How many P l a s t e r M a p s must be congealed in the reflective pit of capital Art before we reach the realization that every surging impulse is a lost-wandering totem of massive confusion bankruptcy. There is infinite victory to be drawn from creation. Original imaginations are becoming commodities. Subsequently, imaginative originals are selling short their capacity to steer this little evolution of ours.

Popular terminology is a violence to be avoided (assuming you lack the tools for obliteration). Nonetheless, there is a spine to our language, and we are forced to obey its totalitarian emanations. The pulse that runs through the middle of the species keeps either side balanced. Balance is exhausting. It's over-rated. Someone let me drown in excess or suffocate in banality, just give me an extreme avenue to approach death. I don't need to spend my time in line for a gov-approved diversion. I need a diversion to stimulate me while I wait for the orgy.

Training the needle on the paper, on the wax, on the skin. We live in a post-acceleration society. The pace of change, the pace of progress has hitched a ride on the up-gust of a speeding exponent. Forget post-modern stale particle rhetoric, post-acceleration ideals bake a new pile of aesthetics long into perpetuity. The gallery must be in constant reformation. No canvas can hang longer than thirty seconds. No installation can exist for more than a half-dozen blinks.

Style and form aren't that important any more, form has followed function into the grave. Our keepers, those guys that continue to keep the universe in a warm blanket of new efficiencies every November, yeah, those guys are in charge of ensuring that everything serves a purpose. So, with all that taken care of for us, artists are free to unchain their yawning pursuit of meaning and concentrate on the opposite -- confusion?

I'd like to state that my guiding principle in cultural parceling is the degree of confusion that a wave protrudes. I don't care for sentences that I can read. I don't want to look at a form that makes perfect sense. I don't want to understand poetry. This universe is too wide to let standardization infect one corner of it. It's all my fault if your world isn’t fantastic enough.

The avant-garde is the mundane. Or vice-versa. Everyday walks right past you. There are openings in the calendar somewhere between February and March that allow for the leveling of the skyline mountainpiece. Out with the clock and in with the rubber plant. Attempts at abstraction are immediate failures. Aiming toward reconstructive realities automatically annihilates the subjectivities they were conceived to represent. Don't try to abstract the light and the landmines the visual field has created for you, create a new artillery to explode your visual field.

Excavate the lost prism. This internet is just a backyard for the mansion of terrestrial carpet-burns. Bare this in mind when advocates complain about the abundance of apathy. Whole sections of geography are being trained to ignore their senses. With this abrupt change in the interpretation process, one must expect the antique causality to expire. New reasons exist for questions to germinate. New reasons exist for the ballet-planet to contort. Post-acceleartionists are all about new reasons. Don't we need a new motivation? I think the motivations of posterity, those motivations that built the society of war and commerce, have been an unfortunate course for the planet. Give up the dialer and embrace the spiral!