Claudia La Rocco - Sticker Poems
2 sheets of shaped stickers featuring poetry and photographs by Claudia La Rocco
Commissioned by Personal Space for the exhibition, Slipper, 2024
Each sticker sheet is 8.5 × 11”
$15 / package of two sticker sheets in a translucent sealed bag
Claudia La Rocco is the author of Drive By, Certain Things, Quartet, petit cadeau, and The Best Most Useless Dress. With musician/composer Phillip Greenlief she is animals & giraffes, an experiment in interdisciplinary improvisation that performs across the US and has released three albums. claudialarocco.com
Body Machines Chaotic Hopper
Claudia La Rocco
If you google the iconic SF punk band Flipper (an inappropriate but inevitable 2024 means of engagement with an iconic SF punk band you were too young to have seen when all the founders were still alive), one of the top results is a performance at Amoeba San Francisco on February 18, 2008. “The coalition for a drug-free America, brought to you by Pfizer,” an unctuous voice announces (cue knowing laughter). The black screen gives way: heads judder to Krist Novoselic’s irresistible bass riff, Bruce Loose yell-sings into the mic:
There are eyes that cannot see
And fingers that cannot touch
That’s the way of the world
There are dreams left empty and blank
And legs that have ceased to walk
That's the way of the world
There are kisses undelivered
Sighs and moans unuttered
That's the way of the world
There are hearts no longer beating
And there are entrails spilled on the floor
That’s the way of the world
Plus ça change. If the entrails had green netting to hold them, they might be more neatly contained. Since, you know, the flesh clearly failed. Art for end times that just keep on (never)ending. Whatever. I put on my sound-absorbing oversized hairy architectural jacket. (I who was one of three thousand.) I went out into the night or was it late afternoon my circuitry was fucked I was, I was—
archaeological
pseudo-mythological
technology
dreaming
CHAOTIC HOPPER
The scene was littered with dotted lines, tracing the trajectories of past and future flights and descents. I put my ear to the wall. Just, you know, just to see if I could hear (my ear had eyes). Already the present was disappearing into the sand. Something had been destroyed, was being destroyed, the body machine split open like a philosophy.
What it was, was, I’d been in the tar pits again. I couldn’t hold my horses, in part because they were hologram-like. Like, if white toe-ish organisms joined forces and thought to themselves, why couldn’t we be a horse? (We’ve all seen The Host. We know it’s coming for them while they’re busy coming for us.) Why not after all? I got depressed. I watched all of Fallout season one in two days, my ambitions dulled by old-timey music and choreographed disaster. Not good, exactly, but good enough.
You know what it was like? It was like legible data that had undergone some fundamental transformation — a kind of deep dreaming, or death, or encryption — and then reemerged in the form of a resistant Delphian artifact. In other words. Euphoria, if only you can get over your juvenile attachment to your body.
Just now, for example, I’m thinking about archaeology. This happens when the surface gets all grimy, accumulation duking it out with erosion. You have to wait for the wind to clean the sand. Desert power. Form pressed against form. I wonder how many of those bodies in that video are still in the Bay Area. How much longer Amoeba will stick it out, with or without the weed sales. Here’s to changeable creatures; you know, at a certain point, it’s all, like, research, man. The glass is cool against your foot. Everything is hand carved. The soft parts move, even (especially) when you don’t want them to.
*
With some text absorbed, abstracted, and/or abused from conversations with Lisa Rybovich Crallé; “The scene was littered with dotted lines, tracing the trajectories of past and future flights and descents,” is from Albet Herter, “One cannot have one's own house”; “…legible data that had undergone some fundamental transformation — a kind of deep dreaming, or death, or encryption — and then reemerged in the form of a resistant Delphian artifact” is from Erik Frydenborg.
Claudia La Rocco’s Body Machines Chaotic Hopper was commissioned by Personal Space for the exhibition, Slipper, 2024.
2 sheets of shaped stickers featuring poetry and photographs by Claudia La Rocco
Commissioned by Personal Space for the exhibition, Slipper, 2024
Each sticker sheet is 8.5 × 11”
$15 / package of two sticker sheets in a translucent sealed bag
Claudia La Rocco is the author of Drive By, Certain Things, Quartet, petit cadeau, and The Best Most Useless Dress. With musician/composer Phillip Greenlief she is animals & giraffes, an experiment in interdisciplinary improvisation that performs across the US and has released three albums. claudialarocco.com
Body Machines Chaotic Hopper
Claudia La Rocco
If you google the iconic SF punk band Flipper (an inappropriate but inevitable 2024 means of engagement with an iconic SF punk band you were too young to have seen when all the founders were still alive), one of the top results is a performance at Amoeba San Francisco on February 18, 2008. “The coalition for a drug-free America, brought to you by Pfizer,” an unctuous voice announces (cue knowing laughter). The black screen gives way: heads judder to Krist Novoselic’s irresistible bass riff, Bruce Loose yell-sings into the mic:
There are eyes that cannot see
And fingers that cannot touch
That’s the way of the world
There are dreams left empty and blank
And legs that have ceased to walk
That's the way of the world
There are kisses undelivered
Sighs and moans unuttered
That's the way of the world
There are hearts no longer beating
And there are entrails spilled on the floor
That’s the way of the world
Plus ça change. If the entrails had green netting to hold them, they might be more neatly contained. Since, you know, the flesh clearly failed. Art for end times that just keep on (never)ending. Whatever. I put on my sound-absorbing oversized hairy architectural jacket. (I who was one of three thousand.) I went out into the night or was it late afternoon my circuitry was fucked I was, I was—
archaeological
pseudo-mythological
technology
dreaming
CHAOTIC HOPPER
The scene was littered with dotted lines, tracing the trajectories of past and future flights and descents. I put my ear to the wall. Just, you know, just to see if I could hear (my ear had eyes). Already the present was disappearing into the sand. Something had been destroyed, was being destroyed, the body machine split open like a philosophy.
What it was, was, I’d been in the tar pits again. I couldn’t hold my horses, in part because they were hologram-like. Like, if white toe-ish organisms joined forces and thought to themselves, why couldn’t we be a horse? (We’ve all seen The Host. We know it’s coming for them while they’re busy coming for us.) Why not after all? I got depressed. I watched all of Fallout season one in two days, my ambitions dulled by old-timey music and choreographed disaster. Not good, exactly, but good enough.
You know what it was like? It was like legible data that had undergone some fundamental transformation — a kind of deep dreaming, or death, or encryption — and then reemerged in the form of a resistant Delphian artifact. In other words. Euphoria, if only you can get over your juvenile attachment to your body.
Just now, for example, I’m thinking about archaeology. This happens when the surface gets all grimy, accumulation duking it out with erosion. You have to wait for the wind to clean the sand. Desert power. Form pressed against form. I wonder how many of those bodies in that video are still in the Bay Area. How much longer Amoeba will stick it out, with or without the weed sales. Here’s to changeable creatures; you know, at a certain point, it’s all, like, research, man. The glass is cool against your foot. Everything is hand carved. The soft parts move, even (especially) when you don’t want them to.
*
With some text absorbed, abstracted, and/or abused from conversations with Lisa Rybovich Crallé; “The scene was littered with dotted lines, tracing the trajectories of past and future flights and descents,” is from Albet Herter, “One cannot have one's own house”; “…legible data that had undergone some fundamental transformation — a kind of deep dreaming, or death, or encryption — and then reemerged in the form of a resistant Delphian artifact” is from Erik Frydenborg.
Claudia La Rocco’s Body Machines Chaotic Hopper was commissioned by Personal Space for the exhibition, Slipper, 2024.
2 sheets of shaped stickers featuring poetry and photographs by Claudia La Rocco
Commissioned by Personal Space for the exhibition, Slipper, 2024
Each sticker sheet is 8.5 × 11”
$15 / package of two sticker sheets in a translucent sealed bag
Claudia La Rocco is the author of Drive By, Certain Things, Quartet, petit cadeau, and The Best Most Useless Dress. With musician/composer Phillip Greenlief she is animals & giraffes, an experiment in interdisciplinary improvisation that performs across the US and has released three albums. claudialarocco.com
Body Machines Chaotic Hopper
Claudia La Rocco
If you google the iconic SF punk band Flipper (an inappropriate but inevitable 2024 means of engagement with an iconic SF punk band you were too young to have seen when all the founders were still alive), one of the top results is a performance at Amoeba San Francisco on February 18, 2008. “The coalition for a drug-free America, brought to you by Pfizer,” an unctuous voice announces (cue knowing laughter). The black screen gives way: heads judder to Krist Novoselic’s irresistible bass riff, Bruce Loose yell-sings into the mic:
There are eyes that cannot see
And fingers that cannot touch
That’s the way of the world
There are dreams left empty and blank
And legs that have ceased to walk
That's the way of the world
There are kisses undelivered
Sighs and moans unuttered
That's the way of the world
There are hearts no longer beating
And there are entrails spilled on the floor
That’s the way of the world
Plus ça change. If the entrails had green netting to hold them, they might be more neatly contained. Since, you know, the flesh clearly failed. Art for end times that just keep on (never)ending. Whatever. I put on my sound-absorbing oversized hairy architectural jacket. (I who was one of three thousand.) I went out into the night or was it late afternoon my circuitry was fucked I was, I was—
archaeological
pseudo-mythological
technology
dreaming
CHAOTIC HOPPER
The scene was littered with dotted lines, tracing the trajectories of past and future flights and descents. I put my ear to the wall. Just, you know, just to see if I could hear (my ear had eyes). Already the present was disappearing into the sand. Something had been destroyed, was being destroyed, the body machine split open like a philosophy.
What it was, was, I’d been in the tar pits again. I couldn’t hold my horses, in part because they were hologram-like. Like, if white toe-ish organisms joined forces and thought to themselves, why couldn’t we be a horse? (We’ve all seen The Host. We know it’s coming for them while they’re busy coming for us.) Why not after all? I got depressed. I watched all of Fallout season one in two days, my ambitions dulled by old-timey music and choreographed disaster. Not good, exactly, but good enough.
You know what it was like? It was like legible data that had undergone some fundamental transformation — a kind of deep dreaming, or death, or encryption — and then reemerged in the form of a resistant Delphian artifact. In other words. Euphoria, if only you can get over your juvenile attachment to your body.
Just now, for example, I’m thinking about archaeology. This happens when the surface gets all grimy, accumulation duking it out with erosion. You have to wait for the wind to clean the sand. Desert power. Form pressed against form. I wonder how many of those bodies in that video are still in the Bay Area. How much longer Amoeba will stick it out, with or without the weed sales. Here’s to changeable creatures; you know, at a certain point, it’s all, like, research, man. The glass is cool against your foot. Everything is hand carved. The soft parts move, even (especially) when you don’t want them to.
*
With some text absorbed, abstracted, and/or abused from conversations with Lisa Rybovich Crallé; “The scene was littered with dotted lines, tracing the trajectories of past and future flights and descents,” is from Albet Herter, “One cannot have one's own house”; “…legible data that had undergone some fundamental transformation — a kind of deep dreaming, or death, or encryption — and then reemerged in the form of a resistant Delphian artifact” is from Erik Frydenborg.
Claudia La Rocco’s Body Machines Chaotic Hopper was commissioned by Personal Space for the exhibition, Slipper, 2024.