A forum for safe discussion of art, music, philosophy, and what's for dinner, moderated by spinoza1112.

No bullying: no global assertions of the form "you are a butthead", for these are flames of level 1. Level 2 and level 3 flaming welcome, where level 2 is "what you do sucks" and level 3 is "what you like blows".

Verbosity considered as a small ratio x/y of ideas x to words y will be tolerated but, strangely in view of a view of the originator, isn't encouraged.

Nature having been conquered at least until recently we are hard wired for struggle therefore we Fight one another and must study to overcome, not Nature, but Man. We are hand to hand. Curiosity disappears, all problems thought to be solved. That "end of history" view, which produces necessarily the nihilism we see, is dying as Nature takes her revenge. Absolute curiosity returns as in what the FUCK was that.

There are two types of trolls. The older type posts ironically, without meaning what he says, in order to get a response. The newer usage is xenophobic and nasty because it refers to someone being honest as he can, but whose concerns or style differ from the majority. Trolling in the old sense will be moderated. Trolling in the new sense is encouraged.

Usually, I start out with a digital photo or two and then morph things in software in a jazzy, improvisatory way, sometimes mimicking traditional darkroom techniques, such as the sandwiching of negatives.

I'm only concerned with the play of color (or absence of color), form and painterliness (even though the work is digital in origin). There is no literary content in the work, no symbolism, nothing philosophical, nothing that could be expressed as or reduced to a text. Anyone familiar with developments in contemporary art will know where I'm coming from.

I think digital art is of huge importance because it is democratic and liberating. Most of the stuff I do is done in software that is free. There's almost no investment in expensive materials and a studio or darkroom, unless you include the PC and a printer. Anybody could do it, if they have a PC and maybe a simple point-and-shoot digital camera. Educationists, take note! It's more or less free; it's playful; it's without limits; it's non-elitist. Whatever it taxes, it's not the taxpayer.

Chris Hall

September ‘07

Chapter 1: The revenge of the dog turd

Percy Raptor, real-estate entrepreneur and consultant to the US property agency of Mogul, Mogul and Mogul, looked in disgust at the sole of his left loafer. He had just disembarked from Sea Spray, the Central to Lamma Island ferry, venturing for the first time into what he had been told was the world's last bastion of hippydom, only to discover that dog turds had to be negotiated every 10 meters or so.

It wasn't clear to Raptor how he was going to clean his shoe, but in the meantime, there were a few details to take in. Hippies, as such, didn't seem to be in evidence, but a twilight world of rickety boats, narrow paths, restaurants called Sampan and ladies in men's shirts, clearly awaited him. Basically, the place looked like an Asian version of a derelict English seaside town, falling into genteel poverty. "What a crumb-bum place this is," thought Raptor, as at last appeared an aging hippy, as prophesied, with flowing silvery locks, helping to carry furniture off the ferry while simultaneously reading a book. "The island that time forgot," Raptor finally verbalized, to no one in particular.

Raptor's eyes bulged in loathing as he took in the waste of resources at every turn. Land ripe for development was simply left covered in greenery. Residential areas needed to be bulldozed of their faded shacks and leased lodging houses. Lamma needed re-development. For Percy Raptor, re-development was a word close to sex. It turned him on. He needed a drink as his throat dried in anticipation of approaching pleasure. Yes, Lamma needed to be bulldozed. Besides, there were oil reserves in the Taiwan Strait and Raptor's friends in the CIA had hinted right from the get-go that the US needed a new base in Southeast Asia. They needed somewhere unobtrusive, where agencies and facade businesses could be set up. Spas, resorts, luxury apartments, some local enforcers thrown in for good measure, some back-handers left in a few Beijing bank accounts, communications centers a go-go, a casino or two, a new golf course, were already aching with lust for untold billions in potential profit margins.

Raptor felt an erection rising in his pants as he foresaw the new tomorrow for Lamma and realized that for no good reason, he was now outside a cutesy little cafe-restaurant called the Lamma Love-in. "An historic reference indeed," noted Raptor. "That's about as cute as these kids get I would guess." Anyway, anything for a beer, he thought, now that the day's humidity was finally taking a toll on his bulging boxer briefs and swollen member. But there were revelations still awaiting him. As he bent his quarter-back frame through the twee glass-paneled entrance to the Love-in, he was surprised by the sight of an odd box-like glass sign that dedicated the Love-in to the owner's long-lost Filipina girlfriend, Rosario dela Contemplacion dela Visayas. "Christ," thought Raptor, "what kind of loony erects a sign like that? This is an island of fruitcakes, that's for sure."

Finally seated in an ancient church pew close to the waterfront, Raptor finally relaxed, despite the smell of dog excrement that arose from his loafer and a whiff of sewage blown in from the water. Another ferry had arrived at the pier, and he watched with some curiosity the motley crowd that now flowed in like a tide of the down-at-heel. After exactly 32 minutes, a waitress with a hauntingly large bosom finally appeared. "Your good sir," she declared, "we are honored to be of service. Do you want anything to eat or drink." "I do; indeed I do," said Raptor, trying not to add expletives to his sense of bemused astonishment. "Why do you think I'm here, to admire the period architecture of the ferry pier?" "Yes sir," she replied. Raptor, close to snapping, finally grunted, "Haven't got all day, like you folks. How about a menu?" "Yes, sir." "And a beer. You have Carlsberg?" "Yes sir." "Don't call me sir; call me Percy," he said, trying to smile. "Where are you from honey?" "Manila, sir." "Don't call me sir." "Yes sir. I mean, no sir."

"Is this an island of the sane or an island mental institution," wondered Raptor, "abandoned by the British when they left?" Finally, a Carlsberg in hand, he became magnanimous. These people were in need of help. He would provide help, he and his friends.

His magnanimity was short-lived. He soon realized that one of the island's mongrel canines, one of a group of three now at his table, was inspecting his shit-glazed shoe with interest. Raptor leapt from the table, spilling the Carlsberg onto the shirt of the Filipina waitress, further emphasizing her generous natural assets. "Sir, let me help." She sat him down, took the shoe, pulled a toilet brush as if from nowhere and cleaned the loafer under a running water faucet on the waterfront wall. In seconds his shoe was clean. "I'm very grateful," murmured Raptor, as a new Carlsberg was set down. "Let me give you a tip." "Oh no sir, I cannot." "Why not?"

"The menu, sir. What would you like to eat?" Disregarding seven varieties of vegetarian food, Raptor finally settled for three fried eggs, a steak and French fries in garlic butter. He awoke from a semi doze when some 50 minutes later, the food finally arrived. "Well," thought Raptor, "the place is certainly a foodie's delight. You could spend your whole day here simply eating, everything moves so slowly." Still, after having his ego massaged by so many obsequious "sirs," and after having managed to get a good gander at the waitress's bra, he felt hungry and ready for a steady demolition job on the meal now at hand.

"So not afraid of a heart attack, old bean?" inquired a newcomer. "Doctor ordered you a cholesterol-rich diet?" Raptor, hardly believing the effrontery that had blown in with the sewage air, looked up to see a grinning westerner, totally bald and heavily tattooed, a cigarette dangling from one hand, the other fondling yet another dog, one that looked like it had skin disease. A gold ring adorned the left earlobe of the grinning face. "I'm a Texan," said Raptor. "Where I'm from, real men don't eat quiche or vegetable curries." "If you don't get into an organic meal or two, pretty soon you won't be eating at all," countered the grinning monkey-face. "You'll be six feet under. Here, let me be of help." Raptor was handed a flyer for an organic food store that also sold batik T-shirts and dresses, and "hand-thrown pots."

"Oh no," thought Raptor, "it's the sales pitch." He felt like he was back in the US, confronting smiley bike-riding Mormons. "My name is Van," grinned monkey-face. "When my mum gave birth to me, she listened to Astral Weeks all the time. So she named me Van." Raptor failed to make the logical connection, but he quickly realized that this would have been a trendy early 1970s birthing technique. The result was now standing before him. "I still cry when I hear that album, Astral Weeks. Not that I'm sad. I'm kind of happy and sad all at the same time. You know what I mean? I think Van Morrison was a genius. But he kind of self-destructed, know what I mean? Poor old Janet Planet, she just couldn't take it any more, know what I mean?"

Raptor winced, but he remembered his corporate training classes. Culture was a relative thing. Go with the client; go with the flow. Raptor tried it. He nodded nonchalantly, "I know what you mean." Van lit up; they had bonded. Raptor was suddenly afraid Van would try to hug him. "My friend and I run the store. It's on Main Street. If you spend more than 500 dollars in one day, we also throw in a free Tarot reading, plus your computer-generated star chart." "The 500 bucks, US or Hong Kong?" "US." Raptor for one second wondered under what circumstances he would be buying US$500 worth of batik T-shirts. Still, times had moved on from the 60s. These kids were different. These kids were now trying their hand at entrepreneurship and a primitive form of commodity trading, even though it could hardly be called capitalism as such.

"Main Street?" countered Raptor, "I didn't notice a street." "This IS Main Street," said monkey-face, grinning ear-to-ear.

"You could have fooled me," grunted Raptor as he finally staggered to his feet, stared in disbelief at the bill, which alleged he had consumed 498 Hong Kong dollars worth of food and drink, and finally reasoned that it was worth it just to get out of the place. The waitress took the money demurely, staring at her shoes, as Raptor stole one final glance down her shirt.