Dear Übernothing Readers,
We're introducing something new.
This is our first ever exposition of live, local art. We paid a visit to the mad scientists over at The Pangaea Project for a closer look at Parallels, a show that melded music, visuals, and poetry, all while bringing together both the old and new avant garde crowds. If you like what you see, keep your ear to the ground by checking out their page, because Pangaea is all about this kind of thing, and they're constantly organizing shows.
As for us, we'd like to make this a habit. Help us out by sending requests for event coverage to submissions@ubernothing.com.
Enjoy!
The Übernothing Team
We're introducing something new.
This is our first ever exposition of live, local art. We paid a visit to the mad scientists over at The Pangaea Project for a closer look at Parallels, a show that melded music, visuals, and poetry, all while bringing together both the old and new avant garde crowds. If you like what you see, keep your ear to the ground by checking out their page, because Pangaea is all about this kind of thing, and they're constantly organizing shows.
As for us, we'd like to make this a habit. Help us out by sending requests for event coverage to submissions@ubernothing.com.
Enjoy!
The Übernothing Team
PARALLELS
On the Occasion of Parallels
C. Quabela [sic]
Violent salutations from adjacent warehouse dogs juxtapose against a friendly puppy lulling the courtyard gain way. Earth ware décolletage: ubiquitous dirty white lawn chairs, exposed fire extinguishers, and the genially accepted but never quite questioned abundance of parceled off wood. The structure is metal and cement.
Inside: a crowd of heads adorned with beards and hats with no clear ratio but an intuitive feeling of how it should of or could of have been expected to be. Two couches to stand by. A labyrinth of uncertain conversation wafting past those unknown while the known converge upon each other; all ravenous – or bored. A difference? Postures of fleshly immanence induced by discomforted postures against the generally inhospitable atmosphere of warehouses.
Beer and background music though.
*****
Venue = the Venture Compound. Host/Wayne Williams. Jesse introduces the tuning supergroup which had been providing the ambiatic noise. The lights darken. Margaret Penny’s projections against the far wall illuminate the instrumentalists strewn across the warehouse floor with fluctuations sublimating what was once an indecipherable menagerie of chords and chromatic shadows into a single substance.
Wayne creates the center. Bradley Morewood brings in the night. The music is to suggest the poetry. Unknowingly, the rhythm will fight. Heckling encouraged (opportuned by the salutary dogs). The sounds and color intermingle. Anticipation: the atmosphere intensifies as Bradley joins – the manipulation begins. Delightfully the pain of the festivities’ birth encourages the cacophony to separate and merge. It bounces. Titillates.
A sign reads:
No Singing
No Dancing
No (unobserved)
The music recedes; calibrates. Morewood steps down.
Interruption – NO PARKING ACROSS THE STREET –
the xylophone sooths the megaphone’s reverberations.
Wayne resumes the night on his own terms, commanding the modesty of the music – a beseeching: “Please not let this be about death.” A prayer denied. A flag hangs low behind a panned window. Incongruous. Restlessness pervades through all the active and passive present; the setting intensifies. No one is exempt. Always one step, always just one step ahead.
“In a race, the quickest runner can never overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point whence the pursued started, so that the slower must always hold a lead.”
They close in perfect harmony.
Kristyan Panzika takes the floor. The music amplifies the passing of his words into an infinite present. Perplexity kicks off the set. Microphone adjusted. Tumescence against solid walls ricochets and envelopes – pleasure inverted is still pleasure. There will be no reprieve. The crowd remains acquiescent as the music secedes once again into a passive anticipation for more. Barry Moses intervenes.
The poet breaks and usurps. The music storms the podium. This is a battle. A circle of sound besieges a center of words in struggling tones. The warehouse dissolves as the music makes its assault in an eruption of sound driven by Moses’ madness, rectitude, and malice. He fades into the sounds of violence as the reverberations of his words compel the musicians onwards towards higher forms of destruction.
Instruments are resilient.
Morewood. The crowd subdues – we have been here before. Inspiration flows from the bottle as community between poets and spectators commingle with what has now become the transubstantiation between spectacle and stage. More and more join down onto the floor like corpuscular mole hills.
:: A mirror to the side of the set reflects nothing::
The red exit is closed against body while the entrance, a metal edifice suspended above those meandering between the show and a smoke releases the energy of Morewood’s words without diminishing what remains inside. A Vespa conspicuously sits amongst the objects pushed aside for the night’s event. Humble, yet reflecting better than the mirror the reality of what’s inside. There is a place outside of the compound that this is a part of. The applause of the crowd synchronizes with the music as it submerges into the silence of the poet’s sentiments. But of what none call tell except of their own.
Wayne enters the absent presence of the mic. Anticipations without gap. Unnoticed. Entwined with the resilient melody throughout. This has gone on for some time…A glittering savior sparkles in the panorama of lights and sounds at the threshold of the way in and out. “The morning glory.” The night – cooling. A chill pervades the caesura of space between the actively receptive bodies. One begins to speculate with the sudden realization of one’s presence:
Was this all
spontaneous?
Was it planned – crooked?
But it continues to evolve; interrupt flaws; seemingly redeemed by the continued heavenly presence guarding the entrance which is still yet an exit. Annihilation of death. The idols went out for a stroll but have yet to return. The bass(ness) intercedes and and structures the sadness unable to be achieved. The rhythm defies the life asserted through the words; the unspeakable interposed between that which is and has been created. The music fights back with time: defying and expelling the chaos into an interruption of correspondence. The very walls used in recourse to beat down the irreality upsetting the nerves. Neurosis through repetition. Opposing forces balance through disjunction – repairing transcendence through immanence.
Moses intervenes. A date tactile: at once grounding and trepidating. What next? Will there finally be salvation in the end? What was this all before, or still yet to come? Who serves who – just what has been happening?...the music seems likewise uncertain. From whence than may an answer come? Another question. The lights remain dark yet transmogrifying. Has it all been worth it, or has it all just been a distraction? “Groundwork.” Yeah, sure, but for what? The problem posed remains unanswered. A drink.
« Enivrez-Vous/Il faut être toujours ivre./Tout est là:/c'est l'unique question…./il faut vous
enivrer sans trêve. »
The end supersedes the beginning and ends again.
(Cement is not favorably to the ass. The perspective intervenes; perceives. It vibrates and awakens). Wayne picks up the charge. A duty! But passes, unperceived. Ambiguated once again, the instruments take up stock, slowly.
Body odor already – only an hour and a half in.
Art as in dreams can be exhausting – sweating in one’s sleep. Wayne’s melancholy, refusal, or comradeship. Maybe all the same.
The closer: “If I may?
A request for xylophone and bass. Not unreasonable. Buddhist monks step in: Jesse and Mark. The rest stand aside. Excused? Debased? No, debauched. Things remain small. A sanctuary at last. The mendacity reclaims its place in the world. Pervasion – reverberations –amplifications. Another orifice opened: a place to disappear. A fairy tale to end in the unbeknownst silence brought with or denied…either way lost. Sanctuary in a chasm; reality
“in the realm of possibilities"
is the exception.
The night erupts in one last try and decays. The words subdued, the fairy tale dies in the womb of the unsought that marked the finishing touches on a painting never to be seen; locked in the annals of inspiration carried out passed the unjustified night in the memories of those who were there.
Inside: a crowd of heads adorned with beards and hats with no clear ratio but an intuitive feeling of how it should of or could of have been expected to be. Two couches to stand by. A labyrinth of uncertain conversation wafting past those unknown while the known converge upon each other; all ravenous – or bored. A difference? Postures of fleshly immanence induced by discomforted postures against the generally inhospitable atmosphere of warehouses.
Beer and background music though.
*****
Venue = the Venture Compound. Host/Wayne Williams. Jesse introduces the tuning supergroup which had been providing the ambiatic noise. The lights darken. Margaret Penny’s projections against the far wall illuminate the instrumentalists strewn across the warehouse floor with fluctuations sublimating what was once an indecipherable menagerie of chords and chromatic shadows into a single substance.
Wayne creates the center. Bradley Morewood brings in the night. The music is to suggest the poetry. Unknowingly, the rhythm will fight. Heckling encouraged (opportuned by the salutary dogs). The sounds and color intermingle. Anticipation: the atmosphere intensifies as Bradley joins – the manipulation begins. Delightfully the pain of the festivities’ birth encourages the cacophony to separate and merge. It bounces. Titillates.
A sign reads:
No Singing
No Dancing
No (unobserved)
The music recedes; calibrates. Morewood steps down.
Interruption – NO PARKING ACROSS THE STREET –
the xylophone sooths the megaphone’s reverberations.
Wayne resumes the night on his own terms, commanding the modesty of the music – a beseeching: “Please not let this be about death.” A prayer denied. A flag hangs low behind a panned window. Incongruous. Restlessness pervades through all the active and passive present; the setting intensifies. No one is exempt. Always one step, always just one step ahead.
“In a race, the quickest runner can never overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point whence the pursued started, so that the slower must always hold a lead.”
They close in perfect harmony.
Kristyan Panzika takes the floor. The music amplifies the passing of his words into an infinite present. Perplexity kicks off the set. Microphone adjusted. Tumescence against solid walls ricochets and envelopes – pleasure inverted is still pleasure. There will be no reprieve. The crowd remains acquiescent as the music secedes once again into a passive anticipation for more. Barry Moses intervenes.
The poet breaks and usurps. The music storms the podium. This is a battle. A circle of sound besieges a center of words in struggling tones. The warehouse dissolves as the music makes its assault in an eruption of sound driven by Moses’ madness, rectitude, and malice. He fades into the sounds of violence as the reverberations of his words compel the musicians onwards towards higher forms of destruction.
Instruments are resilient.
Morewood. The crowd subdues – we have been here before. Inspiration flows from the bottle as community between poets and spectators commingle with what has now become the transubstantiation between spectacle and stage. More and more join down onto the floor like corpuscular mole hills.
:: A mirror to the side of the set reflects nothing::
The red exit is closed against body while the entrance, a metal edifice suspended above those meandering between the show and a smoke releases the energy of Morewood’s words without diminishing what remains inside. A Vespa conspicuously sits amongst the objects pushed aside for the night’s event. Humble, yet reflecting better than the mirror the reality of what’s inside. There is a place outside of the compound that this is a part of. The applause of the crowd synchronizes with the music as it submerges into the silence of the poet’s sentiments. But of what none call tell except of their own.
Wayne enters the absent presence of the mic. Anticipations without gap. Unnoticed. Entwined with the resilient melody throughout. This has gone on for some time…A glittering savior sparkles in the panorama of lights and sounds at the threshold of the way in and out. “The morning glory.” The night – cooling. A chill pervades the caesura of space between the actively receptive bodies. One begins to speculate with the sudden realization of one’s presence:
Was this all
spontaneous?
Was it planned – crooked?
But it continues to evolve; interrupt flaws; seemingly redeemed by the continued heavenly presence guarding the entrance which is still yet an exit. Annihilation of death. The idols went out for a stroll but have yet to return. The bass(ness) intercedes and and structures the sadness unable to be achieved. The rhythm defies the life asserted through the words; the unspeakable interposed between that which is and has been created. The music fights back with time: defying and expelling the chaos into an interruption of correspondence. The very walls used in recourse to beat down the irreality upsetting the nerves. Neurosis through repetition. Opposing forces balance through disjunction – repairing transcendence through immanence.
Moses intervenes. A date tactile: at once grounding and trepidating. What next? Will there finally be salvation in the end? What was this all before, or still yet to come? Who serves who – just what has been happening?...the music seems likewise uncertain. From whence than may an answer come? Another question. The lights remain dark yet transmogrifying. Has it all been worth it, or has it all just been a distraction? “Groundwork.” Yeah, sure, but for what? The problem posed remains unanswered. A drink.
« Enivrez-Vous/Il faut être toujours ivre./Tout est là:/c'est l'unique question…./il faut vous
enivrer sans trêve. »
The end supersedes the beginning and ends again.
(Cement is not favorably to the ass. The perspective intervenes; perceives. It vibrates and awakens). Wayne picks up the charge. A duty! But passes, unperceived. Ambiguated once again, the instruments take up stock, slowly.
Body odor already – only an hour and a half in.
Art as in dreams can be exhausting – sweating in one’s sleep. Wayne’s melancholy, refusal, or comradeship. Maybe all the same.
The closer: “If I may?
A request for xylophone and bass. Not unreasonable. Buddhist monks step in: Jesse and Mark. The rest stand aside. Excused? Debased? No, debauched. Things remain small. A sanctuary at last. The mendacity reclaims its place in the world. Pervasion – reverberations –amplifications. Another orifice opened: a place to disappear. A fairy tale to end in the unbeknownst silence brought with or denied…either way lost. Sanctuary in a chasm; reality
“in the realm of possibilities"
is the exception.
The night erupts in one last try and decays. The words subdued, the fairy tale dies in the womb of the unsought that marked the finishing touches on a painting never to be seen; locked in the annals of inspiration carried out passed the unjustified night in the memories of those who were there.