“the ‘means’ [le moyen] is also a means to achieve something other than its own end.” Ranciere, 2012

Miscellaneous / Cora Hillebrand / “the ‘means’ [le moyen] is also a means to achieve something other than its own end.” Ranciere, 2012

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Cykel / Bicycle
BY LINA PERSSON

The world shrunk and I could visit my friend in Vänge whenever I wanted to. Places interconnect in new ways. There was a straight path through the forest between Halla and Viklau which was a kilometer shorter than the long route by car. With my bicycle I can easily stop, take a side route and see where the grown-over path leads. Daily commuting is repeated with variations.
Spam chronique for tsnok “Calories”
No Pumps, No Surgery, No Exercises: 128 bit order processing.
The Archive Gallery presents Laura Kikauka
Honolulu Honky Tonk.
The rationally unattainable certainty
No one in the audience doubts that he is telling the truth, not even Wittgenstein, who might have been there. But Wittgenstein does not understand why Moore is saying it; he has never heard any one utter that kind of sentence before, so naturally he is a bit puzzled.
The hypermediate strategy of Sayuri Michima
The story of Parrhasius and Zeuxis written by Pliny the Elder in the first century AD expresses the most universal attitude towards art among the ancient Greeks and Romans. It’s about a painter called Zeuxis and his contemporary Parrhasius, who stage a contest to determine the greater artist. When Zeuxis unveils his painting of grapes, they appear so real birds fly down to peck at them. But when Zeuxis asks Parrhasius to pull aside the curtain from his painting, the curtain itself turns out to be a painted illusion. Parrhasius wins, and Zeuxis admits that although he has deceived the birds, Parrhasius has deceived him.
UNDO
Undo: the Real – Losing your consistency with the time passed since the departure. Reading a few fragments, feeding the jellyfish.
Plasma
Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.
Bacon and the collapse of the borderline between the joke and the sublime
by Staffan Boije Af Gennäs

Prague, 1990. It is the summer after the Berlin wall came down. I’m having breakfast at Hotel Jalta – a communist style luxurious establishment. Eggs, bacon, jam and toast. I’m sitting on the terrace facing Václavské námesti, the city’s main parade
Spam chronique for tsnoK, “Vote”
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Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère!
OK, stuff Foucault. We’re talking about Savannah Bob. In this case, the texts have been written in a situation where it was not possible to write without hiding behind a pseudonym. Anonymity is something else.

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Editor in chief: Jonatan Habib Engqvist.

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