A Study in Classroom Violence

School has taught me well. Thanks to my teachers, I now know how to think.

How much nicer would being locked up in the peace, quiet, and safety of solitary confinement be than remaining stuck in this hellish classroom? I’m not a psychopath, unfortunately, so killing my fellow students would cost me significant remorse to get there.

The incessant noise bothers me in ways I’m not allowed to be bothered. The resonance of all the individual voices harmonizes into whispers buzzing in my head. I can barely make out what the crowd of my thoughts are saying, but a word or phrase here or there tells me I’m having trouble controlling how upset I’ve become. A little bit of heat, I can tolerate, but the games, insinuations, gossip, and plain old insults are like being submerged in filthy oil set to boil. I want to turn them off like a room full of TVs all set to commercials.

None of them deserve to die, but if a bully were gotten rid of, my remorse would be much less. Many would benefit after the initial shock. The question is whether the expected relief of being locked away and sparing the bully’s lifetime of victims would offset the trouble of having to kill someone and endure a trial. It’s a simple equation.

A courtroom seems like all the hatefulness of school distilled to its bitterest essence of boredom, forced seriousness, inscrutable rules, and jumbled evidence and opinions presented slowly enough to obscure the bigger picture. Also, it would traumatize the entire school for there to be a murder, which would be harder to live with than the loss of a bully or two. I’d be pretty upset if someone murdered someone on me.

Then again, isn’t there already a culture of fearfulness? Aren’t we already being punished into our futures as if it were normal and expected that we be miserable, and blamed for our lack of resilience in becoming depressed, and anxious? Of course we’d be violent to each other. It’s the only expression of contempt against our daily abuse we can get away with. Whether our lives feel safe or livable has never mattered compared to preparing us to waste them working jobs made for us to despise. Must I really take responsibility for terrorizing my school when there’s an army of civil servants decidedly ignoring how people like me feel?

Of course, I don’t have the means to kill anyone. I’m too weak. The part where I fight back is where the cornered mouse bites the cat. Even if I had it all planned out, I’d freeze at the decisive moment, cry, and get pounded to the ground like a thawing slab of meat. Maybe someone will kill me, instead.

There’s always suicide. Cost-benefit analysis consistently demonstrates that suicide is the optimal solution, as the expected misery of living my life is quite a bit worse than enduring a self-inflicted injury capable of ending it. Delusional what-if scenarios don’t enter into it. The cheapening of my life is a matter of economic exchange. My life won’t be worth anything until someone gives me something to live for.

-Crown of Blonde Hair

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Theory on a Spectrum of Voice Hearing

tlaIris

While grumpily riding the bus to a dentist appointment to fix a tooth that has been broken for weeks now, I found myself thinking through the “what if scenario” of having to argue with someone who demands my spot in the priority seating section. What struck me was that I was not intentionally imagining the jerk I found myself arguing with, although everything they said had all the verisimilitude of such a person. They were distinctly not me, for my own voice, also somewhat automatic, was preoccupied with having to make answer to their unreasonable badgering.

At once the scenario dissipated as I began to consciously wonder, “How does this scenario relate to a schizophrenic’s hearing voices?” It occurred to me that, even if the voice was the unbidden representation of a person that did not exist, I at least had the awareness that it was internally generated, and not truly a phenomenon outside myself. Perhaps we can call it an interactive, ideative construction of my unconscious based on my current emotional state.

Later in the day I spent some time fine tuning this concept with my wife. The scenario we most contrast with that of hearing voices is the idea of ourselves talking with other people. There is a clear separation between our own social identity, and the identity of other people.

When we start thinking to ourselves alone, however, that boundary weakens in that we are both speaker and audience, self and other. This sort of conversational reflexive is very important to thought because it allows us to detect implications or contradictions in previously presented information free of outside manipulation.

On the other hand, the lack of an outside perspective diminished one’s capacity to calibrate their reality against the information provided by other, trusted sources. People who are too often alone, often become weird. Perhaps this is why we also sometimes intentionally imagine ourselves talking to people we know well, such as best friends, spouses, and parents – we know them well enough that even if we don’t think as they do, we feel we can anticipate what they would say, which might be sufficient to provide a reality check.

We might also intentionally imagine ourselves talking with non-specific people, such as invented bullies, authority figures, people in need of help, desired romantic partners, or people we want to like us. Usually we do this to anticipate or rehearse a kind of general conversation script that would allow us to respond effectively to a scenario which some goal of ours is contingent upon – a job interview, or a date, say. The fact that we are effectively engaging with model people, perhaps even stereo-types, however, leads us to a place where we are increasingly dealing with what we think we know about people instead of who they are.

What we think about specific people is only the meaning we attach to the consistencies and variations we observe in all the social and intimate situations where we are aware of their interactions. There is a lot about how we think, feel, and behave that no one else gets to experience even if we try to explain it, because we have more thoughts than we can or would want to say out loud. The same is true of what we see in our intimate companions.

But then again, there’s a lot about our own selves we don’t know – our entire subconscious is filled with half-formed, contradictory, tentative thoughts and feelings that effect our cognition, but we only slowly come to realize them, if we ever do. The net effect of many unconscious half ideas, if they have similar momentum in a direction, can have a powerful effect on our worldview, even if we have no way to name, or conceptualize them – such as when we hate something but can’t explain why even when we try to.

We also have, besides the self we identity, a great deal of selves that we do much less so. We see this most often when people cover their mistakes by saying something like, “what wasn’t me,” or “that wasn’t the person I want to be.” We also know we act differently in different situations – at a wild party versus a somber, thoughtful occasion, though we might not think of these as our general personality.

Getting closer to the subconscious mind, we sometimes find ourselves unintentionally imagining or daydreaming that we are conversing with people we know, or invented model people. This automatism allows us to explore ideas less filtered by conscious logic, but the freer association of ideas can lead to deeper insights by allowing us to make random connections. If we never considered things simply because they don’t seem to be related, we would discover very little. But then, this random noise can also reinforce biases by stumbling upon and reinforcing weak or tenuous connections between them – such as when we come to loath someone based on daydreaming about arguing with them.

Below even subconscious I believe there is a state where what we are imagining automatically, becomes strong enough to play along with, or act out as if it were real. This is probably what a method actor does. I would also argue that symptoms like mania exhibit tendencies in this direction, as we find people over-enthusiastic about pipe-dream projects they labor away at as if their completion or success was realistic. This is the usual threshold to psychosis. Here the boundaries between reality and mental construct become permeable enough that fact-checking can be impaired in ways that are serious.

Finally, we arrive at actual psychosis, characterized by outright delusions and hallucinations. Here, significant features of one’s perception of the world diverge significantly from those other people agree are obvious and important. Of course, culture plays an obvious role here. Perhaps we may make a further distinction between an episode of psychosis, and a worldview which has been permanently colored by it.

We may speculate, furthermore, that various kinds of psychiatric disorders live at each level of this spectrum. Near to conversation, for instance, we have personality disorders. At the level of internal conversation, we have mood disorders. Then, at last, we have thought, and finally psychotic disorders.

Perhaps it can be observed that our spectrum corresponds best to a convention-creativity axis . I would argue that people are placed on this axis not at a point between the poles, but as a spectrometer representing the amount of activity at every point on the axis.

I think it is the role of movements like Surrealism to defend creativity where it is so often assaulted and dominated by convention. While we depend on interactions between every level of the spectrum to create knowledge, we too often privilege the areas approaching pure convention because of their association with received science, math, and logic.

The recognition of the value of creativity as a permanent aspect of people’s personality is crucial to the emancipation of those who might otherwise be consigned a repressed place in society as the mentally ill. There is no mental illness, only neuro-diversity, and the privileging of certain people’s contribution to our collective epistemology over others. We must also reinforce that while each person’s internal spectrogram is unique, we are all necessarily capable of activity at any of its levels. This knowledge must be used, not to insist that people use it to compensate from some deviancy from a privileged norm, but so that people of all varieties can realize their full potential how they decide.

A recap of the spectrum as it applies to hearing voices

Conversation Partner’s Voice – Internal Monologue – Internal Dialogue – Automatism – Hearing Voices

A more general breakdown

Consensus reality – Personal Identity – Models of Reality – Fantasy –Psychosis

–Lake

PatPro – Space Energy

PatPro practices a special kind of prophecy, one tied to both science fiction  and at the same time a kind of anti-neurotypical black mysticism. A possible label might be “schizofuturism”. Here we encounter the stark and categorical imperatives of the overmind, the proxy, the zoid, characteristics and characters, and simultaneously, mental states with mechanized and biomorphic underpinnings. It is a reflexive world, where the the constant swallowing of the dream resets, at precise intervals, the coordinates of reality and memory. Revelation comes in the form of disorienting tropes, tropes which lose themselves quickly in the void of linguistic play. PatPro is a geometry of what will be, from the point of view of its own shadow.

-Jason Abdelhadi

*

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Space energy:

Slaves slaves you are all slaves you and I mean we are slaves cannot loose ourselves from that which is a Certainty in which we all Define that we can’t control our minds because the evil controls this part of sub reality a parody of laughter for the gods really really help free me!!! Bring me through to the over-minded… And tell me tell me tell me please just tell me what space are you from are you ready for my fury mwhahaha…

Droid:

Our ship has come to attention of our new space anomaly a sub dimensional craft in our vicinity, we must prepare to boarded by unknown species but somehow the above the air locks has over rid our real time energy Flux security systems that is all I can do. Sorry captain we are now being boarded…

Proxy:

Activate the defense drones and you should take careful countermeasures do not have the intent to kill just sedate and a restrain only…We want to obtain as much information from these entities if possible let’s find out what they’re made of and why they’re from this other dimension…

Entity:

Kill me kill me now kill me soon kill me a quick kill me when it’s been calling me to kill

Proxy

Goes to the ship entrance to meet up with the entity

It as a strange orange ball of yarn like energy that possibly radiating within itself, it seems impossible that this would be alive somehow but it was indeed conscient… and it seemed to be yearning to die..

The entity floated in front of my face, Too much energy too much misery please take my energy take it..

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Patpro.ca

Watch out for his upcoming sci-fi novel

And send inquiries to

proxyzoids@gmail.com

Cluck cluck

for chicken fat, against leanness

Les Blank’s “Chicken Real”, 1970

Meet lean…

A once neutral, carnifectal adjective raised in ulterior times to overwhelming ideological category.

More protein, less calories. Main ingredient for the supposed development of healthy superhumans. Eat lean to get lean.

Slicing off the fatty bits. Reducing.

Shorthand for the entire superficialstructure of health, athleticism, sports, body image. A class status symbol hiding behind the false objectivity of nutritional science.

Speeding up.

Focus.

Relevance.

An extended metaphor for business efficiency, but especially parasitic managerialism and rigorous austerity against the lowest strata of the working class. Explicitly invoked in connection with Japanese auto manufacturers and “just-in-time” delivery. The elimination of “muda” (waste) compared to excess fat.

“Lean in”. Misogyny. Double standards.

On the other plate…

Will called it chicken fat. Why ‘chicken fat’? In the historical survey, Mad Art, Mark Evanier writes, “Just what that means is a good question, but it probably means something ridiculous.”-Will Elder: The Mad Playboy of Art

Chicken fat is delicious, and also, a shorthand term coined by Will Elder for the obtrusive business and over-gagging present in classic screwball comics. Jewish working class flavouring.

Adding layers and layers.

Overcomplication, humor, confusion as a tactic. Sabotage or just plain uselessness. But in excess. Bad taste but delicious. Synaesthesia, puns verbal, visual, manic. Explosions.

Slowing down.

Irrelephantsy.

Peripheral mania.

Chicken fat is the stuff that oversaturates reality, transforms it, flavours it. The discarded cartooning concept that can be weaponized against the latest fads of capitalist culture.

Messiness.

For dirty bibs and fingerstains. It’s the engorged deliria of the Fourierist gourmand that will elevate us above the lame neutrality and purchased slimness of the one percent fatters.

There is an unconscious tendency to want to “trim down” which must be smothered in fat and drowned. Not against health, but for a real health, against faux-asceticism.

Tinker with what you’re supposed to leave alone. Avoid creative solutions. Resolve problems that have already been figured out. Get distracted by alleyways and stray cats and hat puns.

Add more. Fill in the blank spaces. Convolute, convulse.

From Anna Hoffman’s recording of Rubin Doctor’s “Chicken”, made available by Yiddish Penny Songs.

Notes Towards an Endemic Critique

“Est-ce que c’est le Parlement?”

“Non, c’est Canadian Tire.”

Snappy answers to stupid questions overheard on Parliament HillOttawaThere is a certain satisfaction in seeing the confusion on people’s faces. If this is what’s oozing out of Ottawa, just what is happening to your average mediocre city? A spontaneous and unexpected outbreak of tropical hysteria in a cold, boring, early-to-bed bureaucratic monocrop of a town. Stories of new mind-mush: it’s getting hotter every year. Perhaps we’re just some random itinerant students at the universities, passing through a radical phase? Or an infection of external rebels living here by circumstance from certain known centers of revolt (Montreal, perhaps to a lesser extent Toronto, which is at least large enough to be plausible?) What puzzles to the point of numbness is that many of our group are actually from Ottawa (and the true Ottawa, of course, its suburbs). Of those that have come here from elsewhere, it is usually from even smaller, even more boring places.*

It could be said that our critique of the city is therefore endemic.

Ottawa is one of those odd New World administrative-capital cities which are often explicitly distinct from the centres of culture (Montreal, Toronto, New York etc). Sitting stupidly on-top of sacred indigenous sites at the crossing of the rivers and the Chaudière falls, its capacity to crush its own mythic loci is astounding. And then, during its colonial existence, Bytowne was an actually pretty wild frontier spot with some interesting mythological implications (the giant Big Joe Mufferaw…Devil along the Kitchissippi in search of an onion sandwich…The Witches of Luskville… The Haunted Lake of Fairies).

But this was a separate life on the same spot, a totally different town, and has had no real impact on the present mindset of the city. This negation is the result of a series of specific, massive colonial and then Federal projects surrounding its capitalization, such as the Rideau Canal, the Copy-Pasted Parliament Buildings, or the Victoria Island paper mill, and then, a century later, the Gerber Plan. They have built indiscriminately on top of the interesting, the indigenous, and the poor, as usual. And now, for example, a massive new condo project being developed on-top of the old poisoned industrial site built on-top of a sacred Algonquin island. We must be onto our third or fourth layer of outrage, now?

And he pointed out a sort of Nuremburg toy planted on a hill top. This toy with its polychrome architecture resembled the House of Parliament in London much as the Montreal cathedral resembles St. Peter’s at Rome. But that was of no consequence; there could be no doubt it was Ottawa.

-Jules Verne, Robur the Conqueror

The blossoming of the fatberg.

It is well known that a fatberg is a congealed lump in a sewer system formed by the combination of non-biodegradable solid matter such as wet wipes with grease or cooking fat. Fatbergs may also contain other items which do not break down when flushed into a toilet, such as sanitary napkins, cotton buds, needles and condoms, as well as food waste washed down sinks. The resulting lumps of congealed fat can be as strong as concrete, and require specialist equipment to remove. Such are our problems.

In some ways the fatberg is too adorable to hate. It’s not unique in its style of mediocrity, and that’s the whole point.

Of course there is a typical banalization of life itself emanating from the most dominant presence in the city i.e. at present, boring middle aged and mostly white bureaucrats who moonlight as hockeydad paterfamiliases. And with them the standard level of racism and fascist-nurturing as expected, dog-whistle attacks on black music from our local radio stations who insist only on “real rock” and the nuanced suppression of the indigenous, immigrants, people of colour, workers, and the homeless.

What’s worse, in recent years the fatberg macro-culture has itself developed a bad-conscience. The functionaries themselves feel the need to justify themselves by deriding their own status, and pursuing the sweet “spice of life” activities on the side. Thus the rather pathetic proliferation of “Ottawa at Night” or “Ottawa Underground” documentaries, the promotion of a local pseudopoetry or pseudo-radical arts scene (Scotiabank Presents Nuit Blanche!) or other abortive attempts to make amends for its own mediocrity.

Meanwhile, out in the suburbs, a new spirit forms from the angry kids and the misfits of the fatberg ideal. They simply allowed some of us too much freedom to watch old cartoons and to play in the forest. It is from the magical lots of old quarries and abandoned factories that the sludge of the Chimera originally crawled into the gullets of a few maniacal teenagers who never blossomed as they aged.

Perhaps the one redeeming feature of how the city “looks” in its official capacity is its penchant for the neo-gothic architecture. Well then. Maybe these are our houses, and we’re the neo-goths?

We know our forebears. We know what you are on the inside. We speak from the insider’s experience of an unintentional mediocrity of life to an explicit mediocrity in the eyes of the service economy, on the trail of the phantom carriage.

So.

At the outskirts of the utilitarian city we might recreate ourselves as:

A centre of gravity for uselessness

Sexual and gender multiplication tables

An outlet for misfits, the poor, the mad (who often join us at our park bench, and play along)

Nonconformists, absolutely, but also underconformists, sideconformists, etc.

An experimental farm for chance

A greenbelt of antagonism

A provocation for the eclectic productives and cool parents

Ignorers of initiatives

The next step for activists who are too angry

Collectors of the detritus of Old Hull

Fangirls of the Wendigo, the Loup-Garou, the ghost of the Lac des Fées

The spirit of revenge against the personality-market of that sponsorship scandal masquerading as an arts and poetry scene.

All of the above items remain as hypotheses or as temporary scaffolding to try out, in group life. We have tried on the masks we saw hanging out of reach on the walls of the museum of our childhood, but we’re not done playing with them yet.

We’re here to poison the happy families. Obliteration everywhere for all pseudotropolises.

*But after all, is it all that odd? Paris and London/SLAG, of course, but it’s Leeds that has the longest running surrealist group in the history of the UK. Chicago is also, as the Rosemonts have pointed out, an alternative reality to the more central literary culture of New York. Even Stockholm, it seems, is not exactly a radical effervescent centre (either now, or in the 80s?). And others. Perhaps there is a sweetspot of alienation, social pressure, population density and radical unimportance that favours the growth of surrealist fungi.

Good Sport, 1858

Chimera boat race

This race was perhaps more interesting in a local sense from the fact that the Chimera was lately built on novel and somewhat Yankee lines by Mr. Mansfield of Teignmouth. The Oriole being also a new boat attracted much attention although she has rather the appearance of a very powerful bad weather boat than that of a racer. Midge had sailed here on former occasions and proved herself to be a fast little craft consequently she possessed a host of admirers. The start was most admirably effected at 12h 49m Chimera occupying the most weathermost station led off followed by the Oriole and Midge. A good deal of jostling took place between the two first mentioned in the run down to Goodrington mark-boat. The Chimera although slightly ahead was to leeward and threw her competitor considerably out of her course by occasionally luffing across her bows. Meanwhile the little Midge was making a straight course for the mark boat and nearly succeeded in cutting the others off. The close proximity of the yachts at this point will be manifest when we state that the Chimera passed the mark at 1h 5m 0s the Oriole at 1h 5m 28s and Midge at 1h 5m 40s. The contest between the Chimera and Oriole continued with unabating interest and some miles they apparently ran bowsprit to bowsprit but before Berry Head the Oriole manifested her superior qualities in rougher sea by taking the lead and during the beat from the eastern mark she so materially distanced the Chimera that the record of the time at which the first round was completed shows her to have been five minutes ahead Oriole 2h 28m 30s Chimera 2h 33m 30s Midge 2h 40m. Throughout the remainder of the race she had it all her own way and the Chimera was ultimately beaten by more than half an hour albeit she was entitled to four minutes on account of tonnage. The Midge met with a sad disaster on the second round while off Brixham and during a sudden squall her mast went by the board making a clean sweep she lay like a log on the water and in this prostrate condition was taken in tow by a trawler that happened to be passing and brought to Torquay harbour The second round was completed by the Oriole at 4h 2m 28s and by the Chimera at 4h 26m 35s and the third by the Oriole at 5h 39m 30s and by the Chimera at 6h 11m 15s.

What Are You Doing Here?

Meeting image

Noting some traits but not limitations of surrealist meetings.

A meeting is another one of those things, like automatism or game playing, that is otherwise highly utilitarian or commercializable, but which surrealism uproots into another realm entirely. In a sense, automatization and de-humanization are the classical Taylorist end goals of the production process—the appendicizing of individuals as parts. Likewise, game playing (especially electronically) has become a highly viable commercial enterprise, as well as a sort of self-surveillance and discipline of mediocrity. Yet for surrealism these two fields of research have long been focal points for total liberation. Likewise, the infamous “meeting” of the everyday world: where boardroom executives and secret coteries discuss profits and propose new forms of exploitation. Or, on the other hand, where casual acquaintances drown their sorrows and spend their off-hours in pointless distractions from the miseries of the working day. Arranged meetings will then either be, in the context of business or utility in any form, a highly rigorous affair (agendas, points of discussion, action items) or in the sense of social gathering, utterly loose and banal re-affirmations of social norms (what-are-you-watching-on-Netflix-over-a-pint).

Banishing Constraints

Contrariwise, the most remarkable thing about a surrealist meeting is the deliberately high level of ambiguity and confusion. Inherent to the gathering of surrealists, a kind of zone opens up which is, very explicitly, banished from the pursuit of those useful scenarios outlined above. However much a surrealist meeting will make use of the rigours of bureaucracy (notes, points of order, formal decisions) or the playfulness of socializing (jokes, useless banter, games) it nevertheless exists in a wonderful palette of grey beyond the pale of either. It’s uncomfortable and awkward and at the same time totally addictive. It’s disorienting: what am I doing here with all these people who are not my bosses, colleagues, or besties? Are we cracking jokes here, or whips? A kind of wavering between ridiculous seriousness, or meticulous mania…

There is a kind of heightened taste and smell for limitations which automatically emerges when the electricity of uselessness is in the atmosphere. Typically I notice the dynamics take the form of a kind of casting-out or banishment of conventions, as soon as it becomes collectively apparent that those conventions are too manifest. It’s not about defining a genre or format or even a methodology of pursuit, but of creating a series of subtractions such that all anxiety and slavishness is impossible in whatever it is that is being explored. For example, a proposed game or endeavour. It will inevitably come with a wave of performance anxiety (“I’m not a good artist”, “I can’t think that fast” etc.) which needs to be utterly cast out by the collective excitement and curiosity to get on with it. Likewise the side-conversations or reminders of everyday life and social obligations, especially if the players are involved in more than just surrealist connections (friends, roommates, lovers etc); such escapism from escapism tends to spoil the atmosphere pretty apparently, and is usually kept to a bare minimum once its effects are tried.

Feeding Worries (from Anecdotes to Polemics)

Certainly a polemic strain of pursuit can develop. After all, this is a zone where refugees from everyday life are free to discuss their traumas. It makes sense to digress and bring forward as examples, for the surrealist microscope, of the shittiness of everyday experiences. Whether it’s the trauma of sexual harassment on the street or the oppressive niceness of an enforced party, an exasperation with poverty or a horrible experience with the doctor, the everyday anecdote quickly becomes a form of generalized polemic. It’s a kind of commiseration, but also a musketeering: each unjustice to one is an ontological wrong that must be righted together, and immediately. Eventually these grow into thematic traumas and obsessions, and hopefully, into a life of their own, lent, shared, mixed beyond the traumatized individual to the many-headed egregore that eats feelings and breathes fire. Ultimately, a dialectical journey from internalized worry to externalized antagonism.

Prolonging Curiosities (from Observations to Obsessions)

Individual observations make friends and acquaintances. A game or a conversation or a noticeable feature of a present situation becomes a volleyball match. Short-circuits are noted and tested for new applications. What starts as a casual curiosity or contingent reference becomes, for the group, a potential master-sign. Par-excellence, the obsession or the theme. A perpetual and diabolical machine for the creation of certain types of monstrosities. The game is just a specific method of research here, more fundamental is the collective identity formed in the single hunt. Why can’t toilet humour assume the rigours of the Hegelian dialectic? Maybe Hegel was a hammy music-hall performer the whole time…

Making Believe

There is a certain ecstasy in play that prolongs itself beyond the “round”. Once the distinction between playing and living becomes blurred, the fairies enter the room. We tell each other dreams in the hopes of overcoming the resistances involved in confessing our desires directly. But after enough playing, we get there. We are become delirium. So delirious that we assume a serious tone. We are now day-dreaming together, not just talking about dreams.

Laying Traps

If ever we are yanked from the domain of the fairies by the buzzing of a phone, and the time is over, there is always the gathering up of scraps. The emotions and creatures unleashed need a home while we go back to the fake world, however temporarily. Thus the “outcome” of a meeting, beyond the experience itself, can only be the burying of a hoard, and the laying of certain traps, curses, ploys. These will serve 1) to preserve a form of the experience for a future attempt 2) to mark “X” on the map for future comrades or fellow travelers or 3) to destroy or incapacitate whatever enemies come between us and the treasure we are burying.

Androgynous Zones (On the move)

Generally we meet in liminal coffee shops (not downtown), parks, beaches, and for a little while an out of the way Vietnamese restaurant. There is also the question of avoiding the cafe life, the sedentary camp, latching onto vagrancy and rambling and mobile meetings far away from coffee shops or pubs (and in this regard the Stockholm group has a lot of experience in the hobo life and remains an important reference). Taking gothic walks in haunted suburbs. The style of conclusion will vary wildly depending on the scenario chosen. The general dynamic however will always model itself on some kind of exchange, or some kind of quest (with attendant divisions of labour). What is important is that it never delineate itself along cisgendered platitudes and comfort zones. Our “array” (whether seated or on the move) is always striving to be positionally anti-oedipal.

Meeting Image 2