Lecture #4 : the Aesthetic of Shock meets Frankenstein

(or don't count your chickens if the tempo modulates)

Critics, poets , thinkers, philosophers, artists. Common sense is in serious danger of falling into romantic 20th century estrangement, some apathetic, apoplectic, wink wink wonderfully devious and egotistical terminology, labelling persons heretofore endeared with descriptive terms applying something ludicrous and shortsighted like Phrase Turners or Unrecruited Babble arousers or, ignoring the main thrust of the argument for fear that it is not prehensile, we may catagorize cultures tapped from ancient media and regain names like Satyr, Pandora, or everyman for everyday newsman and deep depth charged anchor sunken thinker still avoiding the glare in the afterglow. It seems that the development of a critical language need not be based on its own intent. These 'coinings of phrases' are the trappings on the walls of a room where a party for the members of a cultural upheaval or involuntary 'blowing' of mimetic chunks across acid soaked serial beds is in full swing. What is 'intention' when viewed against the Darwinian development of language? Liquid dispersal of raw, weighted spontaneity, a loving interplay between the mechanics of continental drift, the magnetics of mimetics and the gravity of emotional fluid?
Bravely we take upon ourselves the responsibility for Universal Humanism. Sounds like a disease. How about those who simply must do. The word 'do' emerges almost untainted by the vulgarities and vagueries of art and leaves us feeling like 'yes' there is a natural order and rhythm to Mankind. Well we are not Man by any definition (see lecture 3) and we certainly are not Kind. But we do try to represent ourselves well and often succeed. There are words and there is words. To fly, one must manipulate the centre of gravity. Who can but wax opinionated on the drivers inherent in moments of greatest clarity and lift? In the Devilishly clever hands of the common man's representatives, the experts, the learned, the studios, the sacrificed, the chosen, the voice of beyond and the great hereafter, lessons are taught from the books of God and all through our lives we hear the pompous echoes of the unknown. Genetically manipulated by our own actions we confront the aesthetics of life and soul, of planetary rhythm and 'the wrong note theory' ; of the 'words cannot do justice to' to the shores of gitchagoo with the courage to be. Music is music are. Can questions generate thought? Does the process of thought need external stimuli? The only tests are on people with memories. But memories are deceptive. Music is a panacea like shock is a therapy. Desire to learn is acceptance of death. Art is dead long live art.
A rational and linear approach to art is often attempted and adhered to through persecution of faddists and misguidance by fascists until the artwork must manifest itself without the artist. Then tradition be damned. What comes out marks the spot and no pawing, shuffling or aromatic emission will undo or negate the event. Yes, Art is the souls' excrement. Art is the shit upon which culture grows.

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