The debate on climate shift is a signal that men cannot program his actions upon nature accurately. It is also a signal that men cannot predict the behaviour of nature. He cannot find the program according to which nature acts.

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A dream of modernity: To programm others, to programm a social machine. The artist is a engineer of immaterial constructions.

J: A post is not a book. A post in a blog is a way of agreement, an agreement to the programming of a social machine (partly programmed as a Turing Machine). A book (reading or writing) is a way of facing the power and the powerlessnes of subversion:

“There is no door for the blind.”*

and:

“God provides reading matter. He does not read.”**

* Edmond Jabès: Le Livre des Ressemblances [Paris 1976]. Paris: Gallimard, 1991, p. 195.

** Edmond Jabès: The little book of unsuspected subversion [Translated by Rosmarie Waldrop]. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996, p. 30.

Realometer gathers informations about the Turing Machine (TM).  Parts of himself function like a Turing Machine: He reads a sign in a certain state of mind; he accepts the sign or deletes the sign; he changes his state of mind or not; then he moves forward to the next sign or not (next click in yahooland).

D. doubts that. There are no discrete signs for a 20th century artist.  Signs are only vehicles (patrol cars) of the common sense. Of course discrete signs are part of the art game, but they do not match to the demands of an art which is interested in challenging borders of perception (where does a spot of color starts to be more or less than a point, becomes part of a tree (see one post before), of a hand (see other posts before)  or of something never seen or heard before (see other posts)?)

Die Herkunft der Strasse wendet unseren Blick, als Falschmehl vom Himmel schneit, kaum dass der Morgen die Giebel unserer Augen trocknete. Wald wächst aus den Adern der Kinder, als sie schlafen, Becher der Hand. Erschrockenes Blut gerinnt im selben Atemzug mit der fliehenden Nacht.

‘Food’. ‘Pickle’. ‘Chalk’. For some reason that
can be attributed to hunger of various kinds, maybe,

Space Gulliver finds these words floating before her.
She isn’t sure where they came from, whether their arrival

will be followed by the real things, food, pickle, and chalk.
She could use a little food, something to see her through

another night. She always liked picking out the garlic
from the pickle. Now, in a yahooland where no one

has heard of the Bermuda Triangle, she feels all tastes
are disappearing. Bitter gourd, sweet lime, sour plantain.

Variables, constants. Space Gulliver is looking for a line,
a chalk mountain, a little white sign on a black, black slate

Sampurna Chattarji