Capitolo 1. Nato da poco
part of Baitball 01 “I’ll slip an extra shrimp on the barbie for you”
Palazzo San Giuseppe, Polignano a Mare, 05.01 - 15.03.2020
org. by Like A Little Disaster & Pane Project
01
Se mi rileggo riconosco la notte tra le righe, in mezzo alle cesure interne.
Ho ascoltato il me del passato: ero una voce uguale a qualcosa di già sentito,
una voce altra, organica,
nata da poco.
Tipo un bambino che scappa dal fracasso dello scarico del cesso,
nato da poco
e promosso di recente all’uso della tazza da adulti.
Un notevole upgrade che sarà per sempre. Differisce solo nella bontà dei materiali (freddi) per il corpo del vaso e (caldi) per la tavoletta. Da ora ci saranno questo vaso e gli alberi, ad alternare l’espletamento, la ceramica o il sottobosco, due ricettacoli che accolgono, ingoiano.
Già, spaventoso, sembra una fresca novità la tazza per adulti, eppure le si da
appena un’occhiata quando contiene ciò che abbiamo liberato.
Si potrebbe anche chiamare un adulto a testimoniare quell’atto di
generosità, di consapevolezza, di conquista del fondo dell’acqua: si restituisce
qualcosa preso in prestito.
E quindi via, ficcati giù, sparisci merda! Lontano il più possibile, lontano il
marcio creato, appartenente.
Genera perdita, lutto.
L’acqua spinge in basso e in diagonale, tangente al centro della terra, fino al
ritorno all’origine: la fogna in mare. Esatto, l’acqua mischia le cose, vedi un po’ che
potenza. Il mare partorisce gli esseri immaginati negli escrementi e in lei sigillati.
La mia merda è il buio che ho lasciato nel buco con quattro pareti.
Abbandonato.
Mi reclama, il ritorno ripetuto del buiomerda, sono il suo mare, e lui il me
stesso che non è mai uscito da quel buco.
Mi parla. Comunichiamo attraverso il tempo. È solo un’altra voce dentro la mia voce. È solo sapendo ascoltare il futuro che riesco a non far soffrire di solitudine quello che ho lasciato indietro.
I fotoni fanno esistere e definiscono.
La parte di me rimasta nella notte può immaginarsi ogni volta in modo
diverso. Il rituale del cambiamento è indipendente dallo sguardo di chiunque,
perfino dalla vista fissativa del sole, dell’adolescente dittatore.
È una danza segreta tra due crepuscoli, è un canto sempre rinnovato,
è identico a quelle voci organiche che durante le eclissi – dall’alto di una piramide
di pietra – approfittavano dello sguardo assente dell’astro per immaginare il
mondo diverso,
per cessare di partorire il ristagno
e urlare daccapo il nuovo.
02
Se posso cambiare, posso decidere chi essere.
Tutte le parti di me vorrebbero essere ogni cosa,
una cosa alla volta.
Non ci sono alternative al nascere e al raccontare.
D’altra parte, per qualcosa che può essere tutto,
e che proprio vuole essere qualcosa, la cosa migliore (forse)
sarebbe ficcarsi in un vettore del tempo, che va dal passato verso il futuro,
per trovare e creare momenti, discreti, conseguenza di una cosa rispetto ad
un’altra. Moltiplicarsi in voci e note distinte e uniche.
Non ho ben capito da dove nascano le voci. È come se la radiazione cosmica
rimbalzasse su corpi sospesi nel vuoto, contro polvere interstellare, gas nobili,
metalli ritorti e rocce che vanno verso un lungo, calcolato, gustato raffreddamento.
L’eco riportato dai budelli di argilla e dai suoi prolungamenti di carne dice
ogni volta cose nuove. Parlano, gli organici e gli inorganici.
I secondi non asseriscono nient’altro a parte quello che sono e vedono,
i secondi si raccontano e vogliono.
Ogni loro istantanea è una frequenza che mi fa immaginare cosa stia
accadendo. Mi ci è voluto molto tempo a capire riesco ad esprimere la storia
perché sto esistendo nel tempo.
03
Prima di essere convinto di poter avere anch’io intenzione di dire,
le voci degli altri erano un momento presente e sconnesso.
(forse) tutte le loro combinazioni possibili sono reali,
(forse) me le immagino,
(forse) le vedo perché qualcuno le immagina
da tanto, fra tanto, frattanto.
“Quando l’aratro non asseconda la tua mano, quando le bestie abbandonano
i recinti e ciò che ritieni tuo è certo di non appartenerti, divora anche ciò che ritieni
non ti appartenga.”
Dice una voce – un sole rosso nel deserto – ad un uomo inginocchiato sui gradini.
“Quanto sei esagerato.”
Dice una voce – una donna alta in controluce – ad un uomo inginocchiato sui
gradini.
“E io che c’entro?”
Dice una voce – un bambino sdraiato sulla pietra – ad un uomo
inginocchiato sui gradini.
04
Divenire.
L’idea era aliena per me, ed io per lei. Ballavo dentro un solo cerchio,
sempre nello stesso punto. Incarnavo la definizione di ruotare sul proprio asse.
Ho disegnato la medesima circonferenza non so quanto, mentre mi
orientavo in base alla direzione delle voci. L’unica volontà era ascoltarle con
precisione sempre maggiore, per scovare voci che venivano dall’interno di altre
voci, sempre più in fondo, pur senza cercarne una in particolare, perché una sola
non ce n’era mai stata.
Ogni voce ascoltata, un istante immaginato, uno accanto all’altro, tutti
grandi uguali. Giustapporre le voci, coppie dissociate ma complementari. Le
rispondenze mi suggerivano che due voci potevano essere l’una derivante
dall’altra, ma anche no. Il fu, il sarà, e in mezzo il grossomodo.
Il cambiamento procede da una sponda e dall’alta. Quello che scorre nel
mezzo è una sensazione che desta e concentra, come il sole sulle guance di chi
dorme. Dormire al buio, poi svegli e illuminati. Il fu, il sarà e le sue implicazioni.
Un sospetto. Forse anche la materia può cambiare. A partire dalla mia
danza, tanto per fare un esempio. Forse girare in cerchio nello stesso punto non è
per forza il mio tutto.
Ci può essere un prima di me e un dopo di me anche per me.
Ho spezzato il cerchio, l’orbita monotona, e via diritto come desideravo, cioè
a caso. Ho sbattuto contro qualcosa. Una barriera. Non è accaduto nulla.
Dietrofront, nella direzione opposta e ne ho colpito un’altra. Ecco che cosa
significa il Due. Ho ballato ancora e – meraviglia – proprio come c’erano prima e
dopo, proprio come ero nel buio e tutto quello che mi colpiva non era né me né il
buio, ecco una nuova parete, a perpendicolo tra le due. Le isolava, isolate.
Oltre a un battuta e alla controbattuta, a due coppie di scatti, poteva anche
esistere un Tre. Forse la terza barriera è addirittura l’obbiettivo principale, l’occhio
perfetto del bersaglio, l’esempio a cui tutti i muri dell’universo devono aspirare. Ma
dato che c’ero, ho cercato ancora.
È stata la quarta parete a cedere.
La sua fragilità, e l’esistenza di un altro spazio oltre al mio, hanno coinciso
con la mia volontà di trasformazione.
L’ho fatta esistere: la soglia che ho varcato adesso è un muro trasformato in
portale.
05
Potrei chiederti
se leggi da solo.
Oppure mi leggi in compagnia?
Ma se
(come le leggi che fanno avverare il dove e il quando)
sei compreso in un gruppo di quattro
(Amici oppure Astanti, 4)
e se ognuno legge in compagnia a partire da chiediti se,
chiediti se sei occhio o osservato,
giudicante o stai giocando,
merda o stai cagando,
controlli o sei scappato,
Qualunque risposta trovi,
la risposta può essere anche altri suoni.
Le note dicono ingresso, sequenza, ribaltamento e finale ripetuto.
Quattro quarti.
Se leggi solo, ascolta da solo,
e se non ti senti, conduci qui tre
(Persone, 3)
e ricominciate da Potrei chiederti.
06
Arduo non confondere prima e dopo, ammettiamolo senza chiedere per
favore. L’immaginazione scrive entrambi allo stesso modo.
Un esempio;
una delle voci che amo ascoltare, non so quando e dove esista.
indietro e dentro di lei, ecco parole numerose che un lettore chiamerebbe
remote, ma che sono un’onda d’intenzione, marciante dal futuro verso il passato.
La voce sa di poter essere tutte le estensioni delle voci
precedenti.
Il suo corpo risuona scordando chi aveva immaginato di sentirsi così.
La sua storia cominciò con l’incontrarsi. Erano all’inizio
(e alla fine)
in due, e prima ancora due coppie di alte voci, poi altre quattro, e altri
ancora che ballavano loro attorno ora cantando ora tacendo.
Le sfumature dei mutui accordi, dei canti incrociati, hanno deciso di
divenire un canto solo. Da molti, uno –una mitosi invertita.
Una carne sola che respirava come le carni
precedenti.
La nuova voce ora si racconta chiamando la Luna e con un dito rosso traccia una rotta fra le stelle. Tutte le canzoni con cui aveva creduto di uccidere il mondo erano solamente un breve sogno.
07
È un mostro, che vi sta avvertendo.
L’ordine circondato da un fossato,
da cocci di bottiglia, è un giardino chiuso.
________
01
Whenever I read my words again, between the lines and the inner pauses, I
acknowledge the night.
I’ve listened to my past self: it was equal to other voices that have already
been heard and yet it was different, organic,
newborn.
Like a child that runs away from the up roaring flush of the john, a
newborn
that recently got a promotion for the grownups potty.
A major upgrade that will last forever, that differs from the previous one
only for the better building materials. Cold is the body of the toilet, hot is the seat.
From now on, there will be only those, and the woods. The pot ant the
undergrowth to alternate a ritual of cleansing. Two vessels that gobble and
swallow.
Yeah, scary. The grownups john seems a fresh novelty, and yet you give a
glimpse only when it holds what you have set free. You could even summon an
adult to witness the disruption of clear water you have generated, your conquer of
generosity and awareness: you are giving back the life force you borrowed.
So get down, shit, be gone! I ran away as fast as I could from a made up
corruption that belongs to me.
It generates loss.
Water pushes down, diagonally, tangential to the earth core, until it comes
back to its origin: an open sewer into the sea. That’s right, the water mashes things
together. What a power. The sea brings into the world the entities we’ve imagined
and bound in our own shit.
My shit is the dark I left in a hole, made out of four walls.
Left behind.
It reclaims me back, the endless finale of the shit-dark, because it’s part of
that myself who never got out of the hole, and I am its sea.
It speaks to me. We communicate through time. It’s just another voice inside
my voice. Only listening to the future, I can prevent what I have left behind from
dying out of loneliness.
The photons determine, they let things exist,
so that part of me that still dwells in the night, can imagine itself always
anew. The ritual of change is independent from anyone’s sight, even from the
teenage dictator, the fixative sunlight.
It’s a secret dance between twilights, a song that’s always rejuvenated, a
chorus of organic voices that during eclipses – from the summit of a rock pyramid
– takes advantage of the Star’s absence to invent a different world,
to cease giving birth to stasis
and cry out the new all over again.
02
If I can change, I can also decide into what.
Each part of me would love to be everything,
one thing at the time.
There is no alternative to being born and tell the story. For a thing that
could be everything and wants to be something, (maybe) the best thing to do is
squeeze into a chosen direction of time – that goes from past to future, let’s say –
and try to create discrete moments, multiplications of unique voices. Relations.
I still haven’t grasped where the voices exactly come from. It’s just like some
cosmic radiation is rebounding on floating bodies, on dusts in the void, inert
gasses, bent metals and straight rocks, all going toward a long, calculated, exquisite
chilling.
The echoes that are continuously brought back from bellies of clay and
extensions of flesh, say new things every time. They speak, the organics and the
inorganics.
The latter acknowledge only what they are and what they see, the other
ones narrate and have will.
Every moment of theirs that I’ve heard, is a frequency that allows me to
imagine what happened to them.
It took me a very long turn to realize that I can express their stories through
time because, finally, me too I am existing.
03
Before I was sure that there was a will to say,
the voices of others were a remote and present moment.
(Perhaps) Every combination between them is a real possibility,
(perhaps) I’m imagining them,
(perhaps) I see them because someone imagined them a long ago, for things
to come, as long as the present is.
“When the plow does no longer respond to your hand, when beasts leave
their containment and those you belong to are certainly not belonging to you
anymore, devour everything you’re sure is not belonging to you.”
Says a voice, a red sun in the desert, to a man kneeled on the stairs.
“How exaggerated.”
Says a voice – a tall woman against the light – to a man kneeled on the stairs.
“Is this about me?”
Says a voice – a child, bound and laid on the rocks – to a man kneeled on the
stairs.
04
Becoming.
An idea as alien to me as I’m alien to the idea.
I was dancing on my own, within a circle, on the spot. I incarnated the
definition of spinning around one’s own axis.
I have drawn the same circumference – I can’t say how long – orienting in
relation to the voices’ direction. My only will was to listen with increasing
precision, to find voices that came out of other voices, all the way down, searching
for no one in particular, because one in particular never came to be.
Every voice I heard, every moment I imagined, one next to the other, each
one large the same as the others. A juxtaposition of disconnected but
complementary pairs of voices. Compliances suggested me that two voices could
be consequent one another, as well as they could not. Was on one side, Will on the
other, Roughly in between.
Change proceeds from one shore to the other. What’s flowing in the middle
is a sensation that makes you awake and focused. So does the sun on the cheeks of
those who are asleep. To slumber in the dark, and then you are awake and lighted
up. Was, Will and its aftermath.
A suspicion: maybe even matter can change. Starting from my room, to take
an example. Perhaps going in circle around the same spot is not necessarily my
whole way of being. Me too, I can exist before me and after me.
I broke the circle, the tedious orbit, and I proceeded as I wished – that’s to
say, randomly.
I hit something. A wall. Nothing happened.
So back, on the opposite direction, and I hit another one. So, that’s what Two
means. I kept on dancing and, who would have guessed, exactly as there was a
before and an after – just like there was me, in the dark, and everything that hit me
was clearly neither me nor the dark – I discovered a third wall, between the first
two. It divided them, isolated.
So, beyond the cues, beyond a couple of beats, it could exist a Three. Maybe
that last wall was the ultimate focus, the balanced example of the perfect wall, to
which all the walls in the universe should look up to.
Since I was already there, I kept on dancing.
It was the forth wall that gave in.
Its fragility, and the existence of another space beyond that, overlapped to
my desire of transformation.
It exists, now: what once has been a wall, now is the threshold I have
crossed.
05
I could ask you
if you’re reading alone.
Or are you reading me in the company of others?
But If
(just like the laws that makes the where and when)
you are included in a group of four
(Friends or Onlookers, 4)
and if each one is reading in the company of the others, starting from Ask
yourself if, then
Ask yourself if you are the eye or the observed,
if you’re eating or shitting,
if you’re controlling or running away.
Any answers you may come across, just know that the answer can also be
other sounds.
The notes play an opening, a sequence, a turning point and a repeated
finale. Four quarters.
If you read alone, then listen by your own,
and if you can’t hear yourself, then bring here three
(People, 3)
and go back to I could ask you
06
Being not confused between a before and an after, is hard. Let’s say it
openly with no apologies.
An example;
one of the voices that I love to listen, I do not know when and where it
exists.
Before it and inside it, there’s abundance of words that readers could
describe as obsolete, but that are a wave of intention, proceeding from the future
to the past.
The voice knows that it can be every extension of the past voices. Its body
ring out, forgetting those who have envisioned themselves having that exact
feeling. Its story started with a meeting. At the beginning
(and at the end)
there were two voices.
And before that, another pair of voices, and four more before those, and a
lot of others dancing around, shifting between songs and silence.
The shades of the mutual cues, of the crossed songs, decided to be one song
alone. One out of many – and inverted mitosis.
One flash alone that breathes like numerous past flesh.
The new voice now tells its own story, calling out to the Moon, tracing with
a red finger a route between the stars. All of the songs that it was said would have
murdered the world, were nothing but a brief dream.
07
It’s a monster, warning you.
The order encompassed by a trench,
by bottle shards, is a closed garden.
BAITBALL (01) "I'll slip an extra shrimp on the barbie for you"
January 5 – March 15 - 2020
Curated by:
Catbox Contemporary (New York) - Davide Da Pieve - Essenza Club (Nomadic) - Flip Project (Napoli) - Ginny Project (London) - Harlesden High Street (London) & Twee Whistler - Like A Little Disaster (Polignano a Mare) - Felice Moramarco - Nights (Nomadic) - PANE project (Milano) - PIA Studio (Lecce) - Progetto (Lecce) - Rhizome Parking Garage (Online) - Studioconcreto (Lecce) - The Sunroom (Richmond) - Ultrastudio (Pescara / Los Angeles).
Artists:
Jaana-Kristiina Alakoski, Ambra Abbaticola, ASAFO Black (Nuna Adisenu- Doe, Scrapa, Jeffrey Otoo, Samuel Kortey Baah, Denyse Gawu-Mensah, Larry Bonćhaka), ASMA, Monia Ben Hamouda, Ludovic Beillard, Vitaly Bezpalov, Andrew Birk, Enrico Boccioletti, Melanie Bonajo, Benni Bosetto, Cécilia Brueil, Ian Bruner, Marco Bruzzone, Paolo Bufalini, Pierluigi Calignano, Katharina Cameron, Costanza Candeloro, Finn Carstens, Filippo Cecconi, Guendalina Cerruti, Keren Cytter, Edoardo Ciaralli, Riccardo D’avola-Corte, Stine Deja - Zoë De Luca, Maria Adele Del Vecchio, Lila De Magalhaes, Davide Dicorato, Derek M. F. Di Fabio, Alessandro Di Pietro, Neckar Doll, Loki Dolor, Don Elektro, Clementine Edwards, Kayla Ephros, Adham Faramawy, Cleo Fariselli, Emilio Ferro, Olga Fedorova, Alessandro Fogo, Léo Fourdriner, Michele Gabriele, Paolo Gabriotti, Tommaso Gatti, Diana Gheorghiu, Naomi Gilon, Marco Giordano, Nicola Gobbetto, Serena Grassi, Julie Grosche, Jennyfer Haddad, Jan S. Hansen, Philip Hinge, Helena Hladilová, Joey Holder, Ellie Hunter, Eloise Hawser, Angelique Heidler, Lena Henke, Botond Keresztesi, Keiu Krikmann, Andrea Kvas, Virginia Lee Montgomery, Per-Oskar Leu, Lucia Leuci, Abby Lloyd, Ula Lucińska + Michał Knychaus, Lorenzo Lunghi, Tamara Macarthur, Dalia Maini, Rachele Maistrello, Viola Morini, Max Motmans, Marco Musarò, Christine Navin, Avery Noyes, Alessandro Nucci, Francesco Pacelli, Nuno Patrício, Emma Pryde, Anni Puolakka, Agostino Quaranta, John Roebas, Andrea Sala, Giulio Scalisi, Jens Settegren, Siggi Sekira, Guido Segni, Helin Shahmaran, Namsal Siedlecki, SGOMENTO (Matteo Pomati, Marco Pio Mucci), Anna Slama, Livia Spinga Mantovani, Ruben Spini, Martin Soto Climent, Mireille Tap, Filippo Tappi, Nik Timková, Philipp Timischl, Natalia Trejbalova, Marta Trektere, Urara Tsuchiya, Patrick Tuttofuoco, Eva Vallania, Daniel Van Straalen, Essi Vesala, Gaia Vincensini, Marco Vitale, Alessandro Vizzini, Gray Wielebinski, Zoë Williams, Yelena Zhelezov, Michaela Zuge-Bruton.
-
A bait ball occurs when small organisms (fish, birds, insects) move tightly packed in a spherical formation around a common center. It is a defensive measure adopted to escape the threat of predators, but it is also a cohesion exercise enhancing the hydro-aerodynamic functions.A coordinated bait ball that moves and glitters in unison is a mesmerizing image; hundreds or thousands of individuals moving together under radio control or a pre-established choreography. They are even more surprising considering that there is no leader or hierarchy within them.The "balls" are formed through that spontaneous emergency known as self-organization. It emerges from the bottom upwards, it is an a-centered and non-linear phenomenon, it is an irreversible process, which thanks to the cooperative action of subsystems lead to more complex structures in the global system.A bait ball rotates, contracts, expands, separates and returns all one, without interruption - single individualities with a hive mind. Cohesion is achieved through the coordination of each individual with respect to the nearest neighbour. A massive coordinated "ball" is made up of thousands of individual actions that make up a single collective movement.
Heterogeneous, "aggregated" patterns in the spatial distributions of individuals are almost universal across living organisms, from bacteria to higher vertebrates. Whereas specific features of aggregations are often visually striking to human eyes, a heuristic analysis based on human vision is usually not sufficient to answer fundamental questions about how and why organisms aggregate and nor about how and why the same associative processes invest "inanimate" elements such as water vapour, sand dunes, galaxies, in which these patterns derive from simple abiotic interactions between the individual components.
The project BAITBALL follows the same natural, mutualistic and universal mechanism to create a hybrid subject/object, a collective dimension; what remains after eliminating the artificial notions of nature and culture. It emerges from the continuous articulation of humans and non-humans, artifacts, inscriptions, animals, plants, spirits, ancestors, gods, organisms and technological prostheses, local and universal, apocalyptic fears and technological hopes.“us and our technologies in one vast system – to include human and nonhuman agency and understanding, knowing and unknowing, within the same agential soup”. BAITBAL is neither an object nor a subject, it is a relationship. It is a phenomenon that can only be represented as an interaction, thus allowing to pass from the obtuseness of “I” to the fluidity of “Us”. It is not a fixed point, an invariant structure, but a circulation being that draws a multi-centric network. It is an interlaced tangle that constantly acts with all the other animated and inanimate makers of the world. Within it, human and non-human associations become cognitive paths of the world because they generate it with their mutual action, hic et nunc.
BAITBAL is a toroid, in it the energy flows from one end, circulates around the center and comes out from the other side. It is balanced, self-regulating, can sustain itself and is made of the same substance surrounding it, like a tornado, a ring of smoke in the air or a vortex in the water. The toroid allows a vortex of energy to flow outwards and then return to the vortex. Thus the energy of a BAITBALL is continually regenerated and at the same time expands self-reflecting on itself. BAITBALL is not a macro-organism, nor a subsumption of the parts in a superior totality, but an inter-penetration of the entities, a zone of indistinction and transformation. […] everything is connected to something, which is connected to something else. While we may all ultimately be connected to one another, the specificity and proximity of connections matters— who we are bound up with and in what ways. BAITBALL creates lines of growth and movement, it does not live in places but along paths: the "wayfarer" is its original condition. Its dimension is defined based on movement and relationships, its contours are so blurred that its definition becomes possible only from a contextual ecological point of view. Its environment is not simply the "thing" that surrounds it, but rather an inextricable “imbroglio” of lines, a tangle of interlaced paths.This tangle is the texture of the BAITBALL, beings do not simply occupy the world, they inhabit it, and in so doing – in threading their own paths through the meshwork – they contribute to its ever-evolving weave. Thus we must cease regarding the world as an inert substratum. If the modern, colonial, naturalist power/knowledge tends to contract the collective's action in an orderly system (a structure, a chessboard, a cartography), BAITBALL instead extends the perception of reality in a multiverse made of traces, textures and weaves - from the projection of luminous imaginary chains between one star and the other, to the construction of magic seals, to chiroscopy, or to other forms of mantic. This process amplifies the original intertwining of organisms, mythologies, and ecological relationships. BAITBALL is a place where to live together across difference. Whatever the new arrangements will bring, human exceptionalism and individualism will very likely be a difficult embarrassment for dreaming up new worlds to become-with-others.The ecosystem that emerges from the perspective of the BAITBALL implies a reconsideration of the Darwinian theory of evolution: instead of considering separate classes as individuals, kingdoms, species, biomes, it is necessary to consider the single entities as vortices in a flow. These entities, in fact, do not exist as stable objects, but continuously mix in an unstoppable confluence of flows. BAITBALL describes a position of translation, mediation and relation that becomes the pivot of a morphological and ontogenetic model. “The view of evolution as a chronic bloody competition among individuals and species, a popular distortion of Darwin's notion of "survival of the fittest," dissolves before a new view of continual cooperation, strong interaction, and mutual dependence among life forms. Life did not take over the globe by combat, but by networkiing. Life forms multiplied and complexified by co-opting others, not just by killing them.” BAITBALL is activated with what we cannot see or foresee with the unexpected, invisible, invisible consequences of collective actions, beyond the limits of the standardization of the possibility of control.BAITBALL Identity is not an object; it is a process with addresses for different directions and so it can be fixed with a single number. BAITBALL is more like a verb. It repairs, maintains, re-creates, and outdoes itself.BAITBALL is about love, friendship, togetherness and trust, which are always something more and always something less than awareness and knowledge.BAITBALL is an evolutionary stage, a strategic mechanism to circumvent extinction, to lie to death.
Tools: James Bridle, Donna Haraway, Lynn Margulis, Tim Ingold, Timothy Morton, Bruno Latour, Michel Serres.