Transcript The impulse to speak and hear clearly is certainly experienced here and now- Speaking into this microphone wired into a digital audio recorder wired to the wall- this process involves such of variety of linked and overlapping technologies that we may feel overwhelmed- however conveninced. Are we indebted to what we do not understand? I don't know, in the same way that I don't know how my voice gets impressed into this digital machine and further onto the internet; the same way that I didn't and still don't know... I mean, really know, how the disc jockey's voice transmitted through invisible waves in the air. Ah, the wonder of it all, the wilful and the un-wilful ignorance all basking under the same world of wonder. The thoughts of consciousness transposed into word/utterance/sign/signage/signature. The air shots up through my larynx to vocal cord and words come out of my mouth or at at least seem to, onto this recording. So many technologies. Am I speaking freely or am I reading prepared text? You can only guess, I guess, unless some expertise exists of knowing the nuance of a reading relative to a non-reading free speaker... like one of those people who certifies the authenticity of objects, such as signatures. Do such experts exist? I don't much care either way. Whether I am improvising or reading this speech may remain a mystery of little concern for us. The reason I brought it up was in order to further wondering about the tangled varying technologies at play here/now; this immediacy forever shorthanded as 'presence' and 'the present'. Writing as recording...and then recording the recitation of the writing is like a recording of a recording... something incestuous...downwardly spiraling... overrefined... recording record recording... loops of feedback relooped... regenerated degenerations...so many natures wrapped around so many technologies we begin to lose the ability to keep track and so we don't... like blind maggots reaching up from our mutual soil/fertility/rot; our conception; our wretched industrial existence; our common shared stench; this mortal coil. We breathe the radio and cell phone waves with the glee of not yet being tumoured and yet even the idea of ghosts , souls and dreams has now finally and tragically been taken... somewhere else, certainly not in the zone of the jeering taunting tainted corporate representation, but hopefully somewhere safe and beautiful... souls, dreams and ghosts deserve someplace beautiful, don't you think?

Transcript It's the first day of September 2014, I'm Chad MacQuarrie in Vancouver British Columbia and welcome to the second installment of Reuseable Radio, A Rented Crutch Production. Ah, the disconcerting suspicion that language only refers to itself again and again, over and over... imploding feedback loop, sucking vortex sucking, falling star falling. Maybe the meduim really is the message but the message maybe nothing more or less that an endless array of reflections of self, me and I endlessly reconfiguring/mutating each other in the narrsissis pond, our so called gene pools wrapped in an ocean of our so-called other, non-scientific: collective consciousness, ourselves, we. Could it be that the speaker only cares about him or her self while appearing to inform/educate/ indoctrinate us all with new combinations/mixtures from the same old familiar lexicon/dictionary/language of words and gestures? The kind of crazy notion that we are what we say is all the more crazy when it gains, develops and maintains a certain dominance from within our own collective efforts as norms, conventions and behaviours. Collective efforts which forge institutions risk the jeopardy of becoming terminal forms of power invested into and beyond the pure theories of religion and the practical ideas of politics each swirling around the other into a wild orgy of snakes and worms, forging, engineering, generating 'the one', the viper, the Messiah, the serpant, the Savior, the gestalt, the greatest refinement and it's unforeseeable tragedy and so on and so on and on. But after the play/fair/party/orgy/harvest/sacrifice is over daybreak illuminates a motley array of drowsy officals and clerics of many colors and ranks left busy compensating each other in a confused 5 dimensional version of musical chairs. Rotting grapevines connecting to broken Chinese telephones, oh my. All the crazy messages, twining down broken, rotten lines. The orgin of convention is always the elephant in the room or perhaps we should say all the elephants in all the rooms at once and downstairs all the monkeys on all the typewriters at once, clicking away keeping all quantum posibilities and astral planes well lubricated and calberated for whatever coming happens to come next. Whatever Ha mlet or Raskolnokov may emerge on whatever horizon. Maybe like how every donut needs a hole, every room needs an elephant, every closet needs a skeleton, every clever figure of speech needs a wise man's larynx and pen. The blessing and praise from ghosts maybe the only way for habits, rituals and ethics to span many generations, to be peranial, immortal even. Somehow in my loose, free wheeling, silly mind a field of eggplants just happens to sprout, flourish and harvest underneath the heavy feet of 10 thousand elephants. Ah, lets think about 10 billion penguins all dancing in perfect sycronicity to ancient nordic hymns. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” oh how all the cowardly vicious boneheaded tarts amongst us harp endlessly, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” But shut up now... just for a moment, listen to the elephants romping in the eggplants, pressing the pulp with great grey ivory nailed toes stomping towards some strange bitter wine. Ah. (MUSIC) Listen, I may be unprepared for this broadcast/recording/speech/vanity fair, whatever it is, whatever you want to call it, whatever I want to call it, whatever it might want to be called. Maybe I'm unprepared to make any reasonable announcement... ah, err, make any announcement reasonably, to make an announcement, to announce, to reason, to speak comprehensively, clearly. Maybe I'm too tired, in need of rest, low blood sugar levels, low dopamine levels. Nodding off while the audience boos hisses and heckles in disappointment. Ah, I'm off to a bad start wearing my uncertainties, insecurities and ill confidences on my sleeves like drool dangling from lips so undesirable, undesired, so unentertained and unentertaining, so repulsed and repulsive, dumbing and dumb... ahg! But maybe this very disabled speech can find some positive value, some reconciliation- 'We are most creative when we are tired/underrested,' they say. Or 'We learn from our mistakes, no pain, no gain, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' endlessly harp the stoic, hopeful and optimistic. But do we really learn from our weaknesses?; our mistakes? But weaknesses and mistakes are value judgements meaning that they are strictly acts of perception rather than material or materials. But than again so is learning. We don't buy and consume textbooks like we buy and consume food, but we continue to consume ourselves with the idea of such equivalances otherwise institutions like public school as it is would never have suceeded for this long. Consciousness is not spectacular, reality is not a show. Determinations can not change this. The heavens are not fireworks, potency rings beyond every height, pin holes in dark blue fabric don't blast and fade away but rather peer and persist. Our personas and personalities are as dynamic and finite as our bodies despite all the spectacular narratives of popular lore and history which preach the grand- perhaps grandest- lie that our personas and souls are bound by fate, an earthly, worldly fate which guarentees the hubris of identity. Like a parasite, identity starves the soul. Lets throw the monkeys from our backs and then underneath whatever bus happens to be barrelling by, murdering the entire microcosim of germs burrowing in our folds with a carelessness resulting in silent horror and violence. I have an ongoing waking day mare that this is what happens with every casual usage of hand sanitizer. Like fools, like dogs barking against our own vicious echo Don Quiotte and his windmill and his wind, our wind, farting away... Energies collide with forces and forces collide with energies until they finally collude, combine, circulate, co-operate, deploying each other's allegiance like ghosts. Ah, finally final. (MUSIC)

"The word is the body," mouthed the body's face from the mouth. From the mouth of the body, "It is all words and only words." Only mouths can mouth. The mouth is the spring where words come from. Like invisible little eggs hatched in the air words float and flow embedded in an even more mysterious substance, like a road or path where the words flow like a river or a waterfall or maybe streaming plasma which allow our words to phrase and flow into sentence, paragraphs, speeches, chapters and eventually books and even 'schools of thought.' In fact the very facticity of language does not involve an accumulation and collection of units (words) in feedback loops of exchange but rather their application, their flow. Subjectivity is not merely feedback just as a river is not merely the fish in it. Because of this I assert that Saint Augustine and consequently Wittgenstein have expanded from a colossal error which to this very moment burdens our collective participation as developmental forms of life in being and existence. Our dominating concept of language as mere feedback has created this glitching digital world/affair of our common indifference, our hell, our collective weary sigh of "whatever… whatever." Plato's famous ancient announcement about beauty being in the beholder's eye continues to reach us here from the darkest pits of history, or does it? Is beauty in our eye or is it somewhere else? (MINOR THREAT MUTATION) Our new Canadian prime minister Justin Trudeau is described, celebrated and received as 'super hot' Is it not so that the contest, the argument against the objectification of beauty is about retaining the beauty in our eyes, in our bodies, in our selves rather than squandering it on the plasticity of image? Both Oedipus and Christ act and speak dramatically about tearing out the eyes and we seem warned of something but what? Our eyes are swaddled into beds of clear warm tears. They are portholes to all colours and forms. When we call or label an other as 'hot' are we not forfeiting one of the most emancipating effects of social experience available? Is it because we lack the courage to express ourselves to claim our attractions? Pissing our own courage and beauty away but for what? For the heat of the other? The warmth resonating from the erotic image like tears drooling from tragic eyes- And now for a message from our sponsor- (sung) "What's the matter with your face? What's the matter with your skin?" "At snooper's pharmakon and confectionary we know what makes a great face... great skin! That's why you can rest assured that all our formally trained face care specialists can always help you select the perfect facial care products just right for your facial needs! "Moisturize and exfoiliate your face just perfectly in order to maximize your true facial beauty's impact on the world!" Amongst all the offensive and nauseating fabrication and propaganda from our last Canadian federal election what continues to echo in my memory is super duper hot Justin Trudeau announcing in the form of corporate newspaper headline that if elected he would "Tell Putin off to his face." Enthusiastically telling off the leader of a super power with the nuclear capacity to destroy the whole world may or may not illustrate the persona of one man but much more importantly it reckons the utter impotency of our democratic collective. A reckoning of darkness is indeed a dark reckoning just as a desire for blindness is indeed a queer desire.