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for Avida
Dollars
"The quicksands of automatism and dreams
vanish upon awakening.
But the rocks of the imagination still remain". Salvador Dali, in the world of Salvador Dali; Macmillan, 1962. You couldn't ever really see the face of the piano player, but might guess it was a hanging garden of balconies so resplendent and enormous that not even Babylon seemed a close second, and its torso, also enormous and indifferent, revealed a surface seeming more "alive," though only partially so as a repeating, space black and kinetic replica relief of Michelangelo's Battle of the Lapiths and
Centaurs. It would make its journey
along the vast linearity of the keyboard, pausing to stop at the nauseating city heads to shave the nutrient hair (the ever-plentiful shit-beards) and brush the foeti, and the crones who harvest them, from the keys, brushing it all into an enormous green lap bowl to be digested for the continued care and feeding of the face, which is not in any way concerned with the tired conventionalities of our anesthetized contemporary echoes of "decus and decorum, " perhaps understood better with a quick description of one of the floating Lenin heads: Lenin head... Its face an enormous topology of balconies, planar orgy filters whose depths hold an android orgy of history's faces who are made to enact a fractal and cornucopian agape emblem visited by random Minotaurs of murder who might drag off a pregnant "woman" to a processing chute, or hack the "baby" out right there, to chuckle as it found it way skittering among the groaning numb "neurons" of Lenin's brain, to be eaten like gnostic ortolan delicacies along the paths of the turd gathering robots picking their way among
the piles of "istoria-virtu"..
http://dali.urvas.lt/forviewing/pic22.jpg |
