Ésta será una historia de terror. Será una historia policíaca, un relato de serie negra y de terror. Pero no lo parecerá. No lo parecerá porque soy yo la que lo cuenta. Soy yo la que habla y por eso no lo parecerá. Pero en el fondo es la historia de un crimen atroz.
This is going to be a horror story. But it won’t appear to be, for the simple reason that I am the teller. Told by me, it won’t seem like that. Although, in fact, it’s the story of a terrible crime.
Seldom, he said, we talk about what is really there.
But what is it that is there, if not a trace of something that was?
Or maybe there was never no nothing?
It’s all, a trace. No? No!
A song about signs, sung by time, and space,
How do we deal, with what is not there?
Ask Umberto, the semiotic homo sapien.
Ecce, homo, signum.
The quest for an experience, between material and signs,
makes me wanna ask you, about some real Signs Fiction
Let me introduce you, to Sign, tific, Research
Signs from broken dictionarys
text pictures, and letters that flicker.
That’d be Isabelles semiotics.
Who can help with these
Wild readings of Semioemotics?
Whose signs fly?
Who sighs why?
Who flys by?
Who cries dry,
Your eyes, mate.
As a little appetizer: Percussion
Alsssooo dkgaslkodog hlakesvlajsdvlas clasj, ölas ödca skalvkjalekvr, jölajerlvk
Aekjrvaelrkvalknv akelaklkfnv eeeeeee bbbebbbbbobb a
Lkjdslvkajljöaekrjökajevlk, jylknv, nmmvn
Hojhajhojhajhjaaahjhiiijhj ooooo ooooo Hojhajhojheeeeeeejhjaaahjhiiijhj
And they ask: have thy Swollowed a Clown?
And thy say: Yes. And it tasted funny.
Life’s but a walking shadow.
Or a joke.
Jokes i can’t laugh about
Sometimes, because they’re bad, not funny,
sometimes the laughter gets stuck in my throat.
Life’s one of those jokes, no?
Can you poke me low key joey?
Watch the droptop pahpi!
Known as the grimy limey, slimy— try me
Blimey! Simply smashing in a fashion that’s timely
Madvillain dashing in a beat-rhyme crime spree
Jokes about quotes and,
Quotes about folk music
Copy paste it, use it,
To A, muse, and B, muse, crews stupid rules to
C, whose, afraid, of all them sign tific mistakes.
Don’t mistake me, But how they say in Secrets and Lies?
You have to laugh darlin, cause otherwise, you’d cry.
Smile now, will ya
You got any questions?
Texts as quests, that feed’em like…
Drops of milk, fragments of silk,
spill signs like billboards.
Or card boards, like dylan.
Villain drillin‘ holes, into the air, like smoke rings,
Ink don’t stink, like rings of smoke,
Jokes with whole zeroes, almost circular, get it?
Criticising beautys flow, like moles, added to edit.
„To be subversive, the critic does not have to judge,
it is enough,
that he talks of,
language instead of,
Copy paste the past, trace it,
only quoting simulacrums.
Everything has been said.
But not by everyone…
What do we see, hear?
Archetypes that fly:
Ships, planes, names of games.
Planes translate to, things that fly,
Floogtsoig’s a great name.
Machines produce signs,
Signs make machine,
Material meets semiotics,
Masks for the last scenery.
Dumiley mic droppppped it
Scenes of fresh flesh research,
seem unlikely in this case,
Replace your intellect by,
bites of subtle suspect.
Experience the relation, of symbols and materiality
or materialise experience, with signs that dinosaurs can read.
Beat your heart hard,
hear the dark art, partly,
brand new second hand,
the end, of the party.
Aswell as: bold print type faces
Textfaces as shoelaces
Made to connect everything, like legs the text connects us.
Like broken symbols we loose our trace,
Like bad paintings, we smile about ourselves
References? If you like, fine!
Bart, Kristava, Aco, Arturo Belano, Ulises Lima, Borxchkxshkes, DOOM, Ta, wa, da, da, da.
Only to list a few.
Not to forget: sarduy
Shoutouts to the retro gods.
Where is the boarder, between, reading, sensing, feeling?
And where does reading stop op op op op op op op op op op?
Da da da da
Og og og og og og og og
Or or or, where does reading become more wild,
and tip into, perception? Experience? Music?
The sign tific sur plus
Wild readings of wild Textures?!
Experidance textperiments and realise, what’s not there.
Sign tific magicians, nothing but sorcerer’s apprentices,
Visceral Realists, only part time phantasy addicts.
Make kin, take in the take-ins
Disenthral the artwork,
Feel fear and joy, to start work.
We don’t have to wait,
for the big finished product anymore.
Cause we have satisfying techniques of intimicy.
To be, means to be interconnected
Dull our minds digitally
With processescesses and fragmentstststs.
A sketch here, to fetch some scattered sense there,
What happens when?
Signs fiction ends?
No Peace out,