Remix Inspiration

In response to the writings by Bourroughs, DJ Spooky and Kathy Acker, I have composed a written piece pertaining to my work. I find the freedom of these creative wtiting practices to be profoundly inspiring. I have remixed research information and my own ideas in the following piece.

Only the forest can heal itself

Safe open space

The light shines from within

The honey bee is linked to the health of the entire environment

Ready to go to work from the day they are hatched

Mountain pine beetle is native to the forests of western North America

These neighboring countries exist in an interdependent relationship

Bees are necessary to food production

Branching

One of the things that is going on in Colorado is our forests are ready to regenerate.

llegal immigration may be prompted by the desire to escape civil war or repression in the country of origin

Someone cares

A queen is a slave to her duties

Nurturing nature

Youth voice engaged in community organizing for social change

There are choices

They are old

Reaching

Illuminating outward

Survival

Webspinna Presentation

http://jimpalt.org/dream/#

http:///www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4wYFs5F76E

http://www.jasonsloan.com/sound/selected_works/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZLvSnr6s50&feature=related

**short MLK

http://www.freeaudioclips.com/find.php?keyword=%5C%22Its+time+to+blast+off+for+Dreamland%21%5C%22&ext=all&defaultpager_current=1&defaultpager_nex**Dreamland

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzY2-GRDiPM

Coded Language

***Somewhere Over the Rainbow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0-um0pHTAg

movie clip

http://www.freeaudioclips.com/find.php?keyword=alarm+clock&ext=all&defaultpager_current=1&defaultpager_next=1

**Alarm Clock

Rhythm Science Remix

Once you get the flow of things, you’re haunted by the way things could have turned out. This is our beginning and there is our narrative path. In the space of one random error murmur to yourself and hear the voices in your head whisper back. Memory, damnation and repetition: That was then and this is now. As my mom used to say, “Who speaks through you?” There is always more than one map to the territory: You just have to intuit the terrain. The eyes move. The body stays still. People really don't think about the absolute wonders that surround us and make this life livable and our way of thinking sustainable. No past, no present, no future. As George Santayana said so long ago, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” We have machines to repeat history for us like a self-directed swarm of birds. These are the tales told over and over so many times and in so many ways while they hum with the speed of a thousand and one nights. Who speaks through you? Identity is about creating an environment where you can make the world act as your own reflection. The flocking instinct holds the geometry of the ideas together. Move through this environment collecting examples of simultaneity, marking and registering coincidences with mathematical precision. They are global. They are universal. There are rhythms that hold everything we know and can understand together. Dreams and basic nighttime thought processes generate the most creative sounds. Without imagination everything is empty. Art is our guide to the new terrains we have opened within ourselves, in pursuit of techne and logos. Blues musicians speak of “going to the crossroads” – that space where everyone could play the same song but flipped it every which way until it became “their own sound.” Every story leads to another story to another story to another story. New contexts form old. That’s why people still wear bell-bottom jeans. You can always squeeze something out of the past and make it new. The one in many, the many in one we find ourselves caught in a complex web of visual and psychological cues, a form of kinesthethesia that pervades everything we do, an uncanny cipher regulating the traffic of plural meanings that bombard us at every moment. Art and the imagination- the physical and mental- join together the first installment of a loan made from the future. Who speaks through you? In jazz, it’s the fluid process of “call and response” between players of an ensemble. The environment that I had grown up in, which accepted diversity was a basic way of life, made most of America seem pretty remote. Being at the crossroads and questioning how far to push, uncertain which direction to move, is actually a good thing because it forces me to go back to the basic issues. The observer always alters the picture, the map always changes the routes traveled. Travel. It was dark, a surreal, gray dawn. Sometimes stories work better. Who speaks through you?

Kathy Acker

Kathy Acker's writing is extremely inventive and creative in its form.  She employs poetry, narrative, and dialogue among many literary techniques.  The influence of Burroughs is obvious throughout the book in her use of the cut up method, which her layering of writing becomes is highly descriptive and allows my mind to carry off into a imaginative visual of surrealist painting or collage.  I could not help but wonder how mush of this narrative was true in a biographical sense.  As she addresses sexuality and intimacy in such a free manner, it seems as though there is presence of stream of conscious writing in her work as well.  

The direct use of her strong voice reminds me of performance works that explore the female identity through ritualistic acts such as:

Carolee Schneemann.....

Rebecca Horn

and

Ana Mendieta

Images of Barbara Kruger were conjured in my mind as I read Acker's cut up style text.

In her feminist approach, I recall the activist works of the Guerilla Girls.

   

Links on Kathy Acker-

www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2007/dec/28/lookingbackatkathyacker

Remix:Borges and I

It is to the other, to She, that life occurs. I quietly wander a familiar path of comfort, frozen, one could say hypnotically to observe the world through a haloed lens. Of She I hear songs of praise. I like vintage optical devices, nests and hives, botany, the taste of freshly picked produce, and the musical words of foreign languages. She would agree upon these choices, but in a naive way that turns them into attributes of a saint. It would not be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is filled with confilct. I live, I let myself live, so that she may dance across the world connecting with people in the name of art and this circus act justifies me. It poses no great difficulty for me to admit that her nurturing services have produced some interesting creations. Yet, these humanitarian acts can not save me, perhaps because all that is true does not belong to anyone, not even to the other, but to the natural and historical. Nonetheless, I am destined to lose all that I am, as I shrink in my existence within this multifaceted crystal. Fleeting moments, nostalgic memories allow me to live on in the other. Slowly, I continue to give in to her, even though I am aware of her polar dreamlike tendencies to fly away; chasing butterflies and healing the wounds of the war. Buddha understood that all beings are connected; a lotus blooms even with its roots in the ugliest water. I will not remain in her, not in myself, but I see myself less in her creative endeavors than in those of many others, or in the soil of my Grandmother's enduring hands. Years ago, I tried to free myself from her, attempting to move on from this heroine that sacrifices part of me each time. I attempted to return to where I belong, remaining in one place, isolated from society. But, that She too has taken and I will have to conceive of new ideas. In this way, my life is a disappearing act of a magician and I appear as a faint ghost of the past.

I do not know which of us is writing this.

Remix: Gertrude Stein

In the moment there is fleeting, in the end there is time, in the clock there is ticking, in the stillness there is peace.  In the stillness there is peace.  In peace all are breathing, in peace all are resting, in peace there is resembling, in peace there is recalling and entirely mistaken there is truth.  All the bodies have veins and all the limbs have roots and all the green has soil and all the cycles have cycling.  This makes freedom.

Remix: 100th Exercises in Style

Through Rose Colored Glasses

The energy bustled throughout the S bus.  A unique young man wears a hat with a lovely ribbon tied in a bow over his head that was carried by an elegantly long neck.  Intriguing strangers depart from their bus rides.  That same unique man becomes flirtatious with another handsome gentleman standing next to him.  He winks and smiles each time another passenger strides by. They exchange phone numbers.  He moves on, eagerly pursuing an empty seat next to a charming looking lady. 

Later that fine day, serendipity finds me and the same man in the Cour de Rome facing the gare Saint Lazare.  Amusingly, he is accompanied by another. This companion is encouraging him to put more dazzle on his fancy coat.  He enthusiastically suggests decorating the lapels and explains that it will make him stand out in the crowd.