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George G Asztalos

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The Second Infrarealist Manifesto
by George G Asztalos   
Rated "G" by the Author.
Last edited: Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Posted: Wednesday, October 20, 2010

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WAKE UP to (i)reality! we are small in a huge universe. we live in a lovely horror of death. flies conquering empires of dust. how the hell shouldn’t we be afraid? fear is the second nature. and the first is the courage to accept them all. as they really are.

*We are small in a huge universe. We live in a lovely horror of death.  Poor flies who conquer empires of dust. How the hell shouldn’t we be afraid? Fear is the second nature. And the first is the courage to accept them all. As they really are.

*The spirit of the infrarealism is the one of the fallen angels. Orpheus - the first amongst the infrarealists, the one taming the beasts, has fallen torn apart by…women.
Not before going all the way to inferno, for his love The infrarealism is Orphic but also real at the same time. It’s a strange "in and out" or "bite and run" kind of situation !

*Is the unseen reality felt all of a sudden. In this consumerist world of today feeling is the very less consumed ; how shall we infra or re-feel? There isn’t enough time to die. The result is stressful or rather delusional. We chill with our heads stuck up our asses or dream about change. The various attempts of vanguard-ist divorce of post-modernism ended up lamentably in marriage pacts and towers of pixels. In poems with emoticons bloggers carry their free laziness.

*Vanguard floated above reality and its falling was as deserved. They failed within the school books although everything was contested. A damn beautiful end.

*It's time to go down in the street and even underneath it to blow out laziness, to tenderly terrorize the sad luxurious lifestyle. We don’t want another art of corpses in void, of waiting for Godots …we want the scare, the tender screaming to instantly fall in love with. We want a schizoid beauty, a frolicked one.

*We want to be spontaneously laughed at all our under layers, our brains. That’s what we want…

*They say about someone who found his way in life that he had realized himself, or over-realized himself. We do not aim for financial achieving but for the achievement of saying. We do not achieve but become poorer on purpose thus finding our true wealth. If something is true or sublime within us then you will find it underneath not over faces and interfaces.

*The infrastructure of art must be based on a new axiology. The today’s artist is the naive who goes whoopsy daisy and coo-coo at the telescopic eyes of the snail…and here’s the thing, he’s stepping over the snail, serene, dragging its remains all over the pavement. The infra-realist is stepping on this pseudo-art instead, bypassing the snail, wipes the pavement with its virtual remains and maybe then he goes whoopsy  daisy and coo-coo..

*The infra-realist eats icons on toast… But he knows the taste of caviar, without making a big thing out of it.. without virtual reality, fictions, illusions and dreams. Dressed only within  ourselves, like the sword of Toledo. Is time to recognize our superb inferiority of divine animals, a new age of humanitarian beasts shall devastate this millennium, shall cryogenically  deal with our barriers, shall place memories in formaldehyde…and is preferred that we remain the wonderful beast dancing with desperation on this dreamy nightmare…

* We had enough of ‘let’s pretend we’re working’, Cioran, come home!

* And there, between pretending that you achieve something and the true achievement is a long bumpy way. What would it be to recover apart from the past avatars of a communist Auschwitz? The ex-government employees, the good for nothing would say that nationalism, preferably in the shape of academic-isolating white-trash. The daily post-revolutionaries and post- communists would say that the post-modernist personality of each and one of us, versus the unions expectations of forcing them in the choir of some rebellious with no purpose. The millenarian sleep-walkers wouldn’t know or pretend they literalize at the crack of dawn. Fracturism, utilitarianism, boyarism, minimalism a.s.o...they all have a desperate allure about inventing the cherry tail, and nobody’s jumping up and down crazed with happiness and adulation. Is like the seasonal bands of MTV with fashionable hits which die over night out of lack of fans, perspective, realism and consistency. Their existential problem is that they continually bet on a technical approach, in prose as well as in poetry. Do grab this technical approach by the neck and slash it: you would surprisingly notice that no drop of blood will bleed, the whole system was empty and drained long before!

* If is technical, then choose television…a little nonsense meant to enlighten the people…you push the button and the whole world drops in your sitting room although you feel more and more lonely rather than God…

* the postmodern culture which technically administrates its consuming surrogates is caressing your wallets, promising you the sun and the moon, surely for some other time…meanwhile is inventing more and more elitist sects, in which the believers praise themselves while devouring each other. By the way, regarding suicidal techniques: at 5.00 o’clock news I heard that a man drank petrol and then threw a lit match down his throat…interesting. We might implement such ‘know-how’ approach at pigs’ euthanasia for Christmas. We will not fry them from the outside, but from the inside, directly. The grills shall be bouncing, ready-made, on the table where the  belly-dancer girls drop their clothes on oriental tunes. Technically talking, we shall be the belly buttons of the earth! The wine shall flow like water and behind us…the flood!

* even the poor post-modernism, is feeling weaker and weaker, after its prolonged trip through splendid imagery, the all inclusive, returned to the village with the latest model of a car, the first man met is a drunk puking his guts, holding by the fence, this image is the first one to greet him, yet alone, it says everything.

* There isn’t a certain know-how to be a infrarealist in art but only the fact that you write, sing or paint only what there is, in some impersonal yet profound and paradoxical universal vision. Imago mundi of today has arrived and is becoming more and more fictional, more wishful thinking, more unrealistic than ever. We create more illusions than our poor hard drive can take and we imagine that this is the only possible savior, our only salvation.

* The infrarealist is shaping reality like a mad-man which you might consider to be normal or not. We must reveal the true natural and authentic creativity values of our inner reality, yet lost through personal interests and social conventions. Let us recover that rational madness of angelic beasts…:)

* Let go!!! Write as it is/ drop the pretense/ lose that inner-police and show your ugly face to the world…would they love you then? Would they? Being an infrarealist is a hit and a run situation. Bukowski knew how to hit but he didn’t know how to run…run like Roberto Bolaño said: like 500 mad horses with 500 km/hour, to the toilet or to Eternity.

* The infrarealist is the child who can’t see the emperor’s new clothes. He can see the naked emperor. Is the child who cannot lie with a smile, or sell illusions for the pretend ill, like a Placebo, however, he knows how to cauterize our wounds with a painful but healing truth, he knows how to place the heart back in its place when it jumps out of our chests for sweet nothings, and most of all it feels that is not the drug that will save the world, not the representations but everybody’s will alone to join in. Without the ‘know-how, let’s get to work for what IT IS, not fairies on the wall.

* The world is saturated with pseudo-vanguard-ism, wants the imminent, the authenticity, wants the sublime ugliness of reality. It wants that old bat without teeth receiving as a present a pack of condoms and she laughs with us not knowing why but it’s funny…What misses from the hand of The Beautiful Armors Lady of Rodin is the pack of preservatives…

* In the vision of the true wise men the world as it is not angelic nor demonic, in contrary is the unhappy mixture which you need to bend over and make choices…therefore, unfortunately and luckily, we need to reach out and become infrarealists, to watch live what is going on in one’s heart and not in the sweet make-belief of some over-heated brains. And if the whole universe is energy, and if energy is basically made of matter, who the hell has asked us to lose that energy, mentally or affectionately, within the realms of illusion, without being able to regenerate it, to recreate it, to conserve it and change it entropically with reality?

* Regarding reality, artistic or not, we cannot find but doctrines or pseudo-names. The infrarealist, when is telling you that ‘my granddad is a stick-walker-ologist’ it gives you reality as well as its artistic corollary. It’s a strange job, the one of ‘stick-walker-ologist’ but, affectionately and effectively it exists. Is not just a pseudo-name for the ‘pensioner’. The science man would simply and tediously tell you: ‘my granddad is a pensioner’. The today’s common artist, would probably turn it to: ‘my pensioner is a granddad’…a posh thing but not only that. At most a sort of irony…of the lack of it…to which snobbery may just start…in ecstasy.

* We write for nobody and everybody but not for ourselves. To write for yourself is an ego-trip and nothing else. We write like the rain falling out of a sunny sky, impersonal poems. The infrarealist spirit is impersonal in shape yet unique in its essence. To be impersonal is an art inferred by others who would love to practice it but fear losing their originality. It’s just a comfortable prejudice. In everything written today there is a great deal of indifference and selfishness. This is the answer to the shortage of books in bookstores, to the fact that volumes are aging on shelves, un-bought and un-read. The others have become an abstract notion, deliberately and purposely taken out of the equation. All are somewhere out there or nowhere, into an infrareality which overrides comprehension. Noo 'cause we are writing for ourselves or our literary sect…and when we do write for nobody out of who-knows-what miracle , we do it without charm and prestige, just because…

* Be Achilles and Ulysses at the same time. Vulnerable and cheeky, exposed and invincible. Pain as well as pleasure must be allowed to pass. Without rejections and attachments, just observed live and thus immortalized. A tiger infra-exploded in a deadly jump. Anything else is a low life and on high heels.




Romania, 2010

copyright © George Asztalos

Web Site: infrareal

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