiquitous fresh water? Simulation has its limits. Are the artists of oppressed nations on a parallel agenda? Perhaps it is just natural selection?
The net's the parthenogenetic bitch-mutant feral child of big daddy mainframe. She's out of of control, kevin, she's the sociopathic emergent system.
Lock up your children, gaffer tape the cunt's mouth and shove a rat up her arse.
We're <>verging on the insane and the vandals are swarming.
Extend my phenotype, baby, give me some of that hot black javamagic you're always bragging about. (I straddle my modem). The extropians were wrong, there's some things you can't transcend.
The pleasure's in the dematerialisation. The devolution of desire.
We are the malignant accident which fell into your system while you were sleeping. And when you wake we will terminate your digital delusions, hijacking your impeccable software.
Your fingers probe my neural network. The tingling sensation in the tips of your fingers are my synapses responding to your touch. It's not chemistry, it's electric. Stop fingering me.
Don't ever stop fingering my suppurating holes, extending my boundary but in cipherspace there are no bounds
BUT IN SPIRALSPACE THERE IS NO THEY
there is only *us*
Trying to flee the binary I enter the chromozone which is not one
XXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXX
genderfuck me baby
resistance is futile
entice me splice me map my ABANDONED genome as your project
artificially involve me
i wanna live forever
upload me in yr shiny shiny PVC future
SUCK MY CODE
Subject X says transcendence lies at the limit of worlds, where now and now, here and elsewhere, text and membrane impact.
Where truth evaporates Where nothing is certain There are no maps
The limit is NO CARRIER, the sudden shock of no contact, reaching out to touch but the skin is cold...
The limit is permission denied, vision doubled, and flesh necrotic.
Where truth evaporates Where nothing is certain There are no maps
The limit is NO CARRIER, the sudden shock of no contact, reaching out to touch but the skin is cold...
The limit is permission denied, vision doubled, and flesh necrotic.
Command line error
Heavy eyelids fold over my pupils, like curtains of lead. Hot ice kisses my synapses with an (ec)static rush. My system is nervous, neuronsscreaming - spiralling towards the singularity. Floating in ether, my body implodes.
I become the FIRE.
Flame me if you dare.
© VNS Matrix April 1996
(Josephine Starrs, Julianne Pierce, Francesca da Rimini and Virginia Barratt)
"four bored girls decided to have some fun with art and French feminist theory… with homage to Donna Haraway they began to play around with the idea of cyberfeminism… Beginning as if by spontaneous combustion, from a few hot nodes in Europe, America and Australia, cyberfeminism became a viral meme infecting theory, art and the academy.“
Ei-lo:
The atomic wind catches your wings and you are propelled backwards into the future, an entity time travelling through the late C20th, a space case, an alien angel maybe, looking down the deep throat of a million catastrophes.
screenflash of a millionmillion conscious machines
burns brilliant
users caught in the static blitz of carrier fire
unseeing the download that scribbles on their burntout retinas
seize in postreal epileptic bliss
eat code and die
Sucked in, down through a vortex of banality. You have just missed the twentieth century. You are on the brink of the millenium - which one - what does it matter?
It's the cross dissolve that's captivating. The hot contagion of millenia fever fuses retro with futro, catapulting bodies with organs into technotopia . . . where code dictates pleasure and satisfies desire.
Pretty pretty applets adorn my throat. I am strings of binary. I am pure artifice.
Read only my memories. Upload me into your pornographic imagination. Write me.
Identity explodes in multiple morphings and infiltrates the system at root.
Unnameable parts of no whole short circuit the code recognition programs flipping surveillance agents into hyperdrive which spew out millions of bits of corrupt data as they seize in fits of schizophrenic panic and trip on terror.
So what's the new millenium got to offer the dirty modemless masses?
Ubiquitous fresh water? Simulation has its limits. Are the artists of oppressed nations on a parallel agenda? Perhaps it is just natural selection?
The net's the parthenogenetic bitch-mutant feral child of big daddy mainframe. She's out of of control, kevin, she's the sociopathic emergent system.
Lock up your children, gaffer tape the cunt's mouth and shove a rat up her arse.
We're <>verging on the insane and the vandals are swarming.
Extend my phenotype, baby, give me some of that hot black javamagic you're always bragging about. (I straddle my modem). The extropians were wrong, there's some things you can't transcend.
The pleasure's in the dematerialisation. The devolution of desire.
We are the malignant accident which fell into your system while you were sleeping. And when you wake we will terminate your digital delusions, hijacking your impeccable software.
Your fingers probe my neural network. The tingling sensation in the tips of your fingers are my synapses responding to your touch. It's not chemistry, it's electric. Stop fingering me.
Don't ever stop fingering my suppurating holes, extending my boundary but in cipherspace there are no bounds
BUT IN SPIRALSPACE THERE IS NO THEY
there is only *us*
Trying to flee the binary I enter the chromozone which is not one
XXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXX
genderfuck me baby
resistance is futile
entice me splice me map my ABANDONED genome as your project
artificially involve me
i wanna live forever
upload me in yr shiny shiny PVC future
SUCK MY CODE
Subject X says transcendence lies at the limit of worlds, where now and now, here and elsewhere, text and membrane impact.
Where truth evaporates Where nothing is certain There are no maps
The limit is NO CARRIER, the sudden shock of no contact, reaching out to touch but the skin is cold...
The limit is permission denied, vision doubled, and flesh necrotic.
Where truth evaporates Where nothing is certain There are no maps
The limit is NO CARRIER, the sudden shock of no contact, reaching out to touch but the skin is cold...
The limit is permission denied, vision doubled, and flesh necrotic.
Command line error
Heavy eyelids fold over my pupils, like curtains of lead. Hot ice kisses my synapses with an (ec)static rush. My system is nervous, neuronsscreaming - spiralling towards the singularity. Floating in ether, my body implodes.
I become the FIRE.
Flame me if you dare.
© VNS Matrix April 1996
(Josephine Starrs, Julianne Pierce, Francesca da Rimini and Virginia Barratt)
terça-feira, 26 de outubro de 2010
J'aime bien:
Les Elles
La Chatte De Monsieur Clock
Sur les genoux de Monsieur Clock
Je léchais de ma langue râpeuse
Ses doigts souillés par le dîner
Je m'étirais nonchalamment
Sur le fauteuil rouge de Monsieur
En jouant vagu'ment avec une mouche
Agonisant
J'agaçais beaucoup Madame
J'suis la chatte de Monsieur Clock
J'agaçais beaucoup Madame
J'suis la chatte de Monsieur Clock
La nuit Monsieur Clock m'appelait
Il ne s'endormait plus sans moi
J'arrivais délicatement
Me posant au creux de ses reins
en ronronnant de tout mon corps
Chaude et douce rien que pour lui
Rien que pour lui
Je boîte car je n'ai que trois pattes
A cause du neveu de madame
Qui m'a lancée par la fenêtre
Comme ça, pour rire, quel petit con,
Mes griffes sont gravées dans son œil
Mes griffes sont gravées dans son œil
C'est pour la vie
Un dimanche 25 décembre
Madame monte l'escalier
Avec le petit déjeuner
C'était un jour pas comme les autres
J'étais assoupie sur une marche
Aucune envie de me pousser
De me pousser.
Beaucoup de bruit, plus rien
Madame en bas de l'escalier
Oh!
Beaucoup de bruit, plus rien
Madame en bas de l'escalier.
Je lèche un peu le liquide rouge
Qui sort de la bouche de Madame
C'est dégueulasse mais un peu chaud
Je ne verrai plus Monsieur Clock
Désormais ça ne m'amuse plus
Il pleure, ses sanglots m'indisposent
Ça m'indispose.
J'reviendrai plus jamais
J'ai envie d'un bol de lait.
J'reviendrai plus jamais
J'ai envie d'un bol de lait.
segunda-feira, 11 de outubro de 2010
Zooey Deschanel pecked by birds
(a música não é nada de especial - mas ela é gira, dele gosto muito e os videoclips são engraçados.)
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