Make a frontal shot of a warehouse reconstruction site. Don’t forget to raise the camera a little so that you don’t eternize the cascade of broken whistles, glosticks, one-time UV tops (“Let love strip you!”), vivid memorabilia of rave parties. Use fisheye optics, color lens. Sides blur, you end up with a peculiar quality of bizarre geometrics. Transfer it to your favourite GFX environment. Play with it, make a collage. Use your imagination like you’ve never used it before. There, a glimpse of the industrial quarter, a vomitorium of consumer society, heavy rain, defected metabolism. A multitude of asymmetric primitives, each with different IOR values. A vast cloud of raw energy, sexual hunger and inferiority complex.Effectize. Little tints here and there. Use random filters on random areas. Alter the palette, go neon if you like. Render a stereogram based on a Lyapunov and paste it on a transparency layer, like a ghost hunting over Europe. Dress it up with memories. Scents. Smells. Let it reek. Five percent of communism, ten of desperate consumer socialism. Another five stinks of piss, the right wing riots. Twenty goes for an elegant and hectic champagne-filled luxury odor, the Mafia. The rest, a massive load of sixty percent has an undefinable, infinitely complex scent molecule of massive drug deficiencies, herd conformity, sheer hope, anonymous terror assaults against corporate systems, a handful of new art movements.Go multimedia. Go for the atmosphere. Go film.Go for the soft that is capable of modular production of shrilling bat hymns at 19 kHz and subliminal ramblings at 8 Hz. Fuzz, expand, eq, distort, loop. You’ve just gotten yourself such a killer brainwave-pattern-altering stuff, it makes li’l Industrial Jonny Bimbo fall off his subwoofer throne, his neurons neatly folded in half. A curtain of white noise, dripping with speech cuts and tele-ads.
Now disinfect your work, clean all virii of the past, those of history, sociopolitics, attitudes, alienations. Globalize. Delight in what you have done. Dive into it head-first, come back for air every ten seconds.
The Multiplex. Where it all started.
The file date tells me I wrote this six years ago, “The Bullet-Dodger Blues“, lost amongst huge chunks of bad literary meat.