Tilikum, the man-killer

Tilikum is from Iceland.
He, like many other captives in the Spectacle, is given drugs to cope with the unbearable strain of losing one's freedom.
He is masturbated using a warmed cow's vagina, detached from its owner, to collect whale semen which in the eyes of his captors appears as hills of money.
He has been robbed of his freedom, his dignity and even his body.
He has killed three people and will probably kill more if he gets the chance.
I say good for him.

Route Couture

Or roadkill fashion. It is very alluring and damn pretty. And it's not creepy at all, honest.

Ogle here.

Death By Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

No Rainbow

This short film features scenes from two of my favourite films and one I didn't care much about. Gorge yourselves.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us

Tonight. I stole a little bit from the world and made it mine. I now have a new limb.

I saw myself smile like I have never smiled before. And I was beautiful. Tonight I ruled the city.

I thought I would be anxious and stressed but I have never been calmer.

Tonight I found one of my lost pieces. And it was good.

Nábrókarstafur

Nábrókarstafur, literally Necropants, is a dead man's skin from the waist down.

From the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft:

If you want to make your own necropants (literally; nábrók) you have to get permission from a living man to use his skin after his dead.

After he has been buried you must dig up his body and flay the skin of the corpse in one piece from the waist down. As soon as you step into the pants they will stick to your own skin. A coin must be stolen from a poor widow and placed in the scrotum along with the magical sign, nábrókarstafur, written on a piece of paper. Consequently the coin will draw money into the scrotum so it will never be empty, as long as the original coin is not removed. To ensure salvation the owner has to convince someone else to overtake the pants and step into each leg as soon as he gets out of it. The necropants will thus keep the money-gathering nature for generations.

Have a look at an actual pair of Necropants, you witchcraft practising perverts you.

Damn that is weird.

Radio Pirate Artichoke: Dance Like an Ape, Sing Like No-one's Poaching

A simple formula for how to fuck the police

1) The police are everywhere present because they are everywhere disguised.
2) If the police function to manage disorder and are present everywhere, then so too is disorder.
3) In order to expose the police when they are disguised, disorder can be maximized. Those who respond attempting to put things back in their place are the police.
4) When the police are in the open, but disorder is disguised, disorder has the upper hand.
5) In order to implicate myself as a force in opposition to the police, I side with disorder, and I elaborate the political techniques of scamming, fraud, theft, property destruction, violence, laziness, and anonymity.

taken from "Enemies we know", the Institute for experimental freedom, www.politicsisnotabanana.com

Of Man and Manta

Back in the apartment she washed convulsively and in full view, as though her body had been soiled by flying blood. "Do you understand, now?" she asked as she toweled arms and breasts and donned a new bathrobe.
He stripped and washed, knowing that she would find him contaminated if he did not. "Why you have not eaten meat or eggs in several months? No," he said, giving her a chance to explain it herself. She needed a case to argue before she could settle down.
"If we can do this to our animals today, what will we be doing to ourselves tomorrow?" she demanded. Her voice was bitter, her eyes becoming red. "Don't you see how close we are already? This whole district—one mass of hutches for people, tier upon tier, each one fed by piped-in pellets called groceries and cleaned by communally flushing toilets. Every mind distracted by standard-formula canned entertainment that someone has programmed so there won't be too much fuss. They have to give tranquilizing drugs to the chickens so they won't turn to cannibalism when they get too crowded in their dark unnatural habitat—and we have drugs too, don't we, so we can stand it all alittle longer."
She walked jerkily to the kitchenette and brought out a quart bottle of gin. "Come, deaden your mind with me,"she invited, pouring two four-ounce portions.
"It is no kinder in nature," Subble pointed out. "What man does in the effort to feed himself is only a more disciplined extension of—"
"I know," she exclaimed. "I know, I know! It's absolutely logical, this terrible cruelty. So we have to starve the little calves of iron so their meat will be white, and force naturally cleanly pigs to wallow in filth to save a few pennies. There's reason to it all—but where is the heart in it? Isn't there some better way than this?"
"Emotionalism doesn't help."
"As chickens to the slaughter," she declaimed, brandishing her empty glass, "so mankind to the Bomb! I'm ready! Just water me and breed me and pluck me and—"
"If it is any consolation, I understand that intensive farming is on the decline," Subble said, disturbed by her attitude. "The need to rework the programs is evidence of that. Synthetics are more efficient."
"It doesn't matter," she said, collapsing into despair. "I still can't stand to be a member of a species that brutalizes this way. Veg is right. I'm an—an omnivore."
"All of us must be what we are—and it is not entirely evil. There are redemptions, even glories. You know that."
"My mind, not my heart," she said, sipping at another glass. "Ignorance is not bliss."

Borf is picking their nose

Borf is not caught. Borf is many. Borf is none. Borf is waiting for you in your car. Borf is in your pockets. Borf is running through your veins. Borf is naive. Borf is good for your liver. Borf is controlling your thoughts. Borf is everywhere. Borf is the war on boredom. Borf annihilates. Borf hates school. Borf is a four letter word for joy. Borf is quickly losing patience. Borf yells in the library. Borf eats pieces of shit like you for breakfast. Borf is digging a hole to China. Borf is bad at graffiti. Borf is ephemeral. Borf is invincible. Borf. Borf ruins everything. Borf runs near the swimming pool. Borf keeps it real. Borf writes you love letters. Ol’ Dirty Bastard is Borf. Borf knows everything. Borf is in the water. Borf doesn’t sleep. Borf systematically attacks the infrastructure of the totality. Borf is a foulmouth. Borf eats your homework. Borf brings you home for dinner. Borf is the dirt under your fingernails. Borf is the song that never ends. Borf gets down. Borf gets up. Borf is your baby. Borf is neither. Borf is good for your heart, the more you eat the more you. Borf is. Borf knows. Borf destroys. Borf is immortal. Borf pulls fire alarms. Borf scuffs the gym floor. Borf is looking through your mom’s purse. Borf is M. Borf is the size of Alaska. Borf likes pizza. Borf is in general. Borf is X. Borf ain’t nothin’ to fuck with. Borf runs it. Borf has reflexes like a cat. Borf is immortal. Borf sticks gum under the desk. Borf is omnipotent. Borf is flawed. Borf is winning.

Enter the Vomitorium

Below I have embedded a zine version of some of my favourite words and images that may or may not have appeared as posts here.
I did it mainly because I've fallen in love with zines and wanted to try it out, but also because I wanted to remix some of the stuff I put here.
As always, no permission was asked. Everything was shamelessly expropriated.
You can read the zine online in its embedded form or in scribd.com itself or you can download it and do dirty things to it in your own time using the link below.
Be warned, it may cause blindness and explosive diarrhoea.

anorthodox_01

Clickerate here for private voyeurism

The Conquest of the New York Stock Exchange

Two old school chums of Eldridge Cleaver turned up at the New York Stock Exchange, their pockets stuffed with one dollar bills. When the doorman tried to deny them entry, accusing them of being "hippies", they protested, in outrage, "We're not hippies, we're Jews!" and he didn't dare refuse them.

They walked out onto the balcony that overlooks the stock market itself, and began throwing bills over the railing to the stockbrokers below. The stockbrokers all dropped what they were doing and ran around pushing and leaping after the bills until the police came to drag the two "hippies" away. As a result of the interruption in their workday, the entire market crashed that day and all the stockbrokers and stockholders lost thousands of dollars. The whole thing was caught by television cameras, and that night families across the U.S. were treated to images of businessmen revealing their true natures of pathological, fetishist greed. A few weeks later, bullet-proof glass and a thick metal grate were installed between the viewer's balcony and the exchange floor, and the doormen were instructed not to permit Jews to enter.

Yeti

I made this. I stole and salvaged and scavenged and stitched together until this poor shambling monster came out.

"Because his ways have been wise" -High On Fire, The Yeti

Normal?

People from the (rapidly splintering) "mainstream" of society in Europe and the United States today, take a peculiar pleasure in considering themselves "normal” in comparison to legal offenders, political radicals, and other members of social outgroups. They treat this “normalcy” as if it is an indication of mental health and moral righteousness, regarding the “others” with a mixture of pity and disgust. But if we consult history we can see that the conditions and patterns of human life have changed so much in the past two centuries that it is impossible to speak of any lifestyle available to human beings today as being “normal" in the natural sense, as being a lifestyle for which we adapted over many generations. Of the lifestyles from which a young woman growing up in the West today can choose, none are anything like the ones for which her ancestors were prepared by centuries of natural selection and evolution. It is more likely that the “normalcy” that these people hold so dear is rather the feelings of normalcy that result from conformity to a standard. Being surrounded by others who behave the same way, who are conditioned to the same routines and expectations, is comforting because it reinforces the idea that one is pursuing the right course: if a great many people make the same decisions and live according to the same customs, then these decisions and customs must be the right ones. But the mere fact that a number of people live and act in a certain way does not make it any more likely that this way of living is the one that will bring them the most happiness. Besides, the lifestyles associated with the American and European “mainstream" (if such a thing truly exists) were not exactly consciously chosen as the best possible ones by those who pursue them; rather, they came to be suddenly as the results of technological and cultural upheavals. Once the peoples of Europe, the United States, and the world realize that there is nothing necessarily "normal"’ about their “normal life", they can begin to ask themselves the first and most important question of the new century:

Are there ways of thinking, acting and living that might be more satisfying and exciting than the ways we think, act and live today?

Tanz der Lemminge

Hush my Little Darlings

Scientia et Potentia

James Christensen's art was found here.

Transparent Taxidermy

Ladies and gentlebugs, we have a new heavyweight champion of twisted yet eerily attractive.

The Guy with the Mustache is Dead

The evil twin has been vanquished. It was consumed. Its powers absorbed. Like the zygotes, splitting then one enclosing the other. Cain killed Abel by endocytosis.

Motherfucker, I ate the other embryo.

Radio Pirate Artichoke: Now You're All My Bitches

I am the Walrus! I am the Eggman!

Tinku

Tinku is a punching festival. People shed their grievances along with their blood. Their pagan souls flutter as their fists fly into each others faces in the hope that they will die and have a good crop year. And who are we to judge them? At least they do it with their fists instead of their remotes.

A Porpoise with no Purpose

Fernando the Porpoise had only one wish
That people would learn that he wasn't a fish
But instead was a mammal
What a horrible scandal
He ended filleted in a Japanese dish

London, Thy Name is Vanity

Blither about how the image was generated.

Bonnie and Clyde

Mr. Freeman

This is a Self-Reference

Radio Pirate Artichoke: Good Clean Fun

Gorge yourselves on this auditory bratwurst.

Eyjafjallajökull

Tardigrade

a.k.a. Water Bear, a.k.a. Moss Piglet



Apparently the Tardigrade is one tough little motherfucker. Details after the jump. It has officially become my second favourite animal, right after the mongoose. So spooky and cute at the same time.

Radio Pirate Artichoke: Polly Wanna Crack Rock

Extra large portion of auditory abuse for filling your gaping sonic chasms.

Makin' Bacon

Mmm... bacon.

Some time ago I discovered a really cool piece of software. It's called RPG Maker VX and it's part of a family of programs that are essentially game engines for RPGs. You can determine the content and the mechanics of the game in any way you please. In effect you can make your very own RPG. Need I say that this is awesome? NEED I? HUH?

Anyway, I played around with it for a while and let me tell you I enjoyed it. Also, I made part of a game. Which I will attach at the end of the post for your perverted pleasure. You perverts. You sickos. You disgust me. Get out of my house. What's that, you're not in my house? Shut up! SILENCE!

My game has a rudimentary plot and a few quests. Those of you with a particular ethnic background will get the references and the game's immature title, the rest of you will have to wallow in your ignorance pool. Go on, wallow. You filthy, dirty wallowers, with your disgusting, perverted wallowing. You make me sick, what are you doing in my house again?

So... Download the game if old-school RPGs are your thing, run the file and then when it extracts run the Game.exe. Scan it first, I didn't put anything in there intentionally but you never know what kind of internet assmonkey has crawled in there and laid its putrescent shitspawn. I haven't encrypted the files of my game so if you care for that kind of thing, get your stinky selves a copy of RPG Maker VX and try and make your own game or fuck mine up if that's your messed up kind of tea. Mmmm... teabags.

But I digress, this is a very preliminary version, it will grow eventually, especially now that I've managed to run RPGMVX on Linux. It will grow and grow until it collapses under the weight of its own awesomeness. And then it will grow some more. So this is a long term plan. It will by no means be a commercial effort and there will be no pressure for it to finish any time soon. But enough of this pointless banter.

Pull my finger.



And just in case any of you get any shitty ideas (Shame on you, I'm not angry, just dissapointed):


Kakakia by abbax is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

Lake Bezid, Romania

Codex Seraphinianus

Shamelessly copied from Wikipedia:

The Codex Seraphinianus is a book written and illustrated by the Italian artist, architect and industrial designer Luigi Serafini during thirty months, from 1976 to 1978. The book is approximately 360 pages long (depending on edition), and appears to be a visual encyclopedia of an unknown world, written in one of its languages, a thus-far undeciphered alphabetic writing.

The Codex is divided into eleven chapters, partitioned into two sections. The first section appears to describe the natural world, dealing with flora, fauna, and physics. The second deals with the humanities, the various aspects of human life: clothing, history, cuisine, architecture and so on. Each chapter seems to treat a general encyclopedic topic.

The illustrations are often surreal parodies of things in our world: bleeding fruit; a plant that grows into roughly the shape of a chair and is subsequently made into one; a lovemaking couple that metamorphoses into a alligator; etc. Others depict odd, apparently senseless machines, often with a delicate appearance, kept together by tiny filaments. There are also illustrations readily recognizable, as maps or human faces. On the other hand, especially in the "physics" chapter, many images look almost completely abstract. Practically all figures are brightly coloured and rich in detail.

The writing system (possibly a false writing system) appears modelled on ordinary Western-style writing systems (left-to-right writing in rows; an alphabet with uppercase and lowercase letters, some of which double as numerals) but is much more curvilinear, not unlike cursive Georgian in appearance. Some letters appear only at the beginning or at the end of words, a feature shared with Semitic writing systems. The language of the codex has defied complete analysis by linguists for decades. The number system used for numbering the pages, however, has been cracked (apparently independently) by Allan C. Wechsler and Bulgarian linguist Ivan Derzhanski, among others. It is a variation of base 21. In a talk at the Oxford University Society of Bibliophiles held on May 8th 2009, Serafini has stated that the script of the Codex is asemic, that his own experience in writing it was closely similar to automatic writing, and that what he wanted his alphabet to convey to the 'reader' is the sensation that children feel in front of books they cannot yet understand, although they see that their writing does make sense for grown-ups.

The Catacombs of Domitilla

Radio Pirate Artichoke: Not Gay as in Happy but Queer as in Fuck You

In Your Head

Snow

Kick in the Teeth

I Am the World that Hides...

Still falls the rain,
the veils of darkness shroud the blackened trees,
which contorted by some unseen violence,
shed their tired leaves,
and bend their boughs towards a grey earth of severed bird wings.

Among the grasses,
poppies bleed before a gesticulating death,
and young rabbits,
born dead in traps,
stand motionless,
as though guarding the silence that surrounds and threatens to engulf all those that would listen.

Mute birds,
tired of repeating yesterdays terrors,
huddle together in the recesses of dark corners,
heads turned from the dead,
black swan that floats upturned in a small pool in the hollow.

There emerges from this pool a faint sensual mist,
that traces its way upwards to caress the chipped feet of the headless martyr's statue,
whose only achievement was to die to soon,
and who couldn't wait to lose.

The cataract of darkness form fully,
the long black night begins,
yet still,
by the lake a young girl waits,
unseeing she believes herself unseen,
she smiles,
faintly at the distant tolling bell,
and the still falling rain.

Nostalgia Ain't What it Used to Be

Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind

My Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Cacti of the Western Deserts

The Hello Kitty Chainsaw

... and while on the subject of fucked-up artifacts.

Angry Chair

That's just fucked up.

Frozen Niagara Falls, 1911

Radio Pirate Artichoke: I'll Cut Your Pretty Face

I Fell in Love with the Moon

Santa's Little Self-harmers

(Almost) Nobody lives in Kadykchan

Kadykchan was a tin-mining community before the colapse of the Soviet Union and a mining accident that killed some people. A town of around 10,000 people now barely reaches 300.

More heebie-jeebies-giving pictures after the jump.

Radio Pirate Artichoke: The Immaculate Ejaculate

Put a Fence Around This

Okay. Let's get some things straight. This is going to be a rant about intellectual property, copyright, filesharing etc. If you like the first two and have "moral" or otherwise issues with the last, go on, get the fuck out of here.




















Cool, now that we got rid of the dimwits. I hate the fact that all proponents of intellectual property base their otherwise idiotic and very easily countered arguments on their own cynicism. I read this expose of this dickhead on the website of an artist that I really like going on about how the reason we're downloading free music is because "people want as much free shit as possible". Go fuck yourself dude. This guy claims that the human desire for resonance with the natural world as expressed through music in combination with another deep seated desire, that of not being exploited - because if working to produce shit you can't afford isn't exploitation then I don't what is - is "really" just plain ole greed. Oh you great delver of the human soul, tell me more, tell me why I'm stealing shit I can't afford.
Tell me oh white male privileged one, tell me, why do I do the things I do? Why do I not get a jobby, work all day and then at the end of the month dish it all out for the records I like? Why?
It's true that if you can put a fence around something then you can sell it, and recording music has done just that. It's put a fence around something seemingly elusive, human inspiration. But the insult here isn't the fact that people want to get paid for something they've created, even though we can argue that they are most definitely asking to be paid much more than they deserve (you didn't create that music in a vacuum dickhead, you had influences, are you paying them royalties? no didn't think so). What gets me is the notion that they're special. That somehow, this "artistic and creative" caste of people deserve better than the rest of us "labourers" and clearly their precious gem of creation is worth a significant fraction of our sacrificed time, space and health.
This person then goes on to, in his mind at least, take the piss out of the Pirate Bay because they ask for donations at the end of their documentary after having dissed money and it's corrupting influence or whatever. Goes to show how the privileged middle-class mindset works. "If there's money in there somewhere you are no better than us, come wallow in the pigshit and don't speak out of turn."
Now, I'm not going to try and counter all the supposed arguments he uses in his attack of free sharing of content which is thinly veiled as "starting a dialogue", whatever dickhead, the ones I covered are enough for now, and they have all pretty much been countered by people nicer, smarter and bigger than this asshole. I will say this though, it has been PROVEN that free sharing of content doesn't harm the capitalist system, which is a shame if you ask me. At best it helps us get some of our lost lives back, it means now we can spend some of our shitty salaries on more creative things than DVDs and records that we will watch and listen at most once. It means that we can start making content ourselves and threaten this creative elite that trembles at the thought of its precious work exposed in the eyes and ears of someone that DIDN'T PAY.

Let me close with a call for people to continue sharing content and put their efforts, time and money into more creative outlets. Make your own film or record. It can be done. It is done. Everyday. Some of the best movies and records I've seen are results of dirt-cheap, no-budget creative efforts. Fuck the guy who said DIY is dead. He is dead and no-one's told him yet.

And to everyone who thinks that by throwing their two-cents about why "filesharing is bad, m'kay?" they can still change something: The content has been downloaded guy. We don't need justification to make ourselves feel better. I know you like to stroke yourself at night thinking we cry ourselves to sleep, tormented and guilt-ridden about stealing the fruits of your genius, but here's the newsflash. We like stealing from you. We are the happiest thieves alive. The content has been downloaded. It is down and there is nothing you can do about it. So either you can find a new way to be creative under the new circumstances, or you can stay the whiny fuck that you are, crying "my monies, my precious monies!" Either you help make a new world, or you are obsolete.

The clown is down.

Centralia, Pennsylvania (or Amputating Route 61)

Centralia is a ghost town. Isn't that a strange phrase? It surreptitiously makes the admition that it once was alive. A living, breathing organism functioning on a level of self-organisation different than ours. Centralia was built around, if not literally then certainly metaphoricaly, a coal mine.
Around a century after the town was born, a fire started which lit one of the coal veins on fire. Underground. I don't know about you but I think there's something primevally spooky about an underground fire.
The fire burned for twenty years before finally opening a gaping chasm right under a frollicking child which was only saved due to extremely fortuitous circumstances. That, as they say, was the final straw. It was decided that everyone should and would be relocated. All three thousand of the residents. It took forty-two million dollars to do that.
However, some of the residents decided to stay, now technically squatters in their own family houses.