Gabriel Bugarin says in his email he has yet to be published. He is now published.
The Dada Revival Manifesto
Dada remains in the European frame of weaknesses, buried beneath the imperial and colonial regimes and the artistic fuckery of the bourgeoisie. It is dissolving beneath the ruin of a cataclysmic international hunger for border expansion, religious superiority, and technological and scientific “brilliance” (see examples: “The Tairy Greene Machine” by Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim, and “Pizza Ball” by Eric Andre). At least, some narrators would like you to believe it is dissolving or dissolved altogether—authors of big books with big words might argue that Dada cannot be revived, that its existence is purely relevant to the time and space in which its name (for those of you not paying attention, its name is “Dada”) was initially uttered. But much like utters, Dada is available for the world to suckle on, its teets plump with repudiation and stratagems; the repudiation meant to embolden the Dadaist to tear asunder any frameworks laid out by any and all institutions, and the stratagems to make the Dadaist a master of buffoonery and baboonery. This will allow the Dada to slip in unawares, like a phantom of the conscious, augmenting the very stasis of philosophy and art.
The time is nigh. Through showmenism, the livable sphere is quickly decaying. Men and women in suits grunt tirelessly at one another, bent at the knees with a kazoo nestled between their cheeks, pushing furiously to out-kazoo-zoo the other, all the while shooting shit all over their stage of performance. They buy out all competitors until duality reigns as the one-and-only ticket for the mud and blood showboat to proletariat Hell—if you have ever wanted to feel the sensation of eating saltine crackers indefinitely, purchase your ticket now! But as for the rest of you, be aware of these performers and their environments. There are several steps from many different angles in which we must hijack these bootlickers and their intolerance to anything they can’t bleed a dollar out of, and they will bleed it out of anyone and anything. Here are a few examples, but feel obliged to be more harum-scarum:
Infiltration. Buy a pantsuit or other horrendous outfit worn by the bourgeoisie, the kind worn whenever they’re going to make a television appearance (which is literally every outfit the illiberal have worn since the time of Christ himself [yes, JC wore a Kiton ensemble]). Learn their tongue. Monitor their habits. Convince them that you are one of them. Eat their pheasant and drink their wine—dine with the vilest of them, go to their eyes-wide-shut gatherings, and so on. Once they have embraced you into their gluttonous fold, once they trust you, steal their fine china. Clog their toilets. Defecate in their gold-gilded sanctuaries. Use their 1st edition novels and black market paintings to decorate the dance floor of your Dada meeting places. Do not be afraid to liberate your communities of the stifling fumes of elitist rhetoric; disassembling monstrosity from within may break your bones and your sanity, but it is a surefire way to ignite the whole damned thing with Dada-grade flames.
Spoil the elite’s water supplies with PCP, but only after the Dadaist have taken root in the caverns of the underworld where a resurrected Cabaret Voltaire has been constructed, leaving the Dadaist safe until the surface-dwelling-dunderheads have eliminated themselves via drug-induced-coma-warfare.
Engage in a campaign to free all from the veil that keeps humanity from reaching their Dada-Nirvana. Everyone is, has been, and always will be Dada, but the ecology of person and Dada has been unraveled by a few people who tout superiority and dominion over anyone who does not meet their axiom of intelligence—because the rest of us cannot afford to purchase “capability” or “genius.” These concepts, are in fact, ruses subjected upon the artist to deceive them of the nature of reality; no individual possesses art, we are vessels for which our environments instill us with art. Art is a means of communication, it is not meant as a source of livelihood other than making us scream “Dada” into the sky and the dirt. So, through this counterinsurgency, we must collectively implant the Dada egg and sperm within the bloated and ornate tabula rasa of the gilt-edged nobles, thus creating a womb ready for bursting. Once breached, Dadaism will spill into every cavity and crevice of peoples across existence, and each one of us all cry the great Dada cry of “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WWWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPP.”
These are just the mechanics of the Dada revival. Again, it must be recognized that entropy is inevitable and necessary for the Dada to come full-circle once more; Dada runs on a disintegration loop. It pervades with perversion through the cosmos until it is aroused enough to resurface. Dada continues until nothing can tickle the spot between the rectum and the genitals, and dissipates into tiny particles that dust the phenomenon of intellectual existence. It rests there in the still light of day, seemingly useless and even bereft of mortality until it is stirred by winds of absolutism, of which Dada is a remedy for. And now is the perfect opportunity for its resurgence—now that the world has become reality TV. With the streets and the waters and the forests and every piece of land aching with the discarded remnants of materialism, Dada has a myriad of apparatuses to erect monuments of anarchy, protest, and anti-this-waste-that-inhibits-anything-that-feels-pleasurable things.
