confessions - more of the same, the end of them
the medium is irrelevant; it's the bad psychology, the stolen and repetitive mechanism, the lack of ideas, the showy exteriors, the dabbling in body, sex and language. i realize my texts are barking up the wrong tree. they're absolutely useless and misshapen. it's not zen, it's just clumsy plagiarism. i'm lucky if i can write at all. consider this a wordy piece of silence. it's an admission of guilt in the production of bad theory. it's an admission of tricks and subterfuge with tropes. i dream of textual fires in recitation. i dream of textual drowning and theoretical miasma. i makes differences where none are and nothing where differences are. i see innovation where there's nothing but tired plagiarism and i'm constantly running out of ideas. i jump from thought to thought as i exhaust my limited resources on each one. i jump from style to style to impress and disguise the fact i haven't read anything in depth. my subjects deserve better. you are accurate in your assessment that there's too much of my writing around, too much craziness, too much exhaustion. i pretend to focus on philosophy and phenomenology when all i'm doing is writing something with an impressive surface devoid of any depth. my writing isn't barking up the wrong tree, it's not even writing, it's not even theory, or it's theory intended to disguise my ignorance at any cost. the only delight it brings is the usual shortness of the pieces but sometimes i err further and produce what appears on the surface like a meditation but in fact is just a lengthy and stupid poverty of ideas. i can type myself to death that way and you'd be lucky if i did. my mind stumbles in idiotic pursuit intelligence. this confession should suffice, please control your anger. there's no reason to read anything of mine again. for example, i realize my media works are barking up the wrong tree. they're absolutely useless and misshapen. it's not zen, it's just clumsy plagiarism. i'm lucky if i can program at all; i can't; i borrow from everyone; the underlying structures are similar and boring; clever camera angles cover up the rest. consider this a wordy piece of silence. it's an admission of guilt in the production of bad media art. it's an admission of tricks and subterfuge with scripts. i dream of virtual fires everywhere i dream of virtual drownings and theoretical confusion. i makes differences where none are and nothing where differences are. i see innovation where there's nothing but tired plagiarism and i'm constantly running out of ideas. i use scripts to hide whatever truths there are; i steal everywhere, from everyone; i create the surface lure and an inconceivable absence of depth. i jump from environment to environment, performance to performance, as i exhaust my limited resources each and every time. i jump from style to style to impress and disguise the fact i haven't created anything in depth or any new idea that might be useful. my avatars deserve better. you are accurate in your assessment that there's too much of my media work around, too much craziness, too much exhaustion. i pretend to focus on philosophy and phenomenology when all i'm doing is creating something with an impressive surface that belongs to everyone else, that desperately seeks attention, that plays fool-heartedly with language, sex, and body, that uses arousal as deflection from any real content; everyone sees through me. my media work isn't barking up the wrong tree, it's not even media work, it's not even really interactive, or it's simple interaction intended to disguise my ignorance at any cost. the only delight it brings is the usual confusion of the pieces but sometimes i err further and produce what appears on the surface like a meditation but in fact is just a lengthy and stupid poverty of looping movement and ideas. i can work myself to death that way and you'd be lucky if i did. my mind stumbles in idiotic pursuit of intelligence. this confession should suffice, please control your anger. there's no reason to look at anything of mine again. that's the end of the confessions; they're as boring as anything in my work. _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list [email protected] http://www.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
