posted by critical practice at 7:31 pm
Rie's Found Text....Imperfect ListAdolf Hitler. the dentist. Terry & June. fucking bastard Thatcher. Scouse impersonator. silly pathetic girlies. silly pathetic woman. macho dickhead. Bonnie Langford. neighbours. lost keys. phoney friend. ungrateful accusing mate. the Royal family. Stock Aitken & Waterman. smiling Judas. heartbreaking lying friend. Myra Hindley. acid rain. stinking rich female in furs. disloyal lover. wife & child beater. drunken abuser. racist. bully. The Sun newspaper. AIDS inventor. Leon Brittan. all nonsense. massive massive oilslick. Jimmy Tarbuck. loneliness. cancer. hunger. greed. gut wrenching disappointment. evil gossiping fashion bastard. tasteless a&r wanker. hard cold fish. overdraft like a mountain. the Jimmy Swaggart show. the Tory invention of the non-working class. poll tax. commie bashers. mister Jesse Helms. Hillsborough. weird british judges. apartheid. John Lennon's murder. anyone's murder. the breakdown of the NHS. the death of the rain forest. Heysel stadium. rednecks. rape. homelessness. the all-American way. Clause 28. Tiananmen Square. sexual harrassment. Nelson Mandela's imprisonment. Nancy's term. Ronnie's term. miscarriage. where were you?
OK, sorry about that, teething problems (does anyone know how to delete a post?) Feel free to add me to the 'Imperfect List' ...
The found text i found was a little different. I figured i'd try a watching a movie and then read an analysis. The movie i picked was the original dawn of the dead (gasp) and based on some of the things i've heard about (shunting aside the typical zombie\violence aspect of it) it was one of those movies that provide a satire of the society it was based on. But in any case i'll cut to the point show my source text from a review on hollywoodgothique.com"CONCLUSIONS Time has not blunted the film’s sharp satirical edge. That jabs at consumer culture are obvious but entertaining, though many critics, especially in America, where the horror genre is held in lwo regard, seem to miss the message. “I think generally the European audiences get more of the stuff that underlies the action—but it doesn’t underlie the action,” observes Romero. “People say, ‘There’s a hidden message about consumerism in DAWN OF THE DEAD.’ I always say, ‘It ain’t exactly hidden!’ It’s pretty much right up in your face.” Romero explains, “At their core, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD and the two sequels I made are about revolution, but only in the broadest sense. A new society replacing the old and devouring it—in this case, literally. Sociopolitical criticism and satire is neither hidden nor masquerading as allegory. It’s right out front. We took big, obvious swipes at the media, at religion, at the misuse of family as an institution, and principally at tribalism, at man’s inability to consider perspectives other than his own. That theme is central to all three of my zombie films: mankind bringing about its own defeat.” For some fans, NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD is still the superior movie. They mistake DAWN for a soulless sequel that abandons the tone and style of the original. But in truth the film, like its predecessor, is a perfect reflection of its time, and the “soulless” quality is an element under attack, part of the satirical depiction of the shopping mall, which Romero has dubbed “a temple of mindless consumerism.” In short, Romero took the lowest, most critically derided form of horror filmmaking—explicit gore—and turned it into a form of art. Mixing this outrageous bloodshed with outrageous humor, he also mounted a savage (if tongue-in-cheek) attack on the foibles of modern society. Despite containing elements that many would consider low-brow (not to mention offensive), the film truly earned the accolade bestowed by the Overlook Film Encyclopedia: Horror, which said, “Certainly one of the bloodiest films ever made, it is also memorable for its unusual sensitivity and intelligence.” "Whilst perhaps from a different point of view, Dawn of the dead may not be the best example of films that work like this but even so i feel my discoveries are enough to incite discussion about such satirical films.
I've had five attempts at adding a photo using photobucket. Just when I thought the world was complicated enough. I'm leaving the fifth attempt as an optimistic gesture. I've discovered how to delete (are you not getting little bins by your own comments, Rie?) so that's a silver-lining. Just so you know the photo is of a sticker that reads;"BUSH IS ANOTHER WORD FOR A CUNT"
Sarah's Found Text...(from "LONDON WALKS""Somewhere Else" London10.30 am Embankment Tube (Circle, District, Norhtern & Bakerloo Lines)What a delightful goulash of a walk this is. It gets you into streets that you'd just never find off your own bat - into a neighbourhood that precious few Londoners have seen, let alone visitors. It's a thrilling discovery - the real deal. There's no better sense of place in London - and no finer architectural effect. Yellow brick, perfectly preserved, all unselfconcious self-respect, real Cockney - unaltered Dickensian London. And the miracle is that it's still there, embedded in central London - screwed in to the big city. That discovery alone makes this one of those bewitching "somewhere else" London Walks. And getting there is a bit of all right too - because there's a dramatic river crossing, a stroll along the Thames, the world's foremost arts complex, London's best loved old theatre, a real London street market (instead of a tourist trap), a stunning bird's eye view of the capital (and there's a lift so we won't have to climb hundreds of stairs!), and buckets of character. Guided by Steve or Stephanie.
Found Text - from Nobody in the Cast by Barton, Booth, Buckles and Moore published by Longmans Canada Ltd.Activities. For Relaxation.1. You are an ice sculpture. As the music plays, you begin to melt very slowly: the thaw starts at your fingertips, then slowly moves to the rest of your body. Feel yourself melt until you are nothing but a pool of water. Free your mind of thoughts and simply relax, limp and lifeless, for at least three minutes. On the signal for the next exercise, come to life slowly, gently, stretching your muscles.2. You are a puppet. At the beginning of the exercise, the strings are pulled very tightly. The puppeteer relaxes the strings one at a time: your head drops first, then your hands, your arms, your shoulders, your hips, and finally your legs. You are now a crumpled heap on the floor.3. You are lying on a beach and someone is gradually covering you up with warm sand.4. You walk in front of a laser beam. Gradually, you disintegrate.5. You are a sleeping cat. Lie on the floor and become so limp that if the leader lifts up your hand or foot, your arm or leg flops around lifelessly.6. You are a rag doll. Bending from the hips, rhythimically flop to the left and to the right. Stretch up tall and become as rigid as steel. Flop down again like a doll. Repeat.
Gwen's found text(found it in the street torn from a page of text - thought it was interesting in that because it's torn from a sheet it's now read out of context, & because I feel i can subvert it more by completing the text myself - the beginings and endings).for theconsider close organisationof a businessceived toal behaviouragers; or evene or embarrassregards to clients.ociations with a'nonships' policy may useprocedures againstwho begins a personalat work - leading sometimesly few number of UK companiesrmal policy on relationshipshowever you should checkployment contract to see if youration does have one in place.ou could run the risk of your nship with you colleague beingout and may have face thequencesay need t consider whethernship is worthture withmanagwork; thesemanagement awareof interest, not to disindividuals.However, there isthat demands emptheir relationshipsall employees haveprivate matters towater muddies whmay have businas a personal fallis relationships wto sensitive informpositions.where there's gebusiness, it's possinsist on a transfersomeone to leave.romances don't falnot and you want yentitled to it.
MY FOUND TEXT :Without a deadlineI do nothingWith adeadlineI do nothingUntil the deadline is upon meThen I panicWhich isdoing nothing quicklyWhen the deadline has passedI begin workOn my excusesFrom - 'How to Live' by Simon Munnery
History also teaches us how to laugh at the solemnities of the origin.The lofty origin is no more than "a metaphysical extentension which arises from the belief that things are most precious and essential at the moment of birth ".We tend to think that this is the moment of their greatest perfection, when they emerged dazzeling from the hands of their creator or from the shadowless light of a first morning.The origin always preceeds the fall.It comes before the body ,before world and time:it isassociated with the gods,ands its story is always sung at theogony.But historical beginnings are lowly ;not in the sense of modest or discreet like the steps of a dove, but derisiveand ironic, capable of undoing every fatuation ."We wished to awaken the feeling of mans sovreignity by showing his devine birth: this path is now forbidden , since a monkey stands at the entrance".Man originated with a grimace over his future development;and Zarathrustra himself is plagued by a monkey who jumps along behind him, pulling at his coat tails.Foucault.Nietsche'geneology'history. zoe
My found text..De Maistre locks his door and changes into his pink-and-blue pyjamas. With no need of luggage, he travels to the sofa, the laegest piece of furniture in the room. His journey having shaken him from his usual lethargy, he looks at it through flesh eyes and rediscovers some of its qualities. Headmires the elegance of its feet and remembers the pleasant hours he has spent cradled in its cushions, dreaming of love and advancement in his career. From his sofa, de Mastre spies his bed. Once again, from a traveller's vantage point, he learns to appreciate this complex piece of furniture. He feels grateful for the nights he has spent in it and takes pride in the fact that his sheets almost match his pyjamas.(The art of Travel, by Alain de Botton, 2002. This text is the remark to the book "A Journey around My Room" by Xavier de Maistre in 1790.)
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Sayshun Jay's Found Text ...PLAGIARISM is covered by the university's regulations on academic Misconduct: sources of academic misconduct in coursework can include fellow students, published sources including the internet, essay banks and other commissioned and uncommissioned sources. See http://www.londonmet.ac.uk/academic-regulations/misconduct-1.cfmGUIDELINES FOR THE SUBMISSION OF COURSEWORK. Students are advised to keep a copy of every assignment.You must complete Sections A & B of this cover sheet and sign the declaration in Section A. This completed cover sheet should be attached to your work. Work will not be accepted without a cover sheet. The cover sheet will be stamped and the bottom part returned to you as a receipt. Receipts are available for work dropped through Drop boxes from the day after submission for two weeks only. The receipt is your proof of submission. Please keep it safe as your receipt may be required in the event of an assessment query.. Coursework deadlines - deadline dates will be published on the website; www.londonmet.ac.uk/deadlines. Late work - you may only submit coursework up to two weeks after the deadline date. A coursework assignment which is not submitted by the due date will normally be regarded as a non-submission unless Mitigating Circumstances for late submission are accepted. You will need to complete a mitigating Circumstances Form and supply documentary evidence of the reasons for your failure to submit by the due date.YOU SHOULD NOT LEAVE THE HANDLING IN OF YOUR WORK UNTIL THE LAST MINUTEDO NOT DETACH-RECIEPTS FOR COURSEWORKS SUBMITTED THROUGH POST BOXES WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR COLLECTION THE DAY AFTER SUBMISSION - AS SPECIFIED ON POST BOXES.1 MODULE CODE TA300/TA3D112 ASSIGNMENT NO 13 STUDENT ID NO. M2106844 STUDENT NAME MATTHEH INCLEDONOFFICE USE ONLYCOUSREWORK RECIEVED LONDON metropolitan university17 JAN 2005Undergraduate registryCalcutta House (1)White:Bottom half = Student's ReceiptYellow: Tutor/File CopyBlue: Remains on CourseworkI found this receipt in a book as I borrowed it from the Library, my initial reaction was that this receipt had been in there since 15 Jan 2005, the front of the book told me it had been taken out on the 23 Nov 2004, it was a three week loan, something didn't add up, the module code looked like no other I'd seen before, was the world conspiring against me, hadn't this book been bought up in conversation about my dissertation yesterday, were not all of the tutors screaming out it's name in praise today, hadn't I rushed here to get it, in case those other students got here before me and my masterpiece of a dissertation, my thesis would be ruined and no one had taken it out for almost two F**KING YEARS. All this anxiety disappeared as I used the self service till to check out my book, foregoing the desk stamping and awkward meeting with the Librarian. Such an idiot this book has been out a million times before and the students just use the self checkout system. Update The book was bought on the 19 Feb 2004I am the second person to take out this bookIt is not the same book all the tutors have been triumphing around the corridors of our fair central house.It is “Impressions Of Africa” by Raymond Roussel Paris 1910It is not “New Impressions Of Africa” by Raymond Roussel Paris I don’t know the date.Now available as an atlas anti-classic from bookaratbook Hoxton
My Found Text...Soho Comedy Club Roundtable Pub (upstairs) St Martins Court 8Pm Kate & DavidLeic Wyndhams Theatre Sq RoundTable *Free entry For Giles and a Friend*
The love song of J. Ald Prufrock. T.S EliotLet us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized (2) upon a table;Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsAnd sawdust (3) restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intentTo lead you to an overwhelming question . . .Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"Let us go and make our visit.In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo. (4)The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panesLicked its tongue into the corners of the evening,Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,And seeing that it was a soft October night,Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.And indeed there will be timeFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street,Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;There will be time, there will be timeTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;There will be time to murder and create,And time for all the works and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate;Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions,And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea.In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo.And indeed there will be timeTo wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"Time to turn back and descend the stair,With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]Do I dareDisturb the universe?In a minute there is timeFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.For I have known them all already, known them all:--Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;I know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from a farther room.So how should I presume?And I have known the eyes already, known them all--The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?And how should I presume?And I have known the arms already, known them all--Arms that are braceleted and white and bare[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]Is it perfume from a dressThat makes me so digress?Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.And should I then presume?And how should I begin?. . . . .Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streetsAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipesOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .I should have been a pair of ragged clawsScuttling across the floors of silent seas.. . . . .And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!Smoothed by long fingers,Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, (5)Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, (6)I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,And in short, I was afraid.And would it have been worth it, after all,After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,Would it have been worth while,To have bitten off the matter with a smile,To have squeezed the universe into a ballTo roll it toward some overwhelming question,To say: "I am Lazarus, (7) come from the deadCome back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--If one, settling a pillow by her head,Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.That is not it, at all."And would it have been worth it, after all,Would it have been worth while,After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along thefloor--And this, and so much more?--It is impossible to say just what I mean!But as if a magic lantern (8) threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:Would it have been worth whileIf one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,And turning toward the window, should say:"That is not it at all,That is not what I meant, at all.". . . . .No! I am not Prince Hamlet, (9) nor was meant to be;Am an attendant lord, one that will doTo swell a progress, start a scene or two,Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,Deferential, glad to be of use,Politic, cautious, and meticulous;Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuseAt times, indeed, almost ridiculous--Almost, at times, the Fool.I grow old . . .I grow old . . .I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.I do not think that they will sing to me.I have seen them riding seaward on the wavesCombing the white hair of the waves blown backWhen the wind blows the water white and black.We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brownTill human voices wake us, and we drown.
VOICE Manifesto“Whatever ……. makes you happy….”I’ve been wrestling with this statement all my life, because I’m still not sure what happiness is or what it constitutes. I have waves of cheerfulness, of elation; feeling that my life is progressing towards an enlightened place of hope. An obstacle occurs, as we’re constantly warned and reassured about, but no-one ever told me this would happen straight through the heart of my euphoria, at a time when I least expect it, worst of all want it. When misery beats me, I can only feel immense pain and failure to crawl past this damaged wreck, as I have done so many other times before. “Whatever makes you happy, do it” she always told me, with her sodden, glassy eyes closed and burning rosy cheeks, pressed against mine. Her VOICE was always a comfort to me and her advice an envelope of protection, a mask from the disenchanted reality I could no longer look in the eye. This free reign and unclothed counsel was always delivered through its own tragedy of reason, which is undoubtedly, a more interesting story than my own.Without ever forgetting, I once read that an unborn child’s first experience or sense of the ‘outside’ world is through the VOICE, specifically that of the Mother. A child once expelled from the womb becomes exposed and eventually conscious of language, experience and time. What we see isn’t necessarily what we hear. What we hear isn’t necessarily what we see. Our conversations with the VOICE are forever trailing our path and never letting go; to guide and carry us, to chide and bury us. As a Mother and once a child; this VOICE from within or appropriated from another, is therefore my life’s work and my work’s life. Yet, time is running out. Nothing that has been said before this day or that’s spoken after this statement will not influence or dictate the development of my creative path. It will happen, because it must.• This VOICE has a physical and emotional necessity that, as an artist and as human being, will help formulate the creative process.• This VOICE has a need and desire to fulfil the creative potential, in myself and to absorb that of everyone around me.• This VOICE has no compromise for anything or anyone outside of its own personal desires or direction.• This VOICE will penetrate and capture all other voices when it chooses. • This VOICE will always have a message to convey or a story to tell.• This VOICE demands attention at all times and I will obey its every call.• This VOICE can be heard by anyone with whom it is intended.• This VOICE promises it will never leave me.
This weeks 10 words:VoiceTruthBelieveLossMemoryCodeMessageInterpretConstructStoryOne word:VOICE
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