Techno is a tendency in art.
An international word. Just a word, and the word a movement. Very easy to understand. Quite terribly simple. To make of it an artistic tendency must mean that one is anticipating complications. TECHNO psychology, TECHNO Germany cum indigestion and fog paroxysm, TECHNO literature, TECHNO bourgeoisie, and yourselves, honored artists, who are always dancing with bodies but never dancing the body itself, who are always dancing around the actual point. TECHNO world war without end, TECHNO revolution without beginning, TECHNO, you friends, esteemed divas, manufacturers, and evangelists. TECHNO TECH TECH NONO NO TECHNO NONONONONNONONONO THERE’S NO LIMIT
How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying TECHNO. How does one become famous? By saying Techno. With a noble gesture and delicate propriety. Till one goes crazy. Till one loses consciousness. How can one get rid of everything that smack of journalism, worms, everything nice and right, blinkered, moralistic, europeanized, enervated? By saying techno. techno is the world soul, techno is the pawnshop. techno is the world’s best lily-milk soap.
I shall be reading poems that are meant to dispense with conventional language, no less, and to have done with it. Techno Johann Fuschgang Goethe, Techno Art. Techno Dalai Lama, Techno Buddha, Techno Bible and Nietzsche. TECHNO NONONON TECH TECH. It’s a question of connections, and of loosening them up a bit to start with. I don’t want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people’s inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long.
It will serve to show how articulated movement comes into being. I let the vowels fool around. I let the vowels quite simply occur, as a cat miaows… Words emerge, shoulders of words, legs, arms, hands of words. Au, oi, uh. One shouldn’t let too many words out. A line of poetry is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by stockbrokers’ hands, hands worn smooth by coins. I want the word where it ends and begins. techno is the heart of words.
Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn’t I find it? Why can’t a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. Techno is a public concern of the first importance.
to put out a manifesto you must want: ABC
to fulminate against 1, 2, 3
to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big ABCs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest-appearance of some whore proves the essence. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word. To impose your ABC is a natural thing – hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluff-madonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare breast advertising the ardent sterile spring. The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m’enfoutisme, it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause.
But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: novelty, we are human and true for the sake of amusement, impulsive, vibrant to crucify boredom. At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest. I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles (half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the impressionists). I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense.
Techno – this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method she practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.
Every spectator is a plotter, if she tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, she allows her instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.
To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.
despite its toxicity and violence
can bring us closer to the possibility
of expressing human tenderness
if one is ambitious enough
to want to create a shared history
then one must be willing to risk an impossible dance
one that pivots
on a desire
to outmuscle exhaustion
a desire alive to our wavering capacities
to bestow and receive responses
and apparently insatiably desire
to question these desires and what motivates
and blocks them repeatedly
-Turbulence by Keith Hennessey (read by Jesse Hewitt)