[spectre] a lost lamb...

furtherfield info@furtherfield.org
Sun, 09 Sep 2001 02:59:42 +0000


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The Ballad of the Electric Sheep
who inside was really a lost lamb...


Once=20

when I was a cyber artist
I used to hide=20
behind a mask
some call it an alias
some call it a womb
some call it just plain scared...

All those wasted hours
of fun causing mayhem
killing time while=20
killing one=B9s real self
and my life=B9s
possible other selves

You see
I didn=B9t get it...

Honest
I just didn=B9t get it...
life that is

my projects and actions
were autistic in function
exploring new ideas
but they =20
were not real
or alive=20
because inside
I was dead

I used technology
to advertise entropy
on the back
of extropian dreams
keeping that flame
burning like a flag

but soon that flag
began to melt
like most illusions do
and time ate away at
my dystopian pangs

my mask began to feel
the gravity
and it had weight
declaring nothing but
the truth=B9s=20
the self lies
such vulnerable lies...


those vulnerable eyes
the windows to my soul
were closed
shut
not seeing

I was so busy
trying to be out there
in the world
the perfect object(s) of
self desire

I was always right
and the world was wrong
that is why I was
created after all
wasn=B9t it?
To put things right?

I used to believe that
empathy for others
was a failure
a weakness
a western designed
sentimental scheme
a Hollywood dream

I believed that ideas
were the passport
out of death in life
as well death in art

So I became an activist
a cyber artist
with a difference
I was  not only one
I was many

First there was one of me
then there was two
and then I multiplied
and then there 4=20
I soon became sixteen
of me
and now I am just
one...

that weight
that Ixion=B9s wheel
that I ignorantly
rested on my shoulder
was the mask


It really
was not me

I now that that now

As I punched
out at the world
with my hurting
I soon realised that
I was punching
at me

Each act of anger
was a moment
of self loathing
hidden by masculinity
and social programming

the default of hatred
war and gusto
disguised as honour
fooled me
for a while

I realise now
that I was asleep
in a coma
and it had become
my home
the womb

that electric womb
did once pulse=20
its cold juice in=20
and around my cranium
I had lost contact
with my heart

All my dreams
had become
the body electric
shimmering with a light
so bright
it was as though
I was alive

But I was not
really home

I saw the contempt
that I had created
in my domain
the cyber world
the place that I so
arrogantly claimed
as mine

As others questioned
my cyber antics
I shouted at them
with a hatred
of a lost lonely child

The truth is
that I am really human
and the tears that I
weep are a barometer
of the foolishness
that I feel

And as I watch
other electric sheep
dreaming and pissing
their souls away
in that ever blustery
ecstatic wind

creating their own
masks and mannerist
tasks
I know that what ever
I say is of no use
for they are dead
at present

but once they wake
and time has passed
a fresh light will
shine

I was brave enough
to throw that jigsaw
puzzle called life
into the air
watching
at last
using my eyes
seeing where they
actually land

I have not found god
or the answer to life
and those useless questions
designed to distract
and annoy
I have found
home...

a place without walls
a place without nationhood
a place that resides
inside of me
and the one I love=20


(a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-invention is not always the way
home. And there are many people who are homeless - physically, mentally as
well as emotionally. The most lost, are the one=B9s who hide behind the mask
of logic, the god of objectivity. The doctor=B9s knife. For behind that
muffled disguise is a subjective entity, riddled by the very natural state
we know as dysfunction. And dysfunction is dare I say it? A kind of truth.
Like a self lie. Like doubt, like death, birth and of course that thing tha=
t
we have labelled LOVE...)


marc garrett
http://www.furtherfield.org



































=20









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<HEAD>
<TITLE>a lost lamb...</TITLE>
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<FONT COLOR=3D"#000080"><B>The Ballad of the Electric Sheep <BR>
who inside was really a lost lamb...<BR>
</B></FONT><BR>
<BR>
Once <BR>
<BR>
when I was a cyber artist<BR>
I used to hide <BR>
behind a mask<BR>
some call it an alias<BR>
some call it a womb<BR>
some call it just plain scared...<BR>
<BR>
All those wasted hours <BR>
of fun causing mayhem<BR>
killing time while <BR>
killing one=B9s real self<BR>
and my life=B9s<BR>
possible other selves<BR>
<BR>
You see<BR>
I didn=B9t get it...<BR>
<BR>
Honest<BR>
I just didn=B9t get it...<BR>
life that is<BR>
<BR>
my projects and actions<BR>
were autistic in function<BR>
exploring new ideas<BR>
but they &nbsp;<BR>
were not real<BR>
or alive <BR>
because inside<BR>
I was dead<BR>
<BR>
I used technology<BR>
to advertise entropy<BR>
on the back<BR>
of extropian dreams<BR>
keeping that flame<BR>
burning like a flag<BR>
<BR>
but soon that flag<BR>
began to melt<BR>
like most illusions do<BR>
and time ate away at <BR>
my dystopian pangs<BR>
<BR>
my mask began to feel<BR>
the gravity<BR>
and it had weight<BR>
declaring nothing but<BR>
the truth=B9s <BR>
the self lies<BR>
such vulnerable lies...<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
those vulnerable eyes<BR>
the windows to my soul<BR>
were closed<BR>
shut<BR>
not seeing<BR>
<BR>
I was so busy<BR>
trying to be out there<BR>
in the world<BR>
the perfect object(s) of<BR>
self desire<BR>
<BR>
I was always right<BR>
and the world was wrong<BR>
that is why I was<BR>
created after all<BR>
wasn=B9t it?<BR>
To put things right?<BR>
<BR>
I used to believe that <BR>
empathy for others<BR>
was a failure<BR>
a weakness<BR>
a western designed<BR>
sentimental scheme<BR>
a Hollywood dream<BR>
<BR>
I believed that ideas<BR>
were the passport<BR>
out of death in life<BR>
as well death in art<BR>
<BR>
So I became an activist<BR>
a cyber artist<BR>
with a difference<BR>
I was &nbsp;not only one<BR>
I was many<BR>
<BR>
First there was one of me<BR>
then there was two<BR>
and then I multiplied<BR>
and then there 4 <BR>
I soon became sixteen<BR>
of me<BR>
and now I am just<BR>
one...<BR>
<BR>
that weight<BR>
that Ixion=B9s wheel<BR>
that I ignorantly<BR>
rested on my shoulder<BR>
was the mask<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
It really<BR>
was not me<BR>
<BR>
I now that that now<BR>
<BR>
As I punched<BR>
out at the world<BR>
with my hurting<BR>
I soon realised that<BR>
I was punching<BR>
at me<BR>
<BR>
Each act of anger<BR>
was a moment<BR>
of self loathing<BR>
hidden by masculinity<BR>
and social programming<BR>
<BR>
the default of hatred<BR>
war and gusto<BR>
disguised as honour<BR>
fooled me<BR>
for a while<BR>
<BR>
I realise now<BR>
that I was asleep<BR>
in a coma<BR>
and it had become<BR>
my home<BR>
the womb<BR>
<BR>
that electric womb<BR>
did once pulse <BR>
its cold juice in <BR>
and around my cranium<BR>
I had lost contact<BR>
with my heart<BR>
<BR>
All my dreams<BR>
had become<BR>
the body electric<BR>
shimmering with a light<BR>
so bright<BR>
it was as though<BR>
I was alive<BR>
<BR>
But I was not<BR>
really home<BR>
<BR>
I saw the contempt<BR>
that I had created<BR>
in my domain<BR>
the cyber world<BR>
the place that I so<BR>
arrogantly claimed<BR>
as mine<BR>
<BR>
As others questioned<BR>
my cyber antics<BR>
I shouted at them<BR>
with a hatred<BR>
of a lost lonely child<BR>
<BR>
The truth is<BR>
that I am really human<BR>
and the tears that I <BR>
weep are a barometer<BR>
of the foolishness<BR>
that I feel<BR>
<BR>
And as I watch<BR>
other electric sheep<BR>
dreaming and pissing<BR>
their souls away<BR>
in that ever blustery <BR>
ecstatic wind<BR>
<BR>
creating their own<BR>
masks and mannerist<BR>
tasks<BR>
I know that what ever<BR>
I say is of no use<BR>
for they are dead<BR>
at present<BR>
<BR>
but once they wake<BR>
and time has passed<BR>
a fresh light will<BR>
shine<BR>
<BR>
I was brave enough<BR>
to throw that jigsaw<BR>
puzzle called life<BR>
into the air<BR>
watching<BR>
at last<BR>
using my eyes<BR>
seeing where they<BR>
actually land<BR>
<BR>
I have not found god<BR>
or the answer to life<BR>
and those useless questions<BR>
designed to distract<BR>
and annoy<BR>
I have found<BR>
home...<BR>
<BR>
a place without walls<BR>
a place without nationhood<BR>
a place that resides<BR>
inside of me<BR>
and the one I love <BR>
<BR>
<BR>
(a spontaneous poem/prose declaring that re-invention is not always the way=
 home. And there are many people who are homeless - physically, mentally as =
well as emotionally. The most lost, are the one=B9s who hide behind the mask o=
f logic, the god of objectivity. The doctor=B9s knife. For behind that muffled=
 disguise is a subjective entity, riddled by the very natural state we know =
as dysfunction. And dysfunction is dare I say it? A kind of truth. Like a se=
lf lie. Like doubt, like death, birth and of course that thing that we have =
labelled LOVE...) &nbsp;&nbsp;<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
marc garrett<BR>
http://www.furtherfield.org<BR>
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