accel a rant

robot big bands, computerised service staff, andriods perform shakespeare, a new and excitingly different mechanised and automated future society awaits us all, streamlined and expediated, microbes via their human hosts take over the world and there's nothing the cia or g8 can do about it
and as the virus spreads sport still brings the good drones together while false gods of corporate greed busy themselves behind closed boardroom doors scheming imaginative ways of fleecing the loyal and attracting new consumers under the pretext of satisfying good drone shareholders hungry for more who raise their expectations against the rising tide of debt that is evidently held at bay by the insurmountable sea wall of little plastic swipe cards
the future is now
meanwhile in deep space the lonely brainnauts freedrift looking back at Mothership Gaia wondering how long we can hold on to this self created speeding machine accelerating towards a pre dark age oblivion, probing the dark side of other planets so we can ship the false gods to safety before the drones realise that the whole shithouse is about to go up
and if the microbes discover a portal through a black hole, then what? infestations of other galaxies?
the future is now where there is no past we must look forward gear up prepare for the worst expect everything produce more on time everytime no matter what the cost remember there is not enough time our troops need you afterall they champion world peace, your security, your future happiness against the peril of anyone who does hold the same false gods to be truth
bah humbug.

Xmas Cheer

Above the trees there is only birdcall.
The pohutukawa are more crimson than Coca Cola's Santa Claus will ever be, mainly cos he ain't real, though you'd be hard pressed to convince the mall rats in the valleys of that right now.
Xmas splurges are taxing the punters and driving them to random acts of road rage and store front stampede. Boy do they know it's Xmas, or what? Collective amnesia consumes the consumers, they did this last year, right? It's easy for me to say -childless in the treetops- but I'm all for delaying Xmas shopping until the 26th when the stores reopen and the sales begin. Better still I like to ignore it all together except for the grub of course, I would miss rolling around like an overstuffed snake in front of the lamest TV the nation will have seen since last December.
Nah, a towel on the beach is the place to be. Lapping briny (no tsunami thanks God), rustling pohutukawas (just for effect), hot iron sand, turning red as a beet and therefore doing my bit for the spirit of Xmas.
Yo Ho Ho and a bottle of Corazon me hearties!

AstroNUT or Brainaut?

DIG Brainaut 0.3 by the Hamilton Taight Process

Whether OUT there in Outer Space or IN there in Inner Space no-one can hear you scream...

A voyager who has traversed both the inner and outer realms and returned to tell the tale is Hamilton Taight. Utilising the Hamilton Taight Process he has charted the antipodes of the psyche. Further exploration led to the unlocking of the so-called 'Flashback' synapses to fully open the channels neccessary for hyperreal super-dimensional travel. Here began Hamiltons greatest voyage through the canyons of your mind to the centre of the Innerverse around which the Outerverse revolves, generating the collective hallucination known in scientific terms as reality. This voyage to find the make-up and location of the DIG receptor/transmitter cell, was almost to cost him his sanity.

A freak accident at Labartoire Extra Para-Perceptual, sent our plucky Brainaut spinning off into the super-conscious, past Freudian black holes, Jungian wormholes and the galaxy of uncertainties. As luck (666 Billion to One) would have it, Hamilton managed to hitch a lift on Learys Comet, passing through the McKenna Nebula on it's

3 Millisecond journey around Big-Bang Central towards the cerebral cortex.

Since his return Hamilton has paved the way for thousands of Inner World colonists keen to experience supersensory overload and philosophical endarkenment.

DIG is proud to have such a notable Sci-Fientist collaborating on it's own humble research into the secrets at the core of our existence and the very nature of 'THANG'. You DIG!

Feliz Navidad

©BurgsEye 2005

The Truth - William S.Burroughs

Anti War StaNZ

New Zealand, the nice guys of the Western World. So nice, their army had traditionlly existed to help fight other peoples fights in much the same way you might stick up for a troublesome relative who always starts a scrap in the High Street. You don't want to help, you don't agree with your relative or their tactics and you know you are going to get a pasting, but you are obliged, LOYAL like Dave Dobbyn.

This has has been going on since Gallipoli. Nowadays alllies get to choose their role so New Zealand helps civilians in war- zones, supports UN misions and generally mops up after it's messy aggressive cousins, in the name of loyalty.

It is time for NZ to get real, if anyone was capable of invading this remote outpost of ex-colonial capitalism they would be equipped to deal to the NZA brutally and effectively. Who is New Zealand going to start a war against...Indonesia, Japan, China, New Caledonia? There is an obvious answer; Go neutral, it never harmed either Sweden or Switzerland, quite the contrary. Convert the army to rangers and the Navy (Both Ships) into a working coastguard, saving recreational yachtsmen and chasing Japanese Whaling ships. Protect the lives and environment of New Zealand itself, while the new neutrality improves opportunities for economy without subordinating to unfair trade agreements, foisted upon it by it's disreputable cousins to their distinct advantage.

Here endeth the rant...

(Anti-War StaNZ - Original Collage by the Reverend 2004)

© BurgsEye 2002

"The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life itself, which is a work of art. When man becomes fully concious of his powers, his role, his destiny, he is an artist and he ceases to struggle with reality. He becomes a traitor to the human race. He creates war because he has become permanently out of step with the rest of humanity. He sits on the doorstep of his mother's womb with his race memories and his incestuous longings and he refuses to budge. He lives out his dream in Paradise. He transmutes his real experience of life into spiritual equations. He scorns the ordinary alphabet which yields at most only a grammar of thought, and adopts the symbol, the metaphor, the ideaograph. He writes Chinese. He creates an impossible world out of an incomprehensible language, a lie that enchants and enslaves men..."

-Henry Miller (1937)
The World of Lawrence: A Passionate Appreciation (1980)

'Baxter'

Because the flax blades bend above
The dark bay, this way and that

In the shoreward wind; because their fronds
Are loud and heavy as if loaded

With clangour of remembered fatal words;
Because the great skein cannot be unwound

Begun by anger in the birth cords twist
That plaits a noose of water for the land;

I will not go on the green cliff-top track
Tonight or any night while the sea’s throat

Is filled with the voices of the oldest friends
Who offer what the living cannot find.

From Ode to Auckland and Other Poems by James K.Baxter
'Baxter' Original Print by Neil Buddle - Exhibiting at Corban Estate Arts Centre New Zealand

'Gibran'

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot enter even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
But seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
And he bends you with his might that
his arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness.
From the Wanderer by Kalil Gibran
'Gibran' Original Print by Neil Buddle - Exhibiting at Corban Estate Arts Centre

'Hesse'

He who travels far will often see things
Far removed from what he believed was Truth.
When he talks about it in the fields at home,
He is often accused of lying.
For the obdurate people will not believe
What they do not see and distinctly feel.
Inexperience, I believe,
Will give little creedence to my song.

From Journey to the East by Herman Hesse

'Hesse' Original Print by Neil Buddle

3rd of 5 posted on the DIGlog

Currently being exhibited at Corban Estate Arts Centre, Henderson, Auckland, New Zealand

'Ferlinghetti'

Don’t let that horse eat that violin
Cried Chagall’s mother but he
kept right on painting
And became famous
And kept on painting the horse with violin in it’s mouth
And when he finally finished
He jumped up on the horse
And rode away
Waving the violin
And then with a low bow
Gave it to the first naked nude he ran across
And there were no strings attached.
From a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

"Ferlinghetti' original print by Neil Buddle

This print is the second of five posted on the DIGlog. The original prints can be seen currently at the Corban Estate Arts Centre, Henderson, Auckland, New Zealand

War of the Words

There is a war, a war of words that kills and maims everyday.
Volleys of misinformation,
salvos of rhetoric,
bombs of ignorance.
Weapons of mass distraction raining down upon you, launched from a billion media cannons. Subscribed, underwritten and broadcast.

This offensive offensive, is rewritten, like history, everyday.
A brave tomorrow requires a courageous new past from which to spring.
Peace of mind?
Or a piece of our minds?
Cleansed, like the fresh page upon which untrue words sit like land mines, set to maim the innocent and the politically dyslexic.

Write your own history in advance.
Be your own author in this collective autobiography.
A journalist of self who cannot lie.

This raw war rages through the ages
and on red pages we have read.
Take up words like secret weapons
and say what must be said.

Transmit and you shall receive!

The Reverend

now

©BurgsEye 2005

"...art is that pure selfless action (as a flower growing etc.) that your pal Lao Tzu mentions. This is the big lust of the artist. To be spatialised. TO BE WITHOUT MEMORY. To flow from the original spring of the living-not writing. I consider writing no use except that it's old tissue sloughed off the man. What the man is is important.....the greatest art is timeless. What it is is the man. Art is merely the chart of his diseases. You examine it as a doctor examines stools."

Lawrence Durrell letter to Henry Miller

(Corfu August 1936)
The Durrell Miller Letters 1935-80
Faber& Faber 1988

Fear and Loathing in La Hospital

I am about two metres from the drug cabinet when I realise the nurses dolling out the prescriptions would well be advised to take a little of their own medicine and then in some pain ridden sense of bliss may they receive insight into how their little routines of busy-ness do not equate to patient care, least not in the compassionate sense.
Such is the nature of the underpaid workers that are proffered by poorer nations, given a uniform and called nurses running the wards at our city's hospitals.
The melodramatic histrionics of a Phillipino drama (or is that drag?) queen staff nurse riding rough shod over patients if they so much as dare mutter a word not connected to the question she is asking is both unnerving and hilarious.
She moves stridently from room to room like a crooked police chief in a third world jail making sure the incarcerated are serving in submission. Patient requests are met with a cold menacing stare, her fingers itchy for the cut throat scalpel resting in her hemline. Hers are the only questions, anything else may prove too difficult to explain to the next shift.
And so it goes for eight hours whilst I sit patiently with El Presidente Snr. awaiting his impending release from the chemical perfume and decaying limb house. We sit dutifully giving benefit of the doubt to the apparent busy-ness of our under praised health care professionals.
That is until the overacting staff nurse dares to question the questions of El Prezidente's father. Suddenly she gets a sense that the real work sitting on her desk -which hithertofore she has masterfully managed to ignore for the best part of her shift- was supposed to have been actioned before she took to her personal Spanish inquisition. However She remains staunch ordering Dad of eL-P back to his room before making herself busy being officious in another part of the ward.
But when pressed and presented with hard copy documents her demeanour changes, suddenly she is the powerless victim of another shift, a lone woman battling the entire beaurocracy of a foreign health system run by despotic doctors. Wouldn't it simply be easier for the patient to return to his bed until the morning.
Needless to say we smell blood. My father has his hand on the paring knife he'd brought in to slice his apples and I am reliving some Kung Fu moves I had seen in the Way of the Dragon back when the bigger kids were throwing Jaffas from the back row of the Delta Theatre. We are now prepared for battle and the snivelling maid in front of us has no idea of what is about to be unleashed on her person if she so much as mentions the words 'I can't.'
We press on our objective clear, our strategy unfolding flawlessly, home in sight.
Suddenly we are watching some camp vaudevillean actress wiping forearm across brow like she's about to feint in some tropical heat. Her sighs grow longer and more pronounced as if the overseer had dragged her out of the dormitory after twelve hours in the field to perform one last unthinkable duty of the day.
She dances around the fax and phone reciting number combinations, name, rank and serial number, tell them nothing. Her nice quiet shift is unravelling and she is now faced with some real descisions. Her troop around her flee for the prescription jars and she is the last woman standing against an insurmountable legion, it is time to pull out the damsel in distress sinking in quick sand wearing nothing but her surrender flag routine, but we're not buying it.
We move in for the kill. My fathers razor tongue slices her story to shreds before it leaves her pitiful pale lips, I am warming up with some leg strecthes across the nurses station reception desk, shadow boxing the disinfected air like Ali coming off the ropes against Foreman.
The shrinking violet had finally shrunk. Her bargaining avenues closed down, her exits jammed with the full weight of the roadblock of truth unfolding across her desk. There is no way back and no way of buying us off.
She hands Dad the self release forms with one final flurry of false tears hoping he will see the error of his ways and resolve to return to his bed until the next shift comes on.
I fly onto the desk, an explosive left warning kick fires quick as Evil Kneivel from a cannon catching the ends of her hair now standing to attention. She quickly finds a pen from the bottom of her barrel of excuses and with the Father of El Prez scrawled on the form in biro for all to see, we shoot her merciless stares reducing her to a snivelling ball of green and white uniform on the refective polished floor.
The doors fly open and we are free to go.
Half way down the corridor we can already hear her barking bilingual orders at some subordinate and stamping her court shoe heels around the rooms of sleeping patients.

Garbled Transmission Intercepted

key aura dig-i-men stop
perimeter secured stop currently establishing headquarters close to strategic waterway stop fully operational status achieved stop encoded communication can now commence stop mixed feelings and new beginnings stop here and now are the correct coordinates for future growth and global expansion stop opportunity and relative peace abound stop the reverend misses all comrades now operating in alternative zones stop praise the lord and pass the ammunition stop transmit and you shall receive stop
the reverend

Speed writing exercise

three billion
lost
souls
&
broken
hearts
f*cked up
priorities
&
trashed
dreams
know no
other way
out
in
exit

November in the Park and Lights over Stithen-ac.

Photography Copyleft, Temple of the Extraparaperceptual Process.

All Aboard

©BurgsEye 2003

The waka lies waiting heavy in the harbour. For Wanganui soon she sails into the setting sun and the promise of a new day.
In her wake the well wishers wishing well on dryland will at once diminish to little more than soil speckles on the rugged coastline south. But their hearts and souls ride large aboard, calming the ripped torn ocean and the trade winds making repand pohutukawas clinging to the cliff faces en route.
The fog horn blows all visitors ashore and the turbines turn up the briny like a heaving cauldron boiling over, full steam ahead and we barely hear their goodbye cries over the shrieks & yelps of new beginning nerves.
Theirs are two heads quickly lost into the paint work of the said vessel, everything merging with the night.
Quick stitching themselves apart of the fabric in fresh lands and greener pastures.
Good Luck Amigo's (Mr & Mrs Reverend DIG-Buddle) your memories will live strong.

shameless promotion

another guise another day.
Marieke Marygold & Ananda Burgess' latest mime incarnation ZIG&ZAG draws on the mercurial harlequin as inspiration in their series of clown characters that they inhabit and play, for the readies and more importantly for the sheer love of it.

doing gniod speed writing exercise 1

doing gniod
the act of doing
implies thought
though rarely thought
when doing
doing what for whom when
and not doing
thinking
or otherwise
there is no escaping
these thoughts
you
& me
not doing
anything
without
another
voice
guiding or
otherwise
implying action
not to mention
the already too many
preprogrammed
auto functions
of being
escaping without thought
to the place
of action
the implication
is beyond thought

The Creation Myth acccording to the Book of Dylanizm

Image Copyright - The Hamilton Taight Process

Digging in the crates, uncovers a rare find,

a shard of truth in the shadow.

Torn from the first Book of Dylanizm,

the first page, presumed lost.

The creation myth retold.

The bubles, bubles bubles...............

Post:-Reverend DIG

Date:-0111/Dylanizt Epok>33

Transmit and you shall receive

Thus thought Reverend DIG

(Original Print by The Reverend - after Nietzsche)

Alas wither shall I climb now with my longing.
I look out from every mountain for fatherlands and motherlands,
but nowhere have I found a home.
I am unsettled in every city and I depart from every gate.

The men of the present,
to whom my heart once drove me,
Are strange to me and a mockery,
And I have been driven from fatherlands and motherlands.

So now I love only my childrens land,
The undiscovered land in the farthest sea.
I bid my sails seek it and seek it.
I shall make amends to my children for being the child of my fathers
and to all the future for this present

Thus spoke Zarathustra

From ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’ by Friedrich Nietzsche

This print is one of a series based on poetry and prose that have had some poignancy to me since my arrival in New Zealand. This poem of voluntary exile, change, journey, arrival and atonement speaks to me of my personal journey to and place here in Aotearoa. It also speaks of an awareness of the wider historical context and the intertwined history of my people and this place.

It is more relevant than a nineteenth century, german book about a fictional philosopher should rightly be!

Thus thought Reverend DIG

Oblivious

©BurgsEye 2005

Sitting in a single file trail of traffic transporting solo drivers to their daily workplace destination wondering what it is they think everday as they crawl to the next standstill. do they contemplate leaving earlier tomorrow to join another earlier legion of castrated road warriors all entertaining similar thoughts of tomorrows departure time or routes less taken? do they tune out in blank acceptance that this is life and their lot? what do they feel? frustration, powerlessness, panic, claustrophobia, rage? do they feel trapped in their single cell on route to oblivion?
the freedom of the road as portrayed in car ads is nothing more than a modern myth. the sure death consumer madness of the 21C accelerates daily unlike the growing gridlock. humans racing towards stasis.

Ghost Bus.

Through your streets at night haunts the spectral,
public transport to dimensions unknown.
Always arriving in threes.
Never late nor early.
The Ghost Bus never stops for those who sleep,
better hope the Ghost Bus does not stop for you.

No ticket required.

present

©BurgsEye 2000

On the shoulders of giants
in the footprints of others
on the high road
down the low
or along the middle path
there is only thing
that will sustain the journey
faith.
mohammedisjesusisbuddhaislord
god is
and so are we
if we remain present
amongst the hijackedmoralesstechnodistractedgreedinspiredlowlife
that is being presented as living.

Following in the Feet of Others

For all Diggers the path is a lonely one.

With only an innate sense of purpose for company, the Digger sets off boldly, following encoded clues left by other Diggers.

Sometimes the Digger meets a fellow Digger with whom they can share the path for a little or a long time, they share clues and experiences and set off renewed and re-invigorated.

For the Digger, the knowledge that fellow Diggers are following their own paths is enough.

Transmit and you shall receive - Reverend DIG

Inte-gritty

©Tony Johnston Digzine#1 2005

Tony Johnston lives on the outside honing a tunnel into the recesses of the subconscious, sometimes tapping into the collective angst and guilt and almost always channeling the ancient voices of the mythical and physical landscape. His is rough hewn imagery created with a pioneers grit and resolve against the forces of nature and a trend influenced artelligensia.

Communist Gangster Computer God

Worldwide open secret. Solely Mr. Dec heralds the true god in the entire history of the universe. Not even in the Truth, oy vey, Pravda, is Mr. Francis E. Dec Esquire's eight-page detailed letter exposing the worldwide deadly Communist Gangster Computer God and the worst deadliest enemy of the entire human race and the entire universe and the entire history of the entire universe namely the Communist Atheist Conspiracy with all of the Deadly Gangster unbelievable sophisticated Frankenstein Controls, the Catholic Church. These facts, like the below facts, cannot be found in the Communist Gangster Computer God concocted and manipulated so-called history and news media.

http://home.pacifier.com/~dkossy/dec.html
http://www.ubu.com/sound/dec.html

Poetic Terrorism from the 'Broadsheets of Ontological Anarchism'

This piece is respectfully reproduced from the original text by Hakim Bey in the best spirit of the writing - DIG

Poetic Terrorism - WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy. Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss. Later they will come to realize that for a few moments they believed in something extraordinary, & will perhaps be driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of existence.
Bolt up brass commemorative plaques in places (public or private) where you have experienced a revelation or had a particularly fulfilling sexual experience, etc.
Go naked for a sign.
Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence & spiritual beauty.
Grafitti-art loaned some grace to ugly subways & rigid public momuments--PT-art can also be created for public places: poems scrawled in courthouse lavatories, small fetishes abandoned in parks & restaurants, xerox-art under windshield-wipers of parked cars, Big Character Slogans pasted on playground walls, anonymous letters mailed to random or chosen recipients (mail fraud), pirate radio transmissions, wet cement...
The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror-- powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst--no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is "signed" or anonymous, if it does not change someone's life (aside from the artist) it fails.
PT is an act in a Theater of Cruelty which has no stage, no rows of seats, no tickets & no walls. In order to work at all, PT must categorically be divorced from all conventional structures for art consumption (galleries, publications, media). Even the guerilla Situationist tactics of street theater are perhaps too well known & expected now.
An exquisite seduction carried out not only in the cause of mutual satisfaction but also as a conscious act in a deliberately beautiful life--may be the ultimate PT. The PTerrorist behaves like a confidence-trickster whose aim is not money but CHANGE.
Don't do PT for other artists, do it for people who will not realize (at least for a few moments) that what you have done is art. Avoid recognizable art-categories, avoid politics, don't stick around to argue, don't be sentimental; be ruthless, take risks, vandalize only what must be defaced, do something children will remember all their lives--but don't be spontaneous unless the PT Muse has possessed you.
Dress up. Leave a false name. Be legendary. The best PT is against the law, but don't get caught. Art as crime; crime as art.

Godfather

©BurgsEye 2005

"...if any man today possesses the gift, who knows where to sacrifice an harmonious line in order to defect the rythm and murmur of the blood, who takes the light that has been refracted inside him and lets it flood the keyboard of colour."
-Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer

Waiting for God, oh it could be a very long time, in the meanwhile I'll take what I can from the flood of heroes and villains that pour through my court that is the palace of mind, bringing a small glimmer of light but no peace in the racket of cacophonic thought echoing down these dark corridors.

VIVA EL PRESIDENTE

Viva El Presidente - Funky President - The Hemperor

DIGradio R.I.P

The sign on the road says "Change of Direction Imminent"

DIGradio would like to announce the end of the DIGradio Show. For over a year DIG has broadcast messages and music of freedom, revolution and truth to one man, his dog, a Japanese fishing vessel and themselves. These unique and vital transmissions have intermittently been webcasted through the matrix to unidentified soul rebels and undercover reactive agents worldwide.

El Presidente, Reverend DIG and the Hamilton Taight Process would like to commend every listener/receiver for their fine taste and open minds.

Our radio waves have rippled out from the mast across the universe and beyond. Our joyful noise has been heard and we patiently await the reply.
This audiosonic travelogue will never end.

Listen and you will hear. Transmit and you shall receive! Reverend DIG

Welcome to the intermission - We hope you are enjoying the show so far - The DIGzine will be back right after this short commercial break.

This is an advertisement for the latest in 3rd Eye technology as advertised on your local DIGradio channel.

The Hamilton Taight Process, purveyor of the finest in Space Brother Science, have undertaken extensive research to bring you this unique consciousness-expanding product.

Contact your local Reactive Agent for a demonstration.
Alternatively trade in your existing first and second eyes and get up to 5% off the r.r.p. Thats value!
Now back to the DIGzine.......
(Image by the Hamilton Taight Process)

House of Cards

©Keron Smith Digzine#1 2005

The lipstick Lady of the Las Vegas lounge, Keron Smith, imbues canvas with an amalgam of the sensual and the mysterious. Keron paints murals for her living but through her application of bold layers of latex and paint effects she transforms collage and freehand into visual poems for her pleasure, and ours.

Poetism

" an art of life, an art of living and enjoying...as relativists, we are aware of the hidden irrationality overlooked by the scientific system and therefore as yet not sublimated...we are hungry for individual freedom: 'AFter six days of work and building the world, beauty is the seventh day of the soul.'"
definition of Poetism, 1923.

Ancient Landscape

©Peter Mercurius Bradburn Ancient Landscape Digzine2004

Taken from the journals of the mercurial Peter Bradburn who -among other things- delves deep into the psyche, alchemy and the Tao Te Ching turning up poems as spare as a Zen garden and as multi layered as a grain of sand.
He has published two books: Imago, Parnassus Press ISBN: 0-908632-74-6 and Mercurius, Soar Publishing ISBN: 0-473-06672-6

Foundscape

©Mark Whyte Foundscape Pt.1 A+B -Digzine#1 2005

The enigmatic creator and generous soul, Mark Whyte, is one of Aotearoa's best kept secrets. He has slipped under the art-dar, but continues quietly noodling with mixed media as has been his want, since slipping through Elam art school's net back when Jesus was a boy.

Return

©Junior Ravuso -Ati and the Momoko DIGzine#1
(The white people who stole from a chief and disappeared into a deep spring to a world below.)

The gifted Rarotongan illustrator Junior Ravuso (24) returned to the Cooks just before the publication of DIG #1. The day the zine left the print room the Reverend received a call from a guardian telling us that Junior had just died. R.I.P

Dada Dialectics

"In Dada you will recognise your own true condition. Wonderful constellations in real materials, wire, glass, cardboard, textiles are the organic equivalents of your own complete brittleness, your own shoddiness...Mankind is simultaneity, a monster of proper and improper parts, now, before, after and all at once...Mankind's discovery of its enormous potential for experience is unfolding. Uncovering our psycho-sexual nature, we no longer need the ethical pirouettes of "art." Dada offers an incredible refreshment, an impulse to experience all possible relationships."
Raoul Hausmann
Synthetic Cino of Painting Pamphlet (1918)

"A Dadaist...can fling away his individuality like a lasso - and is resigned to the realisation that the world at once and the same time includes Mohammedans, Zwinglians, fifth-formers, Anabaptists, pacifists, etc."
Richard Huelsenbeck

From: Collage The Making of Fine Art - Brandon Taylor
Thanmes and Hudson

Fly On The Wall

©BurgsEye

The fly on the wall -now less an insect, more a multi coloured lump in an ever increasing patina- remained silent listening hard but still could not discern the direction of the transmission nor the nature of the hieroglyphs chanelling through the masked grafftist -the latest in a long to bring awareness to greytown of the infinitesimal line of messengers delivering codes from worlds other than theirs.

Wizard of Ork

©BurgsEye 2005

Rantings from down the Hall

©Andrew Hall Digzine#1 2004

Waitakere City's most prolific and spontanteous junk artist Andrew Hall is infamous for his aerodynamically impaired, sculpturally enhanced Skoda. He was once pulled over by the traffic plods because they didn't like the look of the cannonball objet painted "Bomb" rolling around on his back ledge.

New Dada

©Peter Sauerbier DIGzine 2004

Not one to waste a spare moment legendary Dutch Born Kiwi artist Peter Sauerbier (82) dashes off sketches whilst on the toilet from his purpose-built, wall mounted, dropdown easel. This is one of them -New Dada.

Internal Combustion

©BurgsEye

Thoughts of anger, pangs of stress are a pair of migrating birds caught on a touch and go round flight path overhead my being. I can watch them independently and together, twisting, spiraling aero acrobatics. Sometimes I think they can't see me and I bury myself in my Aladdins caves full of inspiration, distraction, joyful noise and occasional static, hoping some of it sticks before the winged beasts hunt me down and carry me out to their nowhere nests and keep me hostage for days at a time.
In my cave I can stitch together another layer of thought -small patches in my almost complete second inpenetrable skin. Once encapsulated I will be safe. I know this by seeing the often good but passionless people ducking and diving beneath overhead dogfights of two birds vying to be seen & heard in as many minds as possible. Passionless pretending it isn't happening to them, telling their friends about it but telling themselves it never really happened until they believe it adding extra patch to their ectoderm.
All I gotta do is keep thinking without feeling until I have enough peices for my perfect skin which is a shell so that I can carry my cave -like a shield- with me at all times. That should take care of those darn birds.

Is something actually happening?

Here is the front cover of an exciting new extraparaperceptual publication courtesy of the Hamilton Taight Processed-Media Empire.

If you would like to subscribe to this hung, drawn and quarterly magazine, follow these instructions...

• Touch the magazine cover-image on your screen
• Close your eyes and repeat your designated HTP mantra telepathically
• The magazine will now commence extraparaperceptual download direct to your synapses

Disclaimer: The Hamilton Taight Process takes no responsibility for any permanent mental tuning problems you may experience. These are considered a bonus.

(The Extra Paraperceptualist cover-image by the Hamilton Taight Process)

Jaipur 1978

© Malcolm Mac talks to El Presidente, 2004 DIGzine #1.

Whatever your mountain, whatever your dreams, whatever you pursue there are few who have scaled the heighest heights and clawed back from the valleys below like the eloquently loquacious Malcolm Mac.
Hendrix asked "Are You Experienced?" Mal has risen beyond the call of duty. He's about ready to spill the beans.

Techn/illogical Extra-polation

(It Couldn't Happen Here? - Digitally enhanced Lino-Print by the Reverend)
Predicting the future can be fun. The simplest way to do this is to take a selection of current socio-technological trends, hybridise them and then extrapolate to the 'nth degree.

Lets take a few cool, fun techno trends, mix 'em up, project the result and see what we get!

Lets go shopping for some ingredients; Mobile phone, Google Earth, Interpretive GPS, Nano-Technology and cosmetic surgery, that should do it!

Firstly take a mobile phone, its already a camera and a walkman with intelligent audio-recognition, add a GPS system, you would never get lost and you would be able to order takeaways at the drop of a hat anywhere in the world, brilliant. Lets add Google Earth, a marvellous toy, currently based on existing aerial mapping. The logical next step is it going live 'by satellite', which when linked to the GPS in your phone means you can be found anywhere in the world visually. This is great as your phone will be the main device for accessing your bank accounts, court records etc. So now you can be instantly found, monitored and your life scrutinised remotely from anywhere, by anyone with another phone. If you see someone you want to identify you can use the audio (song) recognition facility to identify other people by accessing the international voice sample bank or failing that use the camera to do a face-match, amazing.

Time to add another strand of technology. Holding a phone is a bit inconvenient, we need to go hands-free. We already have headsets but they are not very flash and you still got to use your hands. Lets make them voice activated and combine them with the sunglasses required to stop retina burn from the ever-increasing UV light. With a screen on the inside of the lens, you can drive, surf the net and keep your neighbours under surveillance all at the same time, fantastic.

The recipe isn't quite there we need another ingredient...

Your headset keeps falling off, getting lost etc. This just isn't modern and convenient enough. The world of surgical implants, internal hearing and visual enhancement devices has come a long way. Lets implant the screen, the speakers and the voice activation mic, maybe get a nose job at the same time, hell why not, its a drive-through, one-stop shop now! Suddenly we're bionic with enhanced senses and virtual telepathy, able to talk at a sub-vocal level to anyone on the other side of the world or right next door!

The future perfect.

The 'magpie' appeal of modern technology, the human instinct for extremism and the propensity to turn all that is good to bad are a volatile mix.

It couldn't happen here, or could it?

Its good to talk!

In The Bonds Of LOVE We Meet

©BurgsEye

Post Election Fatigue.

the short attention span of the popular media may have flitted to the next non event but the flippant divisory statements made by some political candidates has left me with a pitted gut.
perhaps I should be thankful for their lifting the all-is-well in paradise veil and offering a temporary vantage point into the dark hearts and minds of my fellow countrymen.
election truths and lies have the potential to snag the social fabric but until the volley of cheap shots begin in the house we have already forgotten the unrest stewing beneath our clean green sheen.
thank Papa& Rangi, Jah, Allah, Buddha, God knows whoever for sport and wars, disaster and pop stars drug addictions so we may foster some kind of national empathy, sympathy, pride or even identity and keep our minds off the invisible troubles within.

From the Top!

DIG has always existed in the minds and instincts of it's protagonists. To the outside world however, it is a relatively new phenomenon.

DIG first broke molds and made waves with the DIG Multimedia events. These brought together the finest local film-makers, artists, sculptors and DJ's to create an interactive entertainment venue, chock full of content and dynamism, all for no commercial return. This ethos of showcasing art and artists collectively and accessibly for the public informs all of DIG's activities to date.

DIG's next arena of operation was publishing and DIG undertook it's boldest project yet, the DIGzine. The DIGzine took the event into A5 magazine form, containing a diverse range of artists, each given an A4 page. This black and white publication was sold locally and via the net. Issue 2 is now nearing completion. We will be serialising Issue 1 over coming weeks. (See left for front cover. Image courtesy of DIG)

DIG sets no boundaries between artforms. El Presidente proclaimed 'Its all rock'n'roll' and so it came to pass. DIG's involvement in music began with bush recitals of eclectic roots music to indigenous forest dwellers, reared on pub rock and the anticipated second coming of Bob Marley. These missionary campaigns in to the hinterland, took these new/old forms of music and represented them in new , exciting and relevant ways. Eager for new converts DIG joined forces with a nascent Community Radio station and commenced broadcasting strange transmissions, mixing deep roots music, clashing genres, poetry, political comment and abstract nonsense in a revolutionary new style. This 'Audiosonic Travelogue' was further enhanced utilising the Hamilton Taight Process (Look out for later entries on this afilliated organisation). This new sound has transformed and mutated and is ready to give birth to further DIGactivity at any time.

DIG is now looking farther afield and with more ambition than ever before. This 'Blogjam' represents the beginning of a new stage. We are glad to have you aboard.

Transmit and you shall receive.

Reverend DIG

AUDIOSONICTRAVELOGUERS

© BurgsEye
Thirdeyethirdearthirdnostrilpurveyorsofrootstunes.
Live at PihaFm Caravan.
El Prez (L) Rev (R)

Wake the town

© BurgsEye

joyful noise bringers channel primal energy of an entire species
outpourings from the divine conduit delivers redemption from the ordinary
flood the burgs with a racket pure riding rough shot over television valley
the guitar slingers drum beaters deliver soulful din an unholy blessed sound
syncopated syntax from the gods to wake the town.

Destination Unknown

(Reverend on Field Research reproduced by kind permission of Burgseye Photography)

It has been a long journey leading up to this exact point and time in the history of the Universe. We set off long ago without a map, without direction and without rules. Yet here we are.
The ape doesn't understand evolution, yet he evolves and even we who have taken the same path, know not our own genetic destination.
The only certainty is the journey, the process, the constant that is change.
It is in flux that DIG thrives, both timeless and of it's time, DIG is that process. The sum of past truth and future aspiration sucked through a vortex of imagination, re-defined, re-configured and re-presented to the present.
Pick-up the signals, find the clues and follow your instincts, there is only one path, it is how you follow it that counts.
Transmit and you shall receive.
The Reverend DIG

Winter Spring

© BurgsEye

There has been more precipitation in the Poly Capital of the whole Universe than a entire nation of neurotic soapie watching wenches could muster in a year of continuous television abuse.
Winter holding one over on spring catching the optimists off guard, as it does every year.
The skies have temporarily cleared, the promise of other solar blessed seasons coming and going ambulated on the forceful chorus of Hauauru (the west wind) bending spindly manuka into compromising positions. Such is the nature of existence on the fringe of heaven in the great (rain) forest of Tiriwa.
Puddles steam in the sunlight and the whisper of summer holds promise for the webbed feet beings of the ranges.