K-Punk

constant escape

constant escape

winter withered, warm
And seemingly that timespan is shrinking, given the exposure the internet brings that parents often can't control. Shorter span of good young days, despite an increasingly long lifespan.
 
V

version

Well-known member
shiels said:
It's a beautiful interview - absolutely beautiful. the sentimentality and earnestness make it so, especially given the scene and context around it
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I thought that until yesterday. I dunno what happened. I just started rolling my eyes and thinking Burial sounded like a knob.
 
V

version

Well-known member
Eogx-Hln-W8-AEt-Sv.jpg
 
T

thirdform

pass the sick bucket
luka said:
It did occur to me that mark is nostalgic for the good old days of socialism in the way that burial is nostalgic for the good old days of rave. Utopias neither of them experienced, arriving at the burnt out fag end of those eras
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Mark is not nostalgic for socialism, he's nostalgic for the *left.* Which made his capitalist realism book even more lamentable. He hit on a fantastic idea, then decided to completely self-sabotage it.
 
T

thirdform

pass the sick bucket
luka said:
the concept of the individual just about still holds up today which proves we haven't reached the omega point yet.

Spring. The primroses are out
and the worst has already happened.
The Threshold has been crossed. There
is no longer any Inside, any Out. No
Sanctuary, no Stronghold, no Escape
no Hiding Place.
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I disagree. The concept of the individual was already null and void in Shakespeare's time. Come on lucius, you're a poet, read Timon of Athens!
 
V

version

Well-known member
You can still read the k-punk archives, and I recommend doing so to anyone who admires Fisher’s work—he first came to general notice as a blogger, and the medium is the message. But it can be a melancholy exercise. In part that’s because of the intensities you encounter—the Fishers, good and bad, that ultimately weren’t—and in part because the blog form itself, with its long-dead links, becomes an unwitting illustration of the split between Fisher and Land, the Left humanist Fisher became and the post-humanist that Land already was. He raves about an essay, you click on the link (and Fisher always links; he seems to want you to read all his friends and influences as much as he wants you to read him), and you wind up on another blog that hasn’t been updated in a decade, or on one of those zombie websites that cannibalizes old URLs, leaving a seemingly computer-generated text about “what employers should never do.” Or you follow the link embedded in a description of his friend Nina Power’s flat—“a space,” Fisher writes, “in which impersonal production is always happening”—and you find yourself at another zombie website, this one reading that business casual attire is “one of the best styles any gentleman can wear.” Impersonal production, indeed. The colonization of old web pages by the sort of search-engine-optimized advertisements that robots can and do write suggests what a Landian post-humanist world might sound like. Does the future belong to Fisher’s nervously excited human voice, or to these chittering algorithms?
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