The Raging War Machine

Three years ago, Nick Cave received an intriguing request from Russell Crowe. The actor wanted him to write a draft screenplay for Gladiator II. Although Cave found the writing process "hugely enjoyable", Crowe and director Ridley Scott decided they had better look elsewhere.

"Luckily, it was so completely unacceptable they didn't even ask me to do rewrites," says Cave, with a kind of amused pride. "It wasn't makeable." Why not? "I wanted to write an anti-war film and use Gladiator as a raging war machine. He died in the first one so he comes back as the eternal warrior. It ended up in Vietnam and the Pentagon." He shrugs his spindly shoulders. "It was just this really wacked-out script."

[x][re:]

[re:] is the [x] presented by the notion of a [re:] but the [x] to [re:] a moment no longer [re:] as such by [x] the [x] to [re:] a possibility, since rendered inexistent, and to [re:] and [re:] in a new form that [x] [re:]

[x] in the late-capitalist post societies [x] are taught that the great movements of the [re:] are over - as if they were thought of [re:] at the [x] [re:] are taught that [x] is dead and that in any case it meant the same as [x] as if [x] did not begin life as a [re:] the [x] is the best our [re:] social models are the [x] ones and the [x] to [re:] is the only one worth [x] for. Meanwhile [re:] are spoonfed in the name of [x] the recycled necromantic wreckage of [x] [re:] and [re:] [x] when they were taken thirty years ago or more and now are drained of all [x] and desire.

[re:] suggest this and [x] take this truth to be [x] when the [re:] ends the [x] dies and that the only moment that can ever be [re:] is this single [x] right here by [x] and through it but to do it means to [re:] in the process a new [x] and a new [re:] needs to be [x] out of the latent currents in the [re:] [x]

"[re:]” wrote [x] “[re:]” And we have [re:] this [x] in the [x] and in a way we still [re:] it now. But what are these [x] [re:] already, of which [x] writes on here? And how can these [x] be known? When they are as different for us and everyone else in the [re:] as they are for us and us ourselves?

For [re:] as for [re:] the final [x] to both these questions was ultimately very simple. Simply: [x] must only learn to [re:] with their [x] [x] with their [re:] the whirlpools and tornadoes in the never-static [x] and this is why [re:] took its name from the latin verb [x] – because they understood that time they had, and to a degree they were, was always already gone and disappearing. Like [re:]

And [x] want to [re:] [x] and by that we don’t mean that we want simply to [re:] them, the [x] of them, or [re:] them, [re:] their mistakes. Rather, we want to [re:] their [x] only so that we can start from [x] so that we can leave that place [x]

And in all of this, the general [x] remains the same: we [x] without condition the [x] of [x] without [re:]

A Fragment

Izzy Wales was thinking about what she did. She didn't know whether she liked it, and she didn't know whether it mean a thing. One day,
near the end of last September, she had met three other women lingering in a bar. Americans,
they said that they were theatre students, spending a term in London working for experience in the industry. They could write it in their resumes, they said, and later this would help them get a real job, one that paid. Izzy remembered, she hd said,
i guess that you must all really love the theatre. to be wanting to going into it as a career and they
had all said that they did and then had told her what they did all day send letters answer phone calls stare at screens make tea and izzy hadn't known how to respond. Later,
she had walked home in the rain. It was a Friday night, and everyone was pouring out onto the streets from all the bars and clubs, girls in short skirts, guys in t-shirts, getting rained out, fighting, shouting, laughing, crying, kissing and Izzy had walked past them all and passed another woman walking in the opposite direction by herself and didn't meet her eyes, she had looked like a lonely and strange girl and Izzy has remembered wondering, did she look like that herself to other people? Or even looked like anything at all? Often Izzy thought
she must have become invisible, days and weeks would go past when she wouldn't say a word to anyone because no-one would seem to see her, no-one that she didn't know already and she wouldn't want to talk to them because they would all seem in her head just like names, or even strings,
of letters, things that had no characters attached to them, or feeling, and
she would think about them and would wonder whether she should call them but she never would - they just always seemed so cold to her, inside her head, as if they would not could not understand something that she could not understand herself - as if the would not under that, either that, or her her - they were the same - and izzy didn't want that. And so she would just walk around the city, sometimes men would look at her, but she would never look back, or talk to her, but she would never talk back - just say either yes or no, or maybe sometimes facts, about herself, or what she did, mostly, and where she came from, and sometimes
she would let them fuck her if they asked her. If they asked her, was they way she thought about it, if they had the guts to ask her, then they had the right. But never
her place, only ever always where they lived, and never more than three or four times. After that if they tried calling her she just didn't answer. Once
she remembered,
she met someone in a bar. He was drinking by himself. And she had stared at him until he could no longer ignore it, and then walked up to him and asked him if she could buy
him a drink. They spent that night together, and after
he had come he had started crying, started trying to tell her all about
something, tell her why, but he just couldn't and he knew it but he didn't know the reason. And she had slept a couple more times after that and then had never seen him since.
Sometimes she wondered where he was. But mostly didn't think
of him at all. And she
wondered if he thought of her. She didn't know, she guessed, maybe the same way. It was strange - he wasn't th

Oohs Flat Aahs Flat Too

An Experiment To Try At Home:

X - Oohs flat aahs flat too.
Y - What?
X - Oohs flat aahs flat too.
Y - I can't hear you.
X - Oohs flat aahs flat too.
Y - What did you say?
X - Oohs flat aahs too.
Y - I can't hear you.
X - Oohs flat aahs flat too.
Y - What?
X - Oohs flat aahs flat too.

Marks

If a marking is a classifying judgement and if a classifying judgement is a mark, one might suggest, up to a point (either of principle or pride) that the first and only real condition of a classifying judgement is just to mark x as x and only that, in reference to whatever arbritrary schema whatosever. Embalmed ones, mermaids, suckling pigs, and so on – this goes here.

But then, a schema is already an aggregate of markings. A discrete series of incidental demarcations, a secret set of drawn-up regulations. Indeed: a set of rules which serve to regulate what can legitimately be drawn at all, and what cannot.

But from where do such assemblages derive their own legitimation? No doubt: there always is a higher power. But precisely for this reason, there is ultimately no final power. Everbody is ultimately always answerable to someone else, elsewhere.

And the dream is, of course, to locate oneself is this elsewhere. Though perhaps this is a fascist dream. It is difficult to tell.