avant / garde / under / net / conditions (vormals: perspektive | issue 43 | 2002 )

code.poetry.loop | < dada.lodge > | experimental.bungees | mail.art.ocular | post.dogmatism | surreal.sheets | theory.proxy | visual.tray
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[/] interview (deutsch)
[/] interview (english)


[/] Dada Birds Society
[/] non-manifesto


[/] collage "derklob" (38.24 kb, jpg)
[/] prostow (16.51 kb, jpg)
[/] szubien (14.85 kb, jpg)

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>> / source /

// TPdada //


We are of a kind so remote that we cannot be perceived rationally. We are dying out. From this point of view it's impossible for us to have a rational outlook. We can't have anything in common with rationalism, even if we wanted to. Our irrationalism makes us alive. If we were rational, we should kill ourselves long time ago. We're still alive. Maybe we are going to be the only ones who survive.
We are your children. We live in your world, your cities, on your streets. We don't appreciate that. We are the mutinous children. Our mutiny isn't mutiny at all. It's hanging around in bars, it's all those lengthy conversations which come to naught, it's utopian plan for thousand of futures, it's everyday life and a drugged charm.
You taught us how to lie. And now we want to boast of something we learned ourselves. We can tell the truth. And we hand it to you on a plate, abundantly seasoned with lies, so you can swallow it with ease. You have shown us your world. You have told us who's in charge. And we have discovered each other. And we have discovered our own world. Now guess which world we have chosen. You gave us empty, irreclaimable containers for faith, hope and love. The life you have given us was unworthy to live. We stared at ourselves hanging on the branches of the highest trees against a background of empty sky. We gazed at ourselves nestled in the bloody pools on the pavement. You told the wearied men in dirty orange overalls to wipe our remains away off the track.
You called this the end of the century. For many our familiars it means the end of life. For us it doesn't mean anything at all. We are the children of the Quaternary Period, children of the Cenozoic Era, children of the revolution known as the universe.
It's true we are dying out. It is also true that you are dying out much more rapidly.
Just think that every one of us deserved at least five years' imprisonment. And yet we are your hope. You'd better learn to love us, you have no other choice.


Suddenly something started to spread over the paper. Stuffiness of local atmosphere seemed to reach the zenith. Here and there the rain droplets were flying by - emerging from nowhere and fading away without a trace. Is it?
Is it?
And then sight of myne (error) settled down, if I may so express myself on my chessboard
Because all the figures were blending in some outright animal rage. Somewhere in the skein of heaping pawns, bishops, rooks, there leaned out a shark's face.
A shark's face? - what a weird expression. Shark was, of course, wearing a beret and smoking hashish. But I didn't mean that, because there
I saw
No! No! No!
I don't identify with this manifesto - I replied now as a Dada bird. I want the art without manifestos, without direct determining the way and aim of my inner experiences (described very justly as farts) Without stony mouth of angels carrying to the heavenly kingdom the monotous lamentations
I looked back at the mirror
(everyone wants to be dada as it sounds so cool)
and I saw a face revealing nothing.
I will just wheel for a while. Maybe I can find something for myself. I have decided, I will carry out. I can circle round all that a few times. It's no use reclining in vain. What? What? You don't have time for Creation, and you somehow find time (for physiological actions), which is best done in flight. The wings' arrhythmia interfered with navigation. It is hard to avoid it if you are a BIRD, ISN'T IT?

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