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*12

Check out my noise art installation at the Weird Shift gallery in Portland

technoccult:

Klint Finley

Weird Shift installation

Above is a look at my interactive noise art installation at the Weird Shift gallery in Portland, Oregon. I call it “Experiments in Psychetecture.” I don’t want to give too much away, and I’m feeling lazy about trying to describe it. But here’s the basic idea behind it:

Typically, a Psychetect performance would consist of me playing with this ensemble in front of a group of people. But I’ve never been entirely comfortable with this arrangement, since to me the main work that goes into the piece isn’t the final improvisation that goes with a setup, but the construction of a setup. This installation gives me the opportunity to simply let the people formally known as the listeners perform for themselves, while cutting me out of this finally step entirely.

But if you want to hear a performance using it, Weird Shift co-organizer Adam Rothstein made a recording with it that’s available as part of the first episode of Weird Shift Radio, which you can download here.

To play with it yourself, visit the Weird Shift gallery:

201 N. Alberta St
North Portland, Cascadia
97217

Weekdays: 3pm – 9pm
Saturday & Sunday: 1pm – 4pm

It’s closed today to setup new works, but will be open again tomorrow and my piece should be there until the end of the month, or until it breaks, whichever comes first.

(Special thanks to Justin Landers for the use of the drum cymbal and Nolan Ashley for the use of the Korg NanoKontrol)

It’s a lot of fun and works really well, considering we leave it running pretty much constantly. Now that I say that, I wish we had a 24-hour streaming channel of whatever the machine is currently doing available online, whether someone is playing it or not. But we don’t, so come see it!

"

He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.

What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.

I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.

I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.

It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.

It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.

"

Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)

(Source: sincerely-the-end, via zerosociety)

nevver:

“Reality exists so we can speculate about it.” — Slavoj Žižek

I couldn’t not

nevver:

“Reality exists so we can speculate about it.” — Slavoj Žižek

I couldn’t not

(via emergentfutures)

*6

In October 2012, a drone strike in northeast Pakistan killed a 67-year-old woman picking okra outside her house. At a briefing held in 2013 in Washington, DC, the woman’s 13-year-old grandson, Zubair Rehman, spoke to a group of five lawmakers. “I no longer love blue skies,” said Rehman, who was injured by shrapnel in the attack. “In fact, I now prefer gray skies. The drones do not fly when the skies are gray.”With my camera attached to a small drone, I  travelled across America to photograph the very sorts of gatherings that have become habitual targets for foreign air strikes—weddings, funerals, groups of people praying or exercising. I also flew my camera over settings in which drones are used to less lethal effect, such as prisons, oil fields, and the U.S.-Mexico border. The images captured from the drone’s perspective engage with the changing nature of surveillance, personal privacy, and war.

"Blue Sky Days" by Tomas Van Houtryve



In October 2012, a drone strike in northeast Pakistan killed a 67-year-old woman picking okra outside her house. At a briefing held in 2013 in Washington, DC, the woman’s 13-year-old grandson, Zubair Rehman, spoke to a group of five lawmakers. “I no longer love blue skies,” said Rehman, who was injured by shrapnel in the attack. “In fact, I now prefer gray skies. The drones do not fly when the skies are gray.”

With my camera attached to a small drone, I  travelled across America to photograph the very sorts of gatherings that have become habitual targets for foreign air strikes—weddings, funerals, groups of people praying or exercising. I also flew my camera over settings in which drones are used to less lethal effect, such as prisons, oil fields, and the U.S.-Mexico border. The images captured from the drone’s perspective engage with the changing nature of surveillance, personal privacy, and war.

"Blue Sky Days" by Tomas Van Houtryve

*49

"

The room of the modern person is stark, but in its simplicity it exudes wealth and sophistication. There is just an iPad and a simple bed or futon. None of the old-time accouterments, which signified intelligence, artistic interest, or a curiosity about the world, are evident. There are no magazines, books, or records anywhere. Just perhaps some high priced toiletries in the bathroom. Everything she needs is on the iCloud.

How long before we’re convinced that hands, arms, legs, and appendages are just bothersome?

The cyber-lords have already convinced us that maps, paper, pens, and even push buttons are somehow incredibly inconvenient and clumsy, leaving us scraping and pawing like drooling bug life on their flat digital dildos. Google’s search engines and applications have likewise taught us to refrain from using our apparently out-of-date and hopelessly inefficient brains.

What’s next? Giving up all thought, consciousness, history, and agency.

Hoarders are the only thing standing between these incomprehensibly rich, all-controlling, indecent, digital super-despots and the complete destruction of any alternative consciousness — and indeed any non-official history or interpretation of the world.

"

Ian Svenonius, All Power to the Pack Rats, Jacobin (via varanine)

(via fuckyeahdarkextropian)

notime4yourshit:

thelmatwofist:

chakotagirl:

Frank Waln about killed me with this one. #onpoint #wastè

LMAO

notime4yourshit:

thelmatwofist:

chakotagirl:

Frank Waln about killed me with this one. #onpoint #wastè

LMAO

image

(via wolvensnothere)

*1

"

Drone is the look and sound of drowning in the web, not surfing it. Drone is the overwhelming flood of media and content, rushing by too quick to handle. It is the way we un-focus our eyes to see the motion, not the things that are passing us. It is the noise against the signal as noise, a beautiful noise, that which we can’t really parse out and yet don’t want to, bathing in its splendid hush, that allows us to stop reading and listening and simple see and hear. It is hearing with the intestines, and seeing with the skin. It is the warmth of light from the neon signs, after we have shattered the glass and allowed the photons to escape the symbology of commodified existence, rushing out into the darkness of the universe, to be absorbed by the invisible matter and dust hanging suspended in the cosmos.

The pixels rush outward from the screen, small squares of sound and fury signifying asphyxiation. Warped tones come from the electromagnetic mouths that never eat, only chanting our world into existence each day with the same orbital sighs of the Van Allen belt wrapped like a tourniquet over the bleeding wound that is life on earth. The difference between silence and sound, between light and darkness, staccatos its nano-stab wounds across our awareness in wavering band of rain and wind, saturating the dry soil of our cortex and allowing hidden seed pods to burst open and release idea spores, to metastasize and grow mycelium nets through our subjective existences. The insect-hum of the street light above your head on a dark summer night, before it suddenly goes out as you pass underneath. And slowly, steadily, our fingertips reach out like the arm of a space station, grasp the control knobs of the panel in front of us, and twist slightly, just as we pull upon pieces of our own bodies, trying to describe the functions of our animated corpses via our powers of willful insistence constantly spurned by a universe that is not ours to own.

"

The Sound of Drone

fuckyeahanarchopunk:

Israeli Anarchists arrested for trying to block the departure of warplanes.

fuckyeahanarchopunk:

Israeli Anarchists arrested for trying to block the departure of warplanes.

tastefullyoffensive:

"Some good advice I found in a bathroom." -raym0ndv2

*stands over quivering human form, crouching in the mud. Raises weapon, grimaces, and speaks*
"where are your time travelers now?"

tastefullyoffensive:

"Some good advice I found in a bathroom." -raym0ndv2

*stands over quivering human form, crouching in the mud. Raises weapon, grimaces, and speaks*

"where are your time travelers now?"

(via catvincent)

Due to popular demand, @weirdshift is pleased to bring you:
Weird Shift Radio
Weird Shift Radio is an audio trip inside the Weird Shift Archives. Strange sounds, interviews, read material, guest lectures, music, and other things you did not expect to hear when you turned on your wireless set. If Weird Shift was electromagnetic energy, it would be in the W-band. Your mind is a directional antenna of just the right length. Ground yourself.
Weird Shift Radio #1
In this episode: Webdriver Torso, Charles Fort on Aeroplanes and Automobiles, Eerie Radio Transmissions from Saturn, Klint Finley’s Sound Machine, Transmission #0 from the Cosmic Anthropology Broadcast System, and High Pitched Polytone IRDial from the Conet Project Numbers Stations recordings.

Due to popular demand, @weirdshift is pleased to bring you:

Weird Shift Radio

Weird Shift Radio is an audio trip inside the Weird Shift Archives. Strange sounds, interviews, read material, guest lectures, music, and other things you did not expect to hear when you turned on your wireless set. If Weird Shift was electromagnetic energy, it would be in the W-band. Your mind is a directional antenna of just the right length. Ground yourself.

Weird Shift Radio #1

In this episode:
Webdriver Torso, Charles Fort on Aeroplanes and Automobiles, Eerie Radio Transmissions from Saturn, Klint Finley’s Sound Machine, Transmission #0 from the Cosmic Anthropology Broadcast System, and High Pitched Polytone IRDial from the Conet Project Numbers Stations recordings.