Dedication to Life (Resilience: Faith, Focus, Triumph)

The simple feeling of love does not mean that you stop there - Alonzo takes the next step - giving.

Love is not the enemy - Resilience

Poet-performer Jessica Care Moore’s “Love is Not the Enemy: Manifesto for 28″, Moore conveys a tough-minded resilience and a mature return to self in the face of disappointment. She isn’t sure what’s ahead of her, but there’s no doubt about how she’ll face it:

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All my new boyfriends
are scheduled for 2009
No more lions in my bedroom
King is the most important thing in my life
I’m married to my art, my life, my work.
Grownups are over-rated.
My wonder woman cape never needs to be ironed, even in Detroit.
Skinny is the new thick.
Jessica worship required
(Insecure niggas need not apply)…
I have dream catchers for arms
We need to talk about mental illness in
The black community.
Am I crazy because I don’t expect my son to be forgotten
Just because it “happens all the time?”
My name is jessica Care moore
I’ve been a Simmons.
I’ve been a Poole.
(legally, still am today)
I will die a Moore.
Ain’t giving my name away no more.

Yeah, moore’s back. She’s evolved. She’s matured. She’s become a mentor, a mother, a publisher and a leader. Having come full circle from home out to the world and back again, she’s completed a sort of heroine’s journey that seems both inspiring and mythical.

In the title poem from her forthcoming book, Moore moves from the gritty rebellion of “Black Girl Juice” to a piercing kind of universal truth:

God is not an American
No, God is not an American.
But she could be a woman
That would explain why we have sugarcane,
Little red corvettes and chocolate.
And why she so graciously spared us an external sex organ
That would constantly get in the way of our brains
But maybe if women had penises
They wouldn’t know how to cook, or wash or fix or kiss or blend,
Or fold in all those special ingredients
that women bury inside the earth
And where do you think a woman would put her penis
During a time of war?
In the mouth of an intern?
Deep into their fathers history…
Pushing the same buttons
A decade later

Metro Times - Arts: Love is not the enemy

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Tags: resilience, poetry

Me Metaphors

Laid back like lions

Pure and Clean, A crisp c-chord

A brown and used bill

The good deed without the credit

Credit, without the promise

The perfect words

A welcomed popup

The sole inhabiter of the moon

A tree amongst the trees

I am

And his eyes read “End”

THE OFFICIAL’S RULES:

1. The person performing the illusion must dig his way to a tomb with one way entrance.

2. The person must fill in any hole created with the soil from that whole.

3. The person is not allowed to use any technology in digging, or moving any soil – only his hands and feet.

4. The person in the grave is not to be allowed out by anyone, he must either escape himself, ala “KILL BILL VOLUME II” or die.

A Look at victim in the ground

5. There is to be a live-feed camera in the tomb, which cannot be shut off.

6. No one is allowed to interfere with the illusion.

These were the parameters to a young magician’s, Pirlo, final illusion. A crescendo. Pirlo’s pinnacle performance was to be both a homecoming and a farewell to the art.

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There was speculation. Despite reporters, scientists, and engineers, rummaging through the tomb, and finding no gadgets or trapdoors – there was speculation. Some assumed that the tomb had an escape hatch; others thought that he would never enter the tomb, but only appear to.

Famous at thirteen, for fermenting the Chicago River overnight, Pirlo had toured the world for years giving magic shows to packed arenas.

He bought a full block of real estate in upper Manhattan – the biggest retail purchase of a decade. He raised all the buildings in the area, and constructed an elaborate palace for himself, in which to live and work. He called it Giza.

The tabloids and news crews reported every step and maneuver as he prepared for the performance.

The Informant, a small-town southern news paper, announced that it had obtained segments of Pirlo’s “private magic documents”. Pirlo offered the newspaper billions to not reveal the trick. However, the editor, a man of modest means, released the concealed documents billions in a private film called “Pirlo’s secrets”. Teems of millions flooded movie theaters worldwide, but were frustrated by the inconclusiveness: no concrete explanation, no theory, no proof – the “private

basic idea

magic documents” were all encoded. Rather than an unveiling, the movie was a dialogue of possible explanations, using fragmented analysis and extrapolation. The most convincing evidence was presented in the last scene of the hour-long film, when a computer programmer described encrypted blueprints of a lifelike robot, in the image of Pirlo.

Pirlo maintained that a robot was not the secret to his trick. He alluded to something “older and more primitive, more innate”.

Days before the performance an Fx-Tech, a video game blog, produced a decoded version of the blueprints for Pirlo’s robot. Thinkers in every field stated that it was technology from a century in the future, Pirlo’s robot cures cancer, joked the onion.

However, hope amongst the masses grew. Scientific America indulged the public reporting “if it can do the things, the blue prints, say it would be the greatest technological breakthrough in a millennia, maybe two!”

Millions scanned the feed for clues. And s the moment drew closer, the bars and homes and stadiums were replete with eager masses, awaiting the bodacious.

Pirlo eats dinner with the OFFICIAL, on the balcony of the highest floor of Giza, surveying his garden. The OFFICIAL, saintly white skin radiates, beneath her whip cream gown. She tells him he needs to shave, and look tidy. At ten he leaves his abode. With a backdrop of pouring rain, and devastating electric vibrations, Pirlo walks naked, through his garden. One hundred thousand white candles illuminate Giza. He kneels. His eyes closed, he places his forehead on the muddy ground. With a flick of the neck, and crack of the jaw, he punctures the earth. He engages the bubbling blackness, biting, clawing, and carving. He makes a dent. A hole. A tunnel. Hours pass before he reaches the tomb, and without flinching he lunges into the chasm. Kicked by his falling foot, the walls of his tunnel collapse and the dirt follows him into the grave.

The Defense department monitored the ground to ensure that there was no tunneling of any kind.

Hours pass.

Pirlo walks up to the camera sobbing. On “Coffin-vision” Pirlo announces his failure. Then his regret. Then fear. “I mis-performed the procedure; I was never supposed to be in here. Oh my god help me, is anyone out there. It’s dark…” Millions watch silently; the feed is one way. “I fell in, the bot was supposed to fall in, but I did as well. He was supposed to be here alone. He was supposed to die here.” He presses. Presses a craftily made robot into the cameras, and says “yes, this is my trick, I’m sorry…You were all right, the rumor, the movie…” Crying, “I’m just a kid. I never wanted to do this, please. Mom I’m SORRY…” Pirlo cries, shivers, slams on the camera. The OFFICIAL watches from her bed.

TV Audiences everywhere sent billions of letters and videos, death threats, and lynch threats, to the OFFICIAL; pleading for her to forgo procedure and let the crew dig him up, chants of “let him live” were in every public square for weeks. From Moscow to Shanghai, from Barcelona to Reno, to Omaha, to Prague, there were the chants “LET HIM LIVE”, “LET HIM LIVE”. “LET HIM LIVE”…

However, a common trend in intellectual circles was to either accept and enjoy the fateful event – bask in the irony the rules he created; or to hold judgment till the last in order to not be fooled by his magic. Descartian precautions: it could camera tricks, a devious demon, dancing through our perception – cynics.

Still the masses: “LET HIM LIVE”.

The OFFICIAL did not flinch. She would not save Pirlo. She spoke of rules. Lawsuits, court orders, and procedures persisted, as the public and the government fought itself. Fought itself as to whether or not to allow The OFFICIAL to let die Pirlo. Even foreign nations sent in petitions stating their desire to not rescue the poor boy, “we cannot take the risk to wait and see if this man or machine. Save first, and then ask” – spoke Russian Federation President, Vladimir Putin. “

“Vlad: LET HIM LIVE”, tribune echoed.

Supreme Court Case characterized in the media as The OFFICIAL v. The WORLD, came down in favor of The OFFICIAL, and Pirlo or Pirlo’s robot in the cage was set

“TO DIE…”- times lamented.

Dusk, March, 21^st, Pirlo dies. The world watches in silence, as Pirlo twitches, loses breath, and fades. Celebrities and politicians sprinkle the special, “Coffin vision”, with voice-overs and speeches – sermons of hope and wisdom. The general public shuns and lambastes the few critics that remain – insensitive brutes, cynics.

Pirlo lies on his back, eyes piercing the cameras stare. Minutes go by without a blink. His eyes close steadily, and he emits a baritone sigh, that steadily sputters and ends. Minutes, pass and his body remains still. The lids of his eyes creep open for an instance, then close, as a smile grows on his face…

Scholars, and politicians, and religious leaders would discuss the meaning and severity of his death, and the introspection it incites within them. How could a state, with laws and dignity, let this little boy die? Millions attended shrines

Three days later, The OFFICIAL is walking through bustling time square. She stops, her flowing white dress waving in the wind. She is smiling as she glances upward. She ignores autograph seekers, and pick up artists, and just stands glancing. A few around her stop and squint, searching for what absorbs her – a stick figure on top of the coke bottle. “It’s him!” cries a peanut vendor, the bustle seems to stop as thousands follow his finger into the sky.

“It is, it is, it. Look…”

Pirlo waves; the crowd erupts. He stands on the oversized advertisement, adjacent to a stereo and microphone. He picks up the mic and shouts full force. “I GOTTTCHAAAAAA SNNNNITITTTITITTCHESSSS”, repeats, repeats, repeats.

“Robot Died, PIRLO LIVES”,

announced Life Magazine.

Many Hated it. Critics raved it. The Press Consumed it. The young worshipped it. Christians were split; some thought it was an act of great understanding to bring the world together in mourning, others thought that it was blaspheme, a crude reproduction of the death of Jesus. Liberals thought it was beautiful, the Republican’s “don’t like to talk about that stuff much”. Time Magazine showed teary eyed grandma’s and studio executives glued to the “universal prestige special”, as it came to me known. The world gossiped through the cruelty and the brilliance, the dedication and the mystery.

The OFFICIAL immediately released all documents and procedures relating to the illusion. Including a letter sent to the Informant with attached “private magic documents; and the decoded robot blueprint emailed to the Fx-Tech.

The day after his resurrection Pirlo announced, through his friend and confident Andre 3000, his plans.

Andre approaches the microphone, “One Love” instrumental pulsating. The mass of youngsters, flippant from juking, cringes. In slow Shakespearean tone and rhythm:

“Prince of metacognition, prince of precision,

Through me, Pirlo proclaims, his fiercest collision.

One journey done – of that you know none –

The next really isn’t the one

Magnificent Pirlo visits the sun.

The public was enthralled. The man of the year.

Godspeed quoth Time.

Pirlo gave interviews, lectures, even stadium renditions of his life story. Oprah got an exclusive, from his car.

He wanted to have one last interview on the Tonight Show on the night of his departure.

On the air he gave a delight chuckling interview, and talked about how its time to go and that he’s not sad, and understands what he needs to get out of, and come free into the next step. Not in a preachy tone, more of a controlled pray like tone, like a southern reverend coming home for the end of tearful piece. The crowd laughed, cried, and danced with him for half an hour.

As he is about to leave to the shuttle, he gets up and something eerie had happened. He hobbles about and looks back and see that a robotic leg has fallen out of his hip. As the public saw this, the Band struck out a creepy, screeching rhythm. The camera shoots to the band, questioningly, and back to the Pirlo. He chuckles and says “um excuse me”. It was a procedure after “I went surfing in my youth in Hawaii, just kidding seriously, could you hand that to me.” Jay Leno jumps over and grabbed the leg and examined, the camera peals in. Marvelously computers flutter with graphs and colors on the monitor of the leg cover.

Pirlo slowly starts to laugh, then laugh and shake, and shout with laughter. Then shake. Then shake, and then burst into a thousand pieces of metal. All but his head burst into shrapnel, missing the audience and all those on stage. A fisherman in Indonesia and a car salesman in Kansas City shutter as they realize: He chose this.

The intact, robotic head lay on in the middle of the tonight shows stage. Jay Leno and the camera man, crawls from under his desk, and scurries towards the head. Coughing and beckoning the cameraman, the host simply pushes the microphone to the lips of the object. “You got me, I’m no Pirlo. Anyways I’m out you guys,” the head says chuckling, “we’ve had a lot laughs. Peace.” The system twists’ and malfunctions. Then it utters in twisted slow tone. “Through my father’s death, we hope, you’ve seen life.”

…and his eyes read “End”

Mock Social Network

If you like the Office - you’ll love Silkstr. It’s not as much fun as the “red stapler” but nearly. Remember - please contribute to
Slikstr places one more layer on the art-imitating-life scrim by adopting the very “social networking tools” it mocks to better involve viewers in the fun. There’s a blog, a wikidot page with business plan, and page where you can create your own Slikstr video mashups

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Slikstr is a mock videoblog of the titular start-up, which aims to be “the world’s first user-created and -controlled company” with content entirely dictate and directed by its customers.

What does Slikstr actually do, you ask? Not much, really. And that’s the joke: Waiting for Godot exasperation set in the quotidian absurdity of the cubicle and boardroom.

Yes, it’s a rip on The Office (just so we get that out of the way right now), but with a twist of Lonelygirl’s YouTube that allows viewers to not only at first to believe the company’s real, but also watch the action from a variety of behind the scenes perspectives: vlogs, Second Life board meetings, interviews with “staff,” and sneak peeks at applicant interviews.

The whole thing essentially parodies the myriad of useless interactive websites and jobs that have exponentially multiplied since the boom of Web 2.0 start-ups: the company’s mission is not only completely superfluous, but its employees have also learned to speak in pseudo-professional jargon like “implement social networking tools” and constant reaffirmations that “YOU” the customer, is the creator that prove so necessary to convince themselves that what they’re doing is of importance.

Even though they’re clueless. Slikstr COO Michael Golan puts a smooth-selling, overoptimistic face on the company’s complete lack of actual content (watch him double talk his way through an explanation of his duties); Creative Director of Projects Joel Radcliffe has a nonchalant demeanor (an interview with him on what he does is riddled with “you know”s); Hannah Lindman, Director of Community Management and Support, maintains a bubbly exterior but doesn’t understand what’s going on; CEO Louis Ebbage seems to exist only through his Second Life avatar, and addresses customers with gems such as, “Slikstr is a dream, a dream of what can happen when technology and inspiration combine. Techperation, I call it”; and poor new hire Rob DiMenno is the only one honest enough to admit to being befuddled.

News - Tilzy.TV

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Tags: parody, office, social network, vilogs, entertainment, lonelygirl

A Networker’s Nightmare

The is post is an adaptation of Howard Thurman’s “A Strange Freedom“

It is a strange freedom to be adrift in the networked world of profiles without a sense of anchor anywhere. Always there is need of mooring, the need for the feed back that someone has heard you; that you are rooted in a place were others will see you. The urge to be accountable to someone, to know that beyond your screen there is an answer that must be given, cannot be denied. The post a man writes must be weighted in a balance held by another’s hand. The very spirit of a man tends to panic from desolation of going nameless up and down the Google, Spock or Wink rankings, where no Diggs greet and no friendly recognition makes secure. It is a strange freedom to be adrift in the world of profiles.

Always a way must be found for bringing into one’s solitary place the settled acknowledgment from another’s shout out, for getting the quiet sanction of another’s grace to undergrid the meaning of your avatar. To be ignored, to be passed over as of no account and of no meaning, is to be made into a phantom, a thing, not a living being. It is better to be the complete victim of an anger unrestrained and a wrath which knows no bounds, to be flamed and hacked without mercy or battered to a pulp by angry violence, then to be passed over as if one were not. Here at least one is dealt with, encountered, vanquished, or overwhelmed - but not ignored. It is a strange freedom to go nameless up and down the list of social networking platform rankings where no salutation greets and no sign is given to mark the place one calls one’s own.

The profile marks the claim a man stakes against the cyber world; it is the private banner under which he moves which is his right whatever else betides. The profile is a man’s water mark above which the tide can never rise. It is the thing he holds that keeps him in the way when every light has failed and every market has been destroyed. It is the rallying point around which a man gathers all that he means by himself. It is his announcement to all that he is present and accounted for in all areas of interest. To be made anonymous and to give to it the acquiescence of the heart is to live without life, for such a one, even death is not dying.

To be known, to be called by one’s handle, is to find one’s place and hold it against all the hordes of hell. This is to know one’s value, for one’s self alone. It is to honor an act as one’s very own, it is to live that is one’s very own, it is to bow before an altar that is one’s very own, it is to worship a god who is one very own.

It is a strange freedom to be adrift in the social networking world. to post with no accounting, to go nameless up and down the list of other minds where no salutation greets and no sign is given to mark the place one calls one’s own.

Step Two – The Art of Me in Zude

It’s more than a notion – building your brand in a virtual world. If I was building it for Corporation – I’d arrange a retreat where I would have an expensive facilitator conduct brain storming exercises to tease out some of the important concepts needed be expressed. Then, I would turn the project over to a project manager and a team of designers, writers and programmers that would be charged with developing a draft by a specific date – you get the idea.

Not so, this is much more personal. Not only do I not have the resources to engage in such a process, in some ways this is my fun that I want – need to master – because it’s me I want lay out on the screen. I still have the audience of one in mind – that stranger – that has no idea what I’m about, but gets drawn by some search engine or one off comment of a friend or through reading one of the post written about Zude.

If you read any of the reviews of Zude and there have been several: Terri Wells of SEOCHAT, David Berlind of ZDNET plus several others all tell about Zude’s team at 5g and the technology. Interesting stuff – revolutionary – gets thrown around many times in its discussion. If you want to know that kind of stuff, the guy that knows is Matt Wulkan – Director of Product Marketing. I’ve been real fortunate because when I asked a question – new people even more impressive than the last person I spoke with shows up. But I’ll spend more time focusing on the Zude team at another time

Today it’s about one of the Art Themes: Deconstruction. It’s the most difficult to explain.

“Deconstruction is in fact much closer to the original meaning of the word ‘analysis’ itself, which etymologically means “to undo” — a virtual synonym for “to de-construct.” … If anything is destroyed in a deconstructive reading, it is not the text, but the claim to unequivocal domination of one mode of signifying over another. A deconstructive reading is a reading which analyzes the specificity of a text’s critical difference from itself.”

Each image (6) was chosen to express a facet of a self analysis. There’s the multi colored Cow like those that littered Chicago’s Loop; the Male Afro Mask with brackets and other hardware and scraps taped to picture; a faceless torso with its gut split open and his face black out with a message stating “business as usual” where the face should be; a book cover with two long haired scholars – its title is “Stupidity”; there is a large multi colored scene that reminds me of a construction site; and lastly there is a abstract that looks something like a start burst.

Then there are two other elements: the video of Jacques Derrida – the French philosopher that has used the term Deconstruction throughout his work thus far; and forum titled Happiness Addiction. These are all the pieces that are in place. I will also had several others – music most of electric acid type – the Tied Tickled Trio; The Cinematic Orchestra or others. Then there will be a series of rotating essays – post that confront different subjects: politics – “How Black does Obama need be”, The future of being “Grey” – don’t worry they are intended for a audience that like post modern lit – Crit kind of stuff.

The point of deconstruction is that there is no point – it’s lost while being overdetermined.