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vy ; byol ; chyl — i switch all of the lights off and when i open the windows the garden is bathed in red light it has the quality not of blood (you would think this , ) but of face paint , foundation ,, paste .


We arm the world (1) against ourselves
Organize the slaughter of scarecrows
How much blood
How many sabers
And bodies for cannons!
We inundate the mountains!

The light of flowers is gone already
Cover yourselves in slime heavens

the late mark fisher once wrote that we are experiencing ‘the slow cancellation of the future,’ which in turn is representative of a ‘deflation of expectations… [of] the feeling of belatedness, of living after the gold rush.’ we are swallowed by nostalgia, and incapable of moving forward; of imagining something entirely different .


in 1913, the futurist opera did not achieve its literal objective—to conquer the sun. its hectic, unrecognisable, and experimental costumes, language, movement, and music were derided and ignored. as with many other utopias , its optimism failed it, and it was thrown on the scrap-heap of disregarded future visions . 


if i try to resurrect it , i might be contributing to the same nostalgia . perhaps the opera is useless to me, and to us . but it might also point the way forward ; that its rough and shuddering beauty, and its refusal to be bound by norms and nostalgia, sets an example . it might help us to wriggle out of Fisher’s ‘deflation of expectations.’ we might learn to expect , again ; simply by seeing something which is chaos , and resists meaning . 


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