\\ futurological kongress

[integer at www.god-emil.dk]

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>may be Ars Electronica is dead & everything else is alive ;-)


I was at deaf last year - first neo.poser festival I have attended.
I was looking forward to some of the events + meeting selekt life forms.

1st event was something apropos of tangible art ... presided over by a frail and sensitive 
sha xin wei from sponge.org. He whispered many keywords and gesticulated lethargically until 
the microphone began to grow bigger than him, larger than the web he was spinning, 
which wore more holes than a farakhan speech.

After much effort in obtaining a mike and attempting to read the notes I was rapidly taking,
the frail and sensitive pop.tart said that I would have to wait until the lecturers spoke.
I laughed and continued talking, but really thinking what a great pleasure it would be to 
pop this p..op.tart ... he attempted to talk over me, insisting that there must 
be order, which caused the laughter to escalate, as the pale hypocrite had just spoken 
that all beautiful things arise out of disorder ... 

Things continued thusly, becoming ever more comical, particularly when a _complete fool 
from MIT began to talk. He may have arrived at the wrong event, and broke down catastrophically at 
the very first question from a girl.

Fortunately, a middle aged + elegantly dressed Polish 2x made up for the cretins. 
Less new and improved 0 calories propaganda and more meaningful old fairy tales.  She 
exhibited a project at Deaf which I tried - as most publicly funded art works it didnt work 
...yet in a sense its failure was a success. Nevertheless, the PEOPLE should be entitled to a partial refund.

The imbeciles did not reside exclusively on stage but also in the audience, as several 
came and with tears or anger in their eyes asked me to stop interrupting ... 
One cannot help but pity these frail, terribly dressed, + pale pop.tarts. 

I was reminded of, 'most people give lip service to open sytems, 
yet when faced with it they become conservative + rigid'

The domesticated clowns advocated cages - zoos and employees, as the epitome of open.


Wondering through the halls I met Alexei Shulgin, a very nice person, one of about 2 human beings 
there that were still healthy..

There was the `open systems` event which Andreas Broeckmann was attending, 
however the 23EUR cost was laughable.  We decided coffee would be tastier than a 23EUR open 
source/systems discussion so we hit the cafe/teria where the FUN continued.

A big fat and ugly 20 something 2x was serving. 
My friend's impressions of holland rushed back (if that despicable mass of lard would serve in .ro ... vai de vai)
She read my mind and responded with a grunt as I ordered an espresso. 
We sat down and coincidentally met a number of japanese life forms who had used nato.0+55.
Interesting talk re: n2o, cycling74 and immune.play
They gifted me one of their music CD, which I later gave to a friend in Croatia - his 
reaction was similar to my reaction to new media art -> 'This makes your CD (a9ff) very good' he said. 
'What the hell this is ... blip, tzzt ... nothing ... blip, vrrrrr ... aiaiaii ... how it makes me feel good? 
... makes me feel bad. very bad. you take back. we listen esma redzepova and bregovic. feel good'

After the espresso, I asked the .nl mademoiselle for a glass of water. She said I would 
have to buy it = 2 eur. I indicated I just want some tap water. She said I would have to get it from the toilet. 
POP (the balkan fuse that is).

I called her some lovely names in romanian and asked again for some water. She was 
looking as though she was going to jump over the counter. The boss, a 50 year old man, 
wearing a suit and tie, breathing at half the tempo of the portly mademoiselle, 
indicated they generally do not give water to customers but 
they will make an exception now. He served me himself - v.good. the 2x could not be trusted anymore.

Holding my precious .nl tap water I returned to the Japanese personages. 
Within 5 min the fat fly was circling the table, c l e a n i n g.
She reached for the glass of water which I pulled away from her, and asked her a bit more 
firmly what her fucking problem was. 'Its you who has a problem, its you, you!!' she screamed hysterically. 
Situation was resolved after some less than democratic words.

Later that evening we went to the Deaf bar, where we spent aprox 5 EUR for each of many glasses of bad wine.
The character from MIT showed up wearing a cowboy hat, and we even ran into Andreas Broeckmann. 
Frail, tentative, and overly diplomatic. He excused himself to get a drink and disappeared, 
which we thought mirrored his emergency exit from syndicate-l.

Anne Nigten from V2, looking very geeky with a backpack and genderless garments, 
gave me a lecture on etiquette, insisting that people were paying good money to 
attend these events and that I should not talk so much. 
I listened politely. When she concluded I excused myself directly: Anne, fuck you and
everything you represent. I left her with my slightly more diplomatic friend.

Had a pleasant conversation with Alexei Shulgin and his friend ... then an attempt at 
dinner, somewhere in the same compound. Terrible pasta + some other refuse which I promptly forgot, 
for 10 EUR or so. We did some romanian like things and didnt pay - my ego simply couldn't afford more garbage. 
Several people at the table, some very enjoyable.
They insisted I should not become so excited, that no one believes in these events, but 
everyone comes to keep the machinery working. All very true, yet _unbelievably sad and model citizen like.

Next day, another event about injecting life into dead media. Unfortunately the wimpering
behind the mike came from the same lethargic Sha Xin Wei. And again, the grand speeches about artificial 
gardens, the interruptions, the laughter, the pleading from the audience to pleaaaase stop.

At some point, looking at the weak gestures of this domesticated, tube fed clown, 
I saw a great garbage dump, and the placard read - OCCIDENT DEMOCRACY.
And atop this amalgam of waste, a group of frail, bespectacled rats wearing dark clothes, 
electronic jewelry, with an amalgam of wires interconnected from one orifice to another, 
waltzing back and forth, squeaking the coming of a high tech religion, more korporat, 
more cooperative and immersive, a forever lush artificial garden atop the giant heap of occident refuse 
... built exclusively from modular komponents bearing the famous names of the greatest gods, Microsoft, 
IBM, Apple, Intel and requiring ever increasing quantities of drugs to maintain its relevance,
to the contracting neuron mass.

And while Sha Xin Wei crumpled a piece of paper to demonstrate its resilience, I thought 
of that gipsy boy who had asked me to get him a job in the west. what can you do, I asked. 
Everything!, he responded.
And of my grandfather who was a priest, who wrote poetry, who cared for apricot and 
apple trees, for potatoes and corn, and a vineyard and strawberries, who raised chickens, pigs, and bees, 
who cut wood, who made wine and palinka, of my grandmother, who made us sweaters, gloves, and 
hats, who wove rugs and tapestry, who lifed and cared for a real-life, as in fairy tales garden, 
who made jam, and syrups, the most delicious pastries, who when the fog comes tells me
that the heaven and earth have become one, whose hands are old and wise and a map of real stories, 
not unlike that piece of paper, crumpling, unfolding, aging.

And these rats atop the great garbage dump, who scream the coming of a new paradise, 
whose orifices are connected to oil pipe lines serviced by NATO, much more resemble 
the pitiful bits of this computer.

Chris something, from sponge.org spoke next. Nice guy. At some point he became 
disillusioned with the rootless condition in the garbage dump, and sought to make things better. 
Rather than stepping into the garden he decided to build one. One so nice that the dehydrated and 
starved, cool and modern people will enjoy. There was a problem, noise. The people entering the 
artificial garden were generating too much noise. They had to regulate it. They realized that GOD 
encountered many problems when lifing the real garden, but that was nothing compared to 
the problems the STATE encountered in sculpting DEMOCRACY. He continued to speak, and because 
he seemed nice, I didn't interrupt him ... the image of the great garbage dump reclaimed my neurons. 

These people were arguing for their own destruction. If they succeeded they would die. 
Suicide is a murmur without meaning. Injecting life into dead matter is masochism of grand proportions. 
They wish to be god-like yet they cannot feed nor dress themselves nor touch one another. 
They are dedicated to their work but not each other.

Much as capitalism and communism both injected mass production (meaninglessness) into meaningful lifes,
so these people create monstrosities, torture chambers, all lifed by employees.
Each monstrosity carries a placard with a stream of names, a stream of funding bodies.
Each monstrosity never quite works, and never ages.

Chris stopped talking. I left the great garbage dump
and made my way to the land of real gardens, of gypsies, of song and dance, 
of meaningful suffering, of love, of aging.
The land of icons, of children of god, and real roots.

Where the woman is worried if I didnt eat everything, because she cooked it, and likely grew it.
Where the man offers his wine with open heart, and asks if I want it with water, spritz.
Where both are saddened if I dont finish everything, but know that everyone I have visited
made their own offering, so I must promise to visit them first next time.
A kiss on each cheek and I wave good bye.

As I zig zag my way down the street (holes), slightly intoxicated,
I am tempted by luscious gardens and girls alike ... 

A truck turns the corner, with a familiar grinding of the gears and clothes me
in an acrid cloud of exhaust fumes. I instinctively close my eyes.

As I close one eye, the paradise begins to look more like a garbage dump
and the great occident garbage dump lingering in memory more like paradise.
I blink a few times, switching from garbage dump to paradise ... to garbage dump.

I sense something behind me, and turn to see a pack of stray dogs.
Behind them, fast approaching comes a cart pulled by a horse and a donkey.
The dogs cross the street with me. The sound of manele stretches from afar ...
A kid asks me for 1000 lei. I give him 5000. 'Sa-ti dea dumnezeu sanatate!!'

I signal the passing cart. The peasant nods. I jump in. `Diiiiiii ... haiiide!!`
The animals' movements transfer through the wooden cart ... tok tok. tok tok. tok tok.
In the back, the large hanging icon, moves with us. The dogs keep up for a street,
then turn.

We arrive at the hospital. I live across the street. 
'Doamne ajuta! ... Diiiiiii ... haiiide!!'


No one tries to be god here.
No one planned this - no one can plan this.

People live on 100 EUR/month, real gardens and remarkable faith.
They make babies and remember the dead with great feasts.

They swear a lot, they eat and drink more,
and love most of all.

When we cut a worm in two, 
we do not call it cloning,
we call it fishing.

Art we call life and life art.
We can do everything.

Si-ntodeauna zicem:
Asa 'vrut Dumnezeu!