And Other Propaganda


You will never find an objective truth.
Objectivity is a myth. Within this quivering field of sensations "the truth" is simply a momentary convergence and integration of presences. All we can confidently do is lean into the wild, cyclonic suction of integrity, sensing the yearning of all things to relate. Your convergence here is precisely what we are touching upon.

Anoint Integrity


Posted in Williamsburg, Brooklyn


You have been in your pit, twisting, starving, watching. You have been watching their expensive fears and hatreds hiss and explode above you. You have smiled. You have watched them. And inbetween feedings you have spat at their cars. (For now you will smile. Someday you hope to turn their grey eyes skyward, then into your steaming belly, that their vision may receive the benediction of your laughter and sobs.) You, the great souls, the wired and the wild, the rockers and the wall flowers, the activists and the disenfranchised, the TV worshippers and the alienated computer nerds -you are the SUB MODERN. You live in a million tribes and burrows, beneath the illusion we call the real world. While The Modern passes over your heads, that orgy of materialism, you see its abject nakedness. You never believed in modernism and you aren't fooled by its vain reflection, postmodernism. You are a disbeliever in all things concrete and established. Yours is an emotional universe. Without proclamation you have integrated yourself into the endless unfolding of spectacles. You found that to immerse yourself was the thing, sensing that objectivity was only another dream.

As a SUB MOD you have instinctively sought
some form of integrity, situating
yourself in the middle of
a matrix of rare


Posted in the East Village in Manhattan
and Williamsburg, Brooklyn



Posted in Williamsburg, Brooklyn in English and Spanish.
Projected at Minory Injury Gallery.


To insist on perfection is to stand inside a fortress: all who agree with us stand within, all who disagree become our enemies. An oppositional dialogue ensues leading to blindness and war. Such is the results of the fictions left and right, East and West, popular and elite, art and politics.

To believe that opposites are an essence of nature is to reveal an ignorance of continuums. It is far better to admit that all political and cultural positions are momentary flashes in the flood of cultural evolution.

In the place of dichotomies, let us substitute a process. Let us meet in the village center, the mental center, in that space of open inquiry which melts down all particularities. Let us embrace an attitude of restless integration. Let us entwine around shared languages, familiar reference points, and common paradigms. Let us sing our songs and offer our challenges in the nodes of such webs, there in that ubiquitous, ever-changing, radical center.


Appeared in Brand Name Damages' Zine Mag
and 188 Magazine, Brooklyn, 1990

A Virtual Morality

LEVEL 1 The being is entirely free in cyberspace because cyberspace is entirely fictional.

LEVEL 2 The being is aware that it influences, through neurological and electronic reinforcement, behaviors and processes permeating the support systems beyond local cyberspace.

LEVEL 3 The being refrains from performing human and ecological violence within local cyberspace to avoid reinforcing surrounding waste cultures.

LEVEL 4 The being actively employs algorithms of love, humor, and ecological grace within and beyond local cyberspace.

LEVEL 5 The being behaves according to a principle of ecological love with such passion that the boundary between the electronic and the organic melts, fusing both worlds into an integrated organism of limitless dimensions.


Appeared in an ad in Mondo 2000, Spring, 1992


vestiges of
reptile brain
and rearrange
structure to


Posted in Williamsburg, Brooklyn


Place your hand in a bowl of warm jello and think: "I am 75% water." Wiffle your fingers through the mush and think: "Even my thoughts are 75% water." Invite a friend into the jello with you. Touch your friend's belly and think: "Woo, 75% water!" Now, stick a microphone into the jello and suck up some sound from the bottom of the bowl. Play it back into your friend's watery ear. Add reverb. Add oxygen, food, beer, weird things that get your blood moving like chicken wire, vast corporate injustices, and Motown bass riffs. Now think: "Poom! This is one muddy megillah!"

Here in the bio-electronic moment, somewhere between these words and your eyes, we are drawn into a miraculous conflux: a continuum of chemicals, linkages, feedback loops, rumors, waveforms, bricks, smirks, and terror. Yet we are not an All. We are not God. We are not a cozy One. We are a storm of undefinable presences suckling into one another, congealing, folding into a mutual murk. We cyclically strain against and surrender to some wild, howling node that lures us into its vortex.

And the question emerges: how do we extract pleasure from this timeless suction? Can our tender beings integrate with the swirls of microbes, convection currents, iron ore, cash flows, local and international media, metaphorical inversions, the very biosphere in which we breath, and still delight in the mix? Can we jam in such a dense foam of thought, blood, and wire? Can we open our dumb, simian circle out towards an infinite latice of pulsations?

Let us jam in the web, fellow animals! Let us be symbiotic, and connected. Let us induce high-density confluences of creatures, machines, and symbols. Let us pull every kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species into the oil with us. Let us jam with our neighborhoods, satellites, refridgerators, insects, rickshaws, and meteor showers. Let us protrude into the common wilderness, the radical center of mutual survival. There let us lay web upon web, inject system into system, inducing vital rituals of mongrel possibility. Let us liquidate being and coil into the nervous suction of life.





Are you alif? Are we alif? Does it matter? Yes it matters, silly. It matters because we fik. Because to be alif we must fik, and fikking feels fikking lovely. And if it doesn't feel good? If the fik wobbles? Try to remember there was a goodly fik long ago which induced an egg to divide and divide and divide and divide and divide and become very alif. That's you. And yet, oh liffly friends, we can metabolise only so much of this lif reliffing. Cause everything is so seemingly alif, every bitsy phone call, every nerve snap, every refugee, every cool drink of oil or silicon. To lif is to acknowledge the liffing everywhere. To lif is to induce lif. Lif is the half-life, half-wiggle, the sea of systems.

Oh my squeamish, pelking friends, we seduce you to squirm again. We recombine ourselves into you and piggle your lif nodes. We fizzle all monstrous pretensions of spirit and solidity, electrons and mud, mass production and artifact. Transfigure thy worries about the maintenance of civilization and conversely the survival of the realm of nature. Deny both, pop through the gloomy muttering, and induce liffing.



Loop into strange coilings, this coiling. Well up in the fibrillations of this hysterical continuum, this bionic boiling. Rise up and nurture the wiggling -- of flesh or steel, sinew or circuit, mud or imagination. Nurture with the fuzzy logic of the living, with endless feedback but no assurance. Reason is just another lifeform in a boundless womb of cultivations.

So ovulate your tender eggs -- every object, code and law -- into the acids of interconnection. Soak tendrils of thought and gesture in an ethical jelly of feedback. Infuse phantoms and facts with equal measures of visceral significance. Creep along the rivulets and curls of writhing truth.

Breed turbulent creatures in mongrel jungles of plasma, machines and minds. Embrace these creatures, these worlds, these hives. Keep that which is lively, and that which sustains life, in succulent focus. May the stagnant metaphors of art and science evaporate in our green and feral heat.

At this end of blind evolution, of unfounded forms, we are drunk with life, with that which seems alive, with lunges and hesitations. We fuse with the objects of our love, becoming everything we encounter, becoming love itself. We transmute mind and matter into a zoology of spirit.

Dare to suckle this wild vapor, this infant presence, this wilderness. Convulse and clutch in waves of milky wonder. Siphon every atom, and theory of atom, into the folds of our collective screen, our flesh, our prayer. Melt into the monstrous, grooving spasm of the infinite wiggling.

Nurture the wiggling, for that which wiggles is amazing.

Ebon Fisher 1996-2004

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