the above two images/works, are by fleming. the second, above, is not only one of my dadadata favs, but a very important image for our time. this last is not as powerful imagestically, but poetically, is highly suggestive of some possible future, or, wish for one.
I
Lon Yaul manned the transmitter interface in the pitch black, subsurface cavern, its LED’s blinking on and off only to vanish instantly in the immensity of the space. Yaul worked the keys like brail, comparing the sounds as he tapped out his message to the pattern of flashing lights in order to ensure it’s accuracy. After years of experience he knew the audiovisual patterns that signaled every form of violent death. He imagined the encryption sheathing his message as a kind of info-drag that would no doubt titillate the geek voyeurs whose role it was to undress it again before passing it on to those who would no doubt ecstatically carry out every letter of its commands like the submissives they were. They’d then push back in their well-padded leather chairs and masturbate as they watched the missiles fire from the safe distance of their monitor-walled war rooms. Yaul was nauseated at the thought, knowing that in exactly 37 minutes, as he sat blindly in his silent void, the soundless vibrations he’d feel gently pass through the concrete walls that surrounded him were indices of the carnage of body parts exploding on the surface hundreds of meters above him.
And by the time they did come, he’d have made his way to his bunk like a sightless mole, where he kept a torch ready for his nightly inscriptions. Had he had a mother, he’d written to her first. Had he had any political representation, he’d written to it next. Having neither, having never had either, he’d struggle every post-war, torch inflected darkness to give name to an imaginary recipient to whom he’d beg to be enlightened as to why he was incarcerated as he was. Dear Plato, my cave has no shadows because it has no candles. Dear Aquinas, you offer no solutions here because even Aristotle would have nothing to observe. Lon, after reveries like these, would continue to trace the lineaments of an education he once not only had, but believed in. One motive animated him at such moments, to try to answer one question – why don’t the majority good revolt against the minority bad?
‘I’, fortunately unfortunately have replaced Lon Yaul in his subterranean tomb. As he didn’t, I have all the light I need. So it shocks my assistants when I ask them to turn out the lights and leave me in total darkness. Eventually, I’m able to force them to leave, but I weary with this daily ritual. Stupidity still reigns supreme. When they finally leave, and darkness reigns, then Lon and I begin. Begin, that is, to measure things, to measure thoughts, those data that moved him most, retrieved from Ormood, K’a, and many other memphage pirates…
Here is what we’ve faintly recorded, in raw form, free of interpretation:
Memphage memory 3.459, Ormood.
we were lucky to catch this at a higher audio-def:
a notebook of epic reflections by mark bartlett 