Dec. 1st, 2011


Dec. 1st, 2011 12:15 am
sortenke: (pic#5363518)
A Poem Based on the old ways.

Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch.
For your lips do not form, the name of our lord, who beat yours by the sword – and had you beheaded like nothing more.

Look at your past, you grubby hag.
Tell me the truth, do you not see the nute, over there by that mute – who was hung like nothing but a whore.

Yes, history has spoken, so call it a token.
Of our lord’s goodwill, decorated in frill, up there by that hill – where your kind is buried beneath the floor.

Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch. Tis’ what we do, with scum like you, without caring who – so as to rid the world of such venom and gore.

Yes we have it in pen, so you won’t come again. For my lips do not form the name of your lord, who ran from his sword – and had mine beheaded; such a cowardly score.

Sort Enke

Dec. 1st, 2011 12:57 am
sortenke: (Default)
A Comical take on life...

Written 2008.
Altered to present time.

Sort Enke came to this world 20 glorious years ago – per today anyway, and when she came, she came with a bang. After brutally murdering her twin brother inside her mothers’ womb, she quickly achieved her family’s affection, being the first child and grandchild; the heir to the throne of wickedness.

Coming from a long lineage of lunatics, in which malice was heavily brewing beneath the surface, it was not long until she gained command of the other youngsters in the neighbourhood.
Her most beloved friends were the witch from Snow- white, and the invisible man, both taking shelter in her basement, drinking the fine stash of coloured liquid from her fathers’ bar.

When S.E was six, she was sent to a brat camp for discipline, as her fragile parents were too tired of dealing with her. The other children did not like her wild nature very much, and took to mock her at every chance they got. This situation did not improve much over the years; especially not when the Wicked Witch from the west took over control of bratcamp.

Sort Enke was very, very angry. Though, noticed with, great desperation, that throwing chairs and writing spells, would not suffice. Instead, with as great stealth as she could possibly muster, she exiled herself to the forests, planning her poisonous revenge. It was said later, that she did not separate friend from foe, as a friend today, may still turn on you tomorrow. After all; the hearts of men are easily corrupted.

During this time, Sort Enke disguised her evil plans, by joining a marching band of instrumentalist; all misfits to the brat camps’ more sizeable group of residents. She gained knowledge of both sound and system, became a part of a much better society; and received, as an extra benefit – much needed spare time.

At her 8 years of age, her breeders hatched another egg, and she was no longer a one-man party. Her infant sister, a spitting image of her mother’s anger, had come swiftly, cunningly, and with no prevention. There was no stopping this one from disturbing the peace and the quiet, though lord knows people tried. With her sisters’ arrival, Sort Enke gained newfound knowledge of shared affection. It should have bothered her more, she supposed; but quickly realised - again, with much grieve, that not even her frozen heart stood any chance against this bundle of charms.

Round the time of her 13th birthday, Sort Enke was once again faced with changes. As older age had approached her, it was protocol for her – and her peers to proceed to another, more advanced bratcamp. Here the witches and warlords were even more cunning. They flew like snakes across the floor, always watching; always listening; always looking for trouble... There were still a few lambs in the pack, though – and Sort Enke took an extra liking to them.

With new environments came new people; and S.E was once again queen of her own domain. She was no longer an object of laughter and ridicule, but instead a creature most people more or less took a liking too. This suited her just perfectly, and she could finally focus more on her evil plans to destroy the world.

However, as time grew, she realised no wicked witch would do any good without formal attire. For that reason she came in contact with a fitting tailor, one who though her everything she had to know about the subject. She became black as night, moving swiftly and sturdy, like the queen she was. It gave her a new sense of fulfilment; this new appearance, and she finally felt like she had found herself. Of course, she had to kill a few copycats along the way, but that sort of thing came with the territory.

When she turned 16 – much had changed in Sort Enke. She was still as wicked as she had always been, but newfound courage allowed her to no longer be in hiding. She stood up for herself and her supporters, spent time with folk as cruel as her, and had now a giant herd of people she could control. Her powers had grown tremendously - Her parents no longer hatched thanks to her; she did not need any further distraction - and she had finally learned how to send things flying through the wall, thanks to her little sisters’ assistance.

- Brat High, a fond time for Sort Enke. Not only did she get hold of a handful of new foes to play with, but she actually had more fun doing it. She got a sweet taste of mortality, not only through her brat schedule – but through her artistic integrity... or should we say “un-tegrity”
She was often off on Witch trials, which made her see red, but it was nothing a little progressive fatalism couldn’t cope with.
Now she is 20, living on the bare fruit of life, killing and peeling off skin as she goes. She will not sleep; will not eat – until she has reached her final goal... World dominion!
sortenke: (pic#7649471)
An Inversion of Alchemy

"The Dark Gaze of Fashion"

Peter J. Amdam

In the year 1863, Charles Baudelaire writes in his seminal essay "The Painter of Modern Life" that "By 'modernity' I mean the ephimeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other half is the eternal and the emutable".
it would be, for us today, as it was for Baudelaire then, an easy feet to connect, or even replace, the word 'modernity'
with 'fashion'. Fashion as the ephimeral, fugitive, contingent aspect of a modernity that is in constant conflict with itself. A fashion embracing the speed and virulence of its own ruptuous changes, its turns and returns, its currencies and recurrencies, its mystifications and demystifications. its love affair with its own lustorous, smooth, attractive, fast and magical surfaces; its desire to transgress that very same notion of surfaces, to penetrate, to go beneath or beyond, to anchor itself somewhere below that very surface: the surface of the now, the surface of the new. the preverse antithetical desire of fashion to be "anti" fashion. the ever returning imagery of skeletons on the runways, the proliferation of images of death and dying.
Rei Kawakubos's garments emulating the collapse and cancerous growth of internal organs, the infamous and deeply eerie Comme Des Garcons "Lumps and Bumps" collection of spring-summer 97. or the same Kawakubo's ferocious attacks on the fabrics with scissors, literally tearing open the skin of fashion.
Martin Margiela´s exposure of threads, stitches, seems and laborious sweing techniques- stripping bare the surface of fashion, forcing it inside out. As it this panting, whispering, screaming, aappartional creature we sometimes refer to as fashion, as if the new and the now, as modernity and postmodernity, is folding its terminal condition back onto itself. Every season flags a state of revolution. When life, to borrow Hegel's phrase "endures death and maintains itself in it"...Breath. take two seconds to consider: Fashion's close attention to consumption and the destructive aspect so closely interwined with the act of consumption. it thrives on the limitidness of the limited edition. Poder: Proto-deathcore band Septic Death's first twelv-inch recording from 1984, graced by singer
Pushead's beautiful drawing of a bikini-clad model, her face a state f disfiguration. Title: "Need so much attention." It sold out fast, and its relative rarity made it, of course, even more sought after. Following its underground sucess, it was repackaged, reissued and made more widely available to an audience already contitioned, through an inverted libidinal economy. to demand death, Septic Death Re-titeled: "Now That I Got Your Attention: What Do I Do With It?" The aleatory and voiding nature of the performating calls for the attention so closely associated with fashion, without regards to fashion's possible ethicity. Beyond good and evil. It is no coincidence that, for Oscr Wilde, black was the supreme colour of modernity.
when the band Venom coined the phrase "black metal," it was a suppsedly stylistic act of hyperbolde posture. At the same time it invoked a certain semantic slippage: from "rock" to "hard rock" to "heavy metal" and then to "black metal." As geological cycle, the site of rock music, site of identity producuction and first stage of a post-Fordist economy-fueled leisure, metamorphosed from geological language to industrial alloy, then into an all consuming black hole... The ultimate metal of modernity. And by synecdoche: Fashion.

The now all to familiar story: the transubstantation of Venom's black metal into a northern, concrete, somber, serious reality. The reach beyond the figural and onto the actual, the clls for a new and , at the same time, pre-romantic heroism. A dark heroism, metal's own disconsolate experience of the ephermal, the fugitive, and the contingent runs paralell with that of fashion. the longng for a solid anchoring, for solid ground, and a return of the fled gods of the pre-Christian era. in other words; "The half of art whose other half is the eternal and the immutable." The extreme speed and flickering of metropolian fashion life, of speed metal. Or the droning ephemeral as material rythm, murmured cadence.

The disturbing double bind of a true metal head and a fashionista: the need to communicate roots, duration-durée and the imperative of the new. the 'now' does not exsist, neither does the 'new' - it dies the very moment it arrives. As Walter Benjamin observed in the 1930s: "For people as they are now, there is only one radical novelty - and always the same one: death."

Hart Work

Dec. 1st, 2011 09:31 pm
sortenke: (Connie Chiu asian woman photographer)
Feel inspired?
I sure do!

Artwork by Ophelias_Overdose @Deviantart.


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