Portrait #2 in the Manic Expressionism Portraits series starring Cherry Sur Bete.

(L)(R): Asphyxiated, I

Programmed we are, after many years of eye before screen- motioning hands to doctor, we have strapped ourselves into their machines, cyber seeding the artificial I. We cast out into black hole communities- blindfolded by the ever turning wheel of misfortune. Screaming silently in our cubicles, our living rooms; all our endless wi-fi galaxies- foaming for praise- we’ve built these personas on lies.

Have our nerves adapted to the ways of technology? Have our waves tailored to the mathematical alignment of cybernated textile? Have we been sucked beyond repair into virtual comas?

Man has lost touch with nature- almost everything he knows is shipped to him through tubes. We are gradually asphyxiating ourselves in paralyzed states. Masticating whatever comes in through the line.

Organic man is nearly extinct. An organic man is not fearless because he cares not for anyone else- he is fearless because he accepts himself and thus loves without restrictions. He adores the Earth because he no longer dwells in constant self-analysis; he lives and therefore he is.

How will we ever find the strength to pull our heads out of these screens and live?

THE SECOND BEND IN THE DOCUMENTATION SESSIONS.

WHAT IS THE BENDS OF FORMATION?

This is about community- this is about truth. This is about facing ourselves in order to dismantle ego. In other words, this is the act of channeling mind to extreme levels, similar to the teachings of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, but without the assistance of psychedelics. The Bends of Formation is also about the art of dying; the art of killing ego by means of reassembling spirit. It is about the power within ourselves; the claiming of new perspective by way of self-realization. This is the journey of the human spirit. We are conceived for the gathering of a perfect world. This perfect world is not landscaped to perfection, it does not resemble the Plastic Icon; it is pure because it is accepting of itself, it is perfect because it no longer seeks artificial repair.

We invade digitally because the traveler is not alone. Let us bend for new perspective. Let us bend to remove all masks. Let us bend in order to live infinitely.

With love,
Your fellow traveler

Children of the Earth, the time has come, and it has always come- it has always been- but now is the time we take wet hands to clay.  Now is the time we stand as one in this cyber era, these years of diminishing man.  It is here we step out into the world and tell it like it is- not by fighting the beast, but by loving it to a housebroken cat that wanders without name. 

In these times we will all fall without support, no matter how fast you run, how much money you make, how happy you may be- what does it all mean if your only contribution is a headstone quote?  My friends, I love you all, I watch you linger ghost like through bars, streets, grocery stores, work, homes- you blend into the mirage.  Of course you don’t want to hear any of this- you’ve worked so hard to suffer at a reasonable rate!  Goddammit, what is life if only to live! If only to survive! If only to die! You’ve been given a mind, hands, feet- you have what it takes to make this place elated- yet you continue to listen to the negativity drone through your subliminal propaganda tubes and except that this world is a lost cause. 

If one community makes the step towards the greater good, the others will follow.  And for the love of God that doesn’t mean building a church!!! It doesn’t mean you need to dedicate your life to religion- please don’t.  Live for love, and if love is best served through your moral obligations than so be it- but open your minds!  We are capable of so much more than faces, words, and status updates.  Get out of your hibernation dens and live aggressively, live real, speak the truth, never hold back for status if status makes your stomach hurt.  I love you all.  Now let’s attempt the impossible; lather, rinse, and repeat.

THE FIRST BEND IN THE DOCUMENTATION SESSIONS.

HANDS

“Hold out your hands.  I want to give you something.”

Recycled generation have you no sense of purpose?  You jog comfortably with age; wilting without reason while rehearsing the progress of others.  You have no substantial gift.  You blame your income, your rank, your predetermined abilities- assuming you are limited to the handouts.  You’ve come empty handed!  And you will wait, for however long it takes for the significant providers to present substance.  Have you no mind of your own- no legs, no hands, no heart, no soul, no voice, no words, no opinions, no reasons?  Why do you sit there and wait? What are you waiting for?

We continue to preach the words of ancestral minds; ignorant of our own contributions.  How do we advance ourselves into givers?  If by giving you assume possessions are at hand, you are as mad as they are.  We must advance ourselves by providing structure for a generation of artists, architects, philosophers, scientists, engineers, naturopaths, surgeons, psychologists, etc, so on and so forth. 

Let us forget for a second about the eyes, and pull back the skin.  It is unnecessary.  The skin is a burden that slows down tread; slip out and mold character out of mind, out of heart, out of soul.  The skin is responsible for every mark on you.  It keeps you from speaking out.  It keeps you from standing up.  It keeps you in the back of the classroom, my friends, and it determines that wherever you tread, you will always be behind. 

Get over the burns of isolation, the scrapes of molestation, the fractures of words, the slits of depravation- thank the less than fortunate wrongdoer that blemished you for applying substance- we are the lucky ones, we are the most durable of exos.  It was that violence, that abuse, those words, those hands, those lips, those teeth, those eyes, that cut into our skin.  And so, lucky for us, we can shed without fear, our nauseating bags and run with purpose.  We learn that skin has nothing to do with productivity and creation; and nothing stands higher than creation.  So let us take our hands, our feet, our minds, our words, our actions, and let us distribute substance that supplies the 1-2-3 for this lethargic breed.

Plan accordingly.       

TYLER BOWEN (Dramatis Personae). 12min

A Remedial Sublimation audio portrait of a 20 year old male discussing his present and past life.

Meditation by way of revealing true character in the process of assembling a foundation for character existence.

MAN AS WOLF (Ante Bellum). 2min

Audio companion piece to the entry below.  An improvisation of self analysis and free flowing words for a dying breed.

THE BRIDGES WE MUST BUILD TO CROSS RIVERS

How do you sleep at night with the wolves in the walls- those caustic native foreigners- the world would be a better place without them.  I can hear them whisper, I can hear them piss, I can hear them shit.  They thrash violently against the walls of their fishtanks; sprawling the analytical spirit blood about their pens, oh yes, that seminal madness that hatches maggots in the air; the enticer of dark shadows.  

They’ve detrained in animalistic territories; waning vicious and knee bent. Their howls are unbearable.  Walls so thin, I’m naked on the slab. Conducting- subconsciously and telepathically- an electric energy that provides the strength of unification.  We must consume from outer realms, the abandoned energy; devouring all previous sources by means of attempting the impossible. 

Skeptical ones; mindless ones; all of the greatest inventions of our time were once impossible.  You have no sense of devotion- you believe everything you see and detest all that remains invisible.  What are you living for?  You are living for something that has already been determined.  You will live mindlessly- gorging at the last supper of cyber sublimation, where hopeless monsters milk on regurgitated media that fabricates and facilitates mental concentration camps- where all who dwell, starve immobilized by flatlined perspectives and preset head nods. 

Are you all too plastered by your antibiotics to think for yourselves?  You have let your doctors tell you who you are- as if they have enough time in their day to acknowledge you as anything more than a step in the economic ladder.  You have been feathered for the slaughterhouse; held by the neck and skinned on conveyor belts; hung by cold metal contraptions that push you along the incessant cycle of human paralysis.  You have been masticated by a world that cares not how you were processed, how you were tortured, how you got to where you are—- and yet you live for their acceptance.

We must expand; we are a dying breed- we’ve lost all sense of purpose.