Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Beat Generator


Photo by Christopher Dombres. Creative Commons Attribution License.

Stumbled across this nifty 'Beat Generator' image in Washington City Paper's Weekend Arts Round-Up coverage of last weekends goings-on in DC. They also had an interview with Anne Waldman as she walked through the National Gallery's "Beat Memories" exhibition [this interview with Jesse Rausch is now no longer available on-line but photos from the occasion, by Chris Svetlik, may be seen here]. She (Anne) was in the capital to read "Howl", backed by a string-quartet performing Lee Hyla's score for the poem. There's a 3-minute clip of that performance posted on You Tube by Busboys & Poets (who've also got clips of Kyp Malone & Matthew Hemerlein up from the very same evening).

On the subject of Ginsberg riffs, we came across this entertaining and amusing parody of Howl by Oyl Miller on McSweeney's last week. Definitely needs posting here too! Check Oyl's blog for more.

TWEET.

BY OYL MILLER

- - - -

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

brevity, over-connectedness, emotionally starving for

attention, dragging themselves through virtual

communities at 3 am, surrounded by stale pizza and

neglected dreams, looking for angry meaning, any

meaning, same hat wearing hipsters burning for shared

and skeptical approval from the holographic projected

dynamo in the technology of the era, who weak

connections and recession wounded and directionless,

sat up, micro-conversing in the supernatural darkness of

Wi-Fi-enabled cafes, floating across the tops of cities,

contemplating techno, who bared their brains to the black

void of new media and the thought leaders and so called

experts who passed through community colleges with

radiant, prank playing eyes, hallucinating Seattle- and

Tarantino-like settings among pop scholars of war and

change, who dropped out in favor of following a creative

muse, publishing zines and obscene artworks on the

windows of the internet, who cowered in unshaven

rooms, in ironic superman underwear burning their money

in wastebaskets from the 1980s and listening to Nirvana

through paper thin walls, who got busted in their grungy

beards riding the Metro through Shinjuku station, who

ate digital in painted hotels or drank Elmer's glue in secret

alleyways, death or purgatoried their torsos with tattoos

taking the place of dreams, that turned into nightmares,

because there are no dreams in the New Immediacy,

incomparably blind to reality, inventing the new reality,

through hollow creations fed through illuminated screens.

Screens of shuttering tag clouds and image thumbnails

lightning in the mind surfing towards Boards of Canada

and Guevara, illuminating all the frozen matrices of time

between, megabyted solidities of borders and yesterday's

backyard wiffleball dawns, downloaded drunkenness

over rooftops, digital storefronts of flickering flash, a sun

and moon of programming joyrides sending vibrations to

mobile devices set on manner mode during twittering

wintering dusks of Peduca, ashtray rantings and coffee

stains that hid the mind, who bound themselves to

wireless devices for an endless ride of opiated

information from CNN.com and Google on sugary highs

until the noise of modems and fax machines brought them

down shuddering, with limited and vulgar verbiage to

comment threads, battered bleak of shared brain devoid

of brilliance in the drear light of a monitor, who sank all

night in interface's light of Pabst floated out and sat

through the stale sake afternoon in desolate pizza parlors,

listening to the crack of doom on separate nuclear iPods,

who texted continuously 140 characters at a time from

park to pond to bar to MOMA to Brooklyn Bridge lost

battalion of platonic laconic self proclaimed journalists

committed to a revolution of information, jumping down

the stoops off of R&B album covers out of the late

1980s, tweeting their screaming vomiting whispering facts

and advices and anecdotes of lunchtime sandwiches and

cat antics on couches with eyeballs following and

shockwaves of analytics and of authority and finding your

passion and other jargon, whole intellects underscored

and wiped clean in the total recall 24/7 365 assault all

under the gaze of once brilliant eyes.

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