Ingeborg Houwen 1 Jan 2001

Diagram A Speech-in-Space Act 1.2

Science Fiction Performance Drama (Part 2 of 5)


As soon as all this philosophical showering had happened, we created our Diagram Test Wave Global Radio Studio in the barn behind our Unter Dem Pentagon Bar - where we simply recorded to spread : ‘sprought'''. Sprought is what you are listening at, right now. It's the opposite of script. It's a kind of speech act, that rambles on, like how the mind may ramble on, as the universe grows and shrinks. ‘Springhing''' happens through language structures and voice. The sound could be of anybody. It's a wave, that may contain stars.


We have kept on springhing. More than a billion stations. And we have not become beggars and so we are not the new protestants. Now News Paper, shut up about the crowded streets. Listen to our directions. These lines hide instructions.

O, poor time bound community souls, to have fought sublime phenomena in tight academic corset, and slowly far too slowly set out new rules for real life.


Underbelly speaking. ‘Please''', we begged on our knees with our one face turned to the one audience, ‘make us describe it again.'''

‘Whose is the embryo', is a song we didn't design, but quoted. It attracted twenty thousand more each day. Drop outs. In drips. Anti-dolls. And none of them had ambitions in democratic elections ever again. At least that's how we rated it. Very absolute, yes.

Mama dated Jacques Derrida afterwards, for she preferred to freak out in her grammar, not caring for any string of order anymore. Mama was drunk. Fuck you all, was the only utterance she gave, in the end. A very common expression. But not literal at all.


Three High Guests from the Old Wild West brought the news in. It all came very natural for hotelbar people.

I am just dryly trying to write down all that happened, without any ambition, except for sounding normal, you know.... not speedy or something, like a freaked out un-universal alien.

Reborn again. In my pre Christian Agenda.

The Wind of Grammar still is hard to imitate. O poor post structural mind, always losing track. Radiating love blood.

Hello can I speak with, what's his name, the French theaterdirector.....

Many of these clever sentences were


Wooof, that was like my first public loop

In this case I keep returning to someone in a T-shirt that carried the name: Molière.

wishing and hoping



Diagram showed : the utterance is a building in air. And indeed it does not come from a book. From the left to the right only is a bit dangerous. Now we wanted to make cult out of these airy ways, and blow different winds. Indeed, it's quite a science. On a practical historical process level, to continue our story: all people who were not connected, disappeared in the flames of the burning corset, in the end.

I may have to take on the lower role, with these flat liners of the worker's son. For him especially the social disease behind Diagram is most imaginable. He is not a prince. For that at least is the picture we want to color in, before we present the drama. For there will be injections -r- actions involved tonight.

OK, track my weak character construction, my lack of knowledge, my poor discourse. I am not worthy a name, said the Greek when the Italian came to civilize him. Now the chains are loose, and administrators and account eaters choke in their numbers, having its new value inside the performance, just like the rest of the world. Hurrah for the wobbly sentence from the new count. Gone is the easy civil world. Schiller was a Fountain. Once more the human container became reversed, to feed us the easy inner tissue. We were allowed to create new life. The general public was informed by Diagram how old planners became fucked and sucked, now that the second premise was real: all utterance is cultural, whether its source is classified differently.

(fragment of an urban trauma)

One way to come down hill, I still remember, were the Ernie and Bert voices of my friends, penetrating the wall or the text of my mind attacking it/with psychological tests,

breaking down me

sucking me out

I went everywhere

Some times I was secondary in my answering. I find it difficult to swallow an insult. Swallow. Swollow. Raauw. Always wanted to remember. Seldom was pleased. Being somewhere else was already accepted. Interviews were over. What was to worry about the present.

Which reminds me once more of Urrth, a discussion we had near a campfire, on one of these spontaneous gatherings in Europe organized through Diagrams Test Wave. We didn't sing songs, we roared against the w.


Beng!! do the pricecow on Urrth

bringing the souring content

they splash on our heads

ruin our childish cute face

only to confuse us


We want the stars from above!

Be there

Be there

Be there


We wanted to leave Urrth. Stop this spliced consciousness. Immature. A wish of Death? No it was not. We had had it with her skinny amount/ of cultural holes and pockets. Squats were our stages. Not even that, we had no stage. We had the Internet, and that was all. The Internet! Where else was our development more unthinkable. WE choose for life not for art. So what had the Internet to offer, besides our own mappings in it. In it. This mind of flat screens loved nature better than space. But what if these belonged together?

Our chatboxes streamed over.


Round and round I shuffle around every object in my mind. As if it were a star alone, and me a pioneer. Yeeha! O yellow country, fill your air with me.

It is beyond any parameter, and it feels light and yet tight, like a certain tissue bleeding. Some call it the Wind of the Universal Grammar, others call it black magic; mad poetry or: the beast ‘killed' ‘medicalized' ‘institutionalized' by human science. This is a certain late European tone, and it grabs back, like it blows silver grey mist high into the alps. It was strange to go up. Be the whirl. Woofff......


How many times twisted you need to have been before you can actually start to springhe? The generation of free thinkers that could have answered such question is dead already. Are we ready for a Zombie Party?

There would once be a generation that didn't think as far as we did, maybe because reality had settled in pleasantly. But we from the free hut, had to live the impact of our insights. Diagram was for real.

Once you narrate, the text grows. Jacques Derrida had predicted the all as an infinite text with boa constrictor urges and needs. And we hoped to kill this Brazilian snake of fiction. If all was indifferent; silence, science and sound became the same.

The less you put in your body, the smaller it stays. For Soapy - Kinetic- Lifestyles, this may be important information. Mime your body. Diagram needs to share some thought. Waves of linguistic tradition sprinkled through the springhing air.

In the mean while we played out Diagram on a very fluorescent green way, very changeable. What belonged to the world or the books, didn't matter anymore. Every way words were accepted in between dots and commas.

And while this madness became accepted we prepared our old fashioned infra structural road. And don't tell me that you didn't knew this going up was going to happen; it was written everywhere long ago.

We would be sure to separate the single bodies. Badly ruled beautiful machines anyway. We took over their show. Media wars were predicted. All of our knowledge played a role. If you put less in your body it stays small. Petite. If you allow it to grow, it grows. You is you.


Indeed, we had been highly skilled and underpaid. It was an average thing of course for most of us, and yet we never liked it and again the idiosyncrasy worked. For it was forceful and real. And we wanted to repair it. As we knew that the structure didn't refer to the bone cancer of guild. We were in our right. As long as we lived.


Scary Auntie didn't die in a madhouse, but in a bad marriage, to cover her dense mind. I, however, choose to know myself, and wear nothing under it. I am completely naked in all my linguistic coverage. I weigh nothing more than I am, I can merely remember my own thoughts. None of my utterances I consider my own. For I don't want to claim themes or memes or anything carried by language. We have all retarded already for ages, you should know that. Society no longer exists.


That was my text, once. I am just here to tell you about it. I am a false speaker of course. I am a succesfully edited text composed by nightly nipping. Explosive to all sides, like a useless firework.


This is the philosophical head office. You are under arrest: you have designed a search engine to distort and disturb networks, and now to control every single human mind, create a higher Cultural Force, without informing us! The Urrtherian Police!


(shoots the police)

This is not the Werktheater.

First we mourned for Mama, who had gone out lobbying for the church. Then, papa sat there to sprough, while I touched the buttons to globalize/ externalize it all.


Cultural beings were suffocating in dead triangles that kept everything always in the same place, and prevented children from flourishing even on a behavioristic scale.


What was this world that stagnated me, made me turn into cycles, for no other reason than mediacratic and thus political fear! Why did I live in this momentary somewhere, that could be called also; the non-functioning cultural tissue of Urrth?


Was our ‘subordinance' based upon a disturbed erotomanic Minister of Culture, who had no eye for our brilliance and beauty/ was that the confession that directed the play ? Could he beg for mercy, our Minister. Respect our juicy lips. Were we reactionary. Were we ever questioned. Or did we cry like babies, post feminist, early maiden male eternal teenage snot.


God kill me.

So we have bashed and clashed, believe me, on the sharpest level. But Beng! for once and all to kick out the holy pricecow, nothing felt better in the end than a Diagram Task Force.


As thus it had been in these Pre-Diagram years. We will therefore not recall any human's name, however big his fame. It had lasted enough, this unfunny game. Just to build up again, and stay a little bit in contact with each other, we shared our false conclusions, and grew a pragmatic plan on history, to escape for ever our cultural misery. And having survived it like Snow-white in a damn space coffin for sixteen billion years, I guess I have to do something with that. And if that sounds universal, it is. I am still a normal human being! I make mistakes.




Anything can give a performance. Indeed, this became our gold. A Diagram of all utterance required registration. It was such a tempting plan, a plan that fitted the way the world had organized itself.

The feeling of our former lives, in which we had been a couch potato.

To plan a life like we have now in Space Bay, a life in neural motion control, not only through language, but also through a machine : we could see - were able to know - how it worked. The destroyal.

Diagram - of course - had blown up Urrths registration. Yet bookkeeping seemed impossible to be redeemed. The absurd position on the moon. Not even coming closer.

It was alive, it grow in 2 or 3 weeks, I lost track of time a little.

How to enter a mind. Through a speech. Language is air force. And so we travel. Often, too often we have to go back. But once there was time that beings were given to make a living.

What would it be if the Fifth Power, The Vague Swarm of Consumers, the human capital so precious to the banks for all sorts of laboring reasons, what would happen if the herd lost the frank veil of their beloved cultural identity…?


To make believe that we are creatures from ground zero nature, and not coming from the atmosphere.

That was the first Diagram Phase, and for years it all only had to do with blowing up this grotesque insensitive world of market economy, that had been liberating for the organizer during the materialistic years, but inside the social swamp of let's say now, worked far too interbellum, and counterish. It was too precise. Nothing was allowed outside the right number. If you worked under the wrong number, your life could be hard and poor. A torture.

Whereas the light of the Magical SixSixSixtys had been so strong to set the repairing powers of unconsciousness in fire, water was poured over the cultural matches, and worse: the raining happened too long. How did we convince uncle Sam.......that we were still his beautiful grand child?

Our fair sisters rotted away like pesticided plants. Day by day; all had resulted only into the Quantumhal for sad life style design.

Yes, dear, hold me tight. We were trapped in a bad plan.


Easy tone Easy Option. To disease we have convinced people to enlarge their brain. Our comparing to explain the brain were so stupid, but also: fully believed. They affected : our rattling on, on the washingmachine of neural health and growth.

We got sold out, by never working with money. When we talked people felt with their own free ears, that more brains made more sense. And then, why not several faces, if why not several faces, if we are to be so diversified in life. And have a transient body, that can be digitized and transported, if nothing matters, anymore, and objectively we cause atmospheric tics, everytime we get phoned on our mobiles by the wrong person. They coming not from eternity.


For a long time - many generations - social forces seemed too real. When we bubbled we sounded too curved. Some bankers liked us from the beginning. Most money feared our genetic ideas, even if their bodies were painful all the time, swollen from kinetic energy. Reservoir Dogs. Were we the only ones to see? Could we study you, and learn from our foolish-ness?


What was our tool? Are we in a bank? Good. What was our tool? Knowledge of Kinetic Energy. What was our program? The Perfect Soapification of Life; 24/7 entertainment that vibrated people by growing and shrinking, on a neurological level. We offered Life In The Waiting Chamber, without the Charles Dickens or Darwin design.

Day by day we were outshining official rulers by new private languages. Now nobody, especially bookkeepers, could ever mock you again when you lived in your own world. The shared world had stopped. We were Diagram's Dramaturgs. This became the age of Theaterscience, of virtual intrigue that might surpass the real. Try it.

The Act of Placing the Corset, was a Messaging that died out several families in our Diagram Team, none of whom we have energy to remember. When make-up and real mix up you start to care less. Yet the Diagram trace went uplifting, in an expected way: spreading and growing in time. It's going to happen, I knew, when banks paid people to communicate with us.

Anyway, we go to slow. I'm stuck somewhere. In time, in experience, I don't know. Help.

By broadcasting our sprought, in one year the entire range of subcultural 'rebellious youth' in the Biggest Slurf of Central-Europe, ended right in the mouth of a greedy funny Australian Benefactor. Our benefactor made us act in porn films while we spread the idea of Diagram. We supplied an audience thinking it was an army of charm-soldiers; nineteen zillion people, that, ok, not all donated too often, but did walk in our traces. We had memitized them.

And we were ready to sell the data - to finish our cultural plans. And even if this wasn't all true, wasn't the line of flight happening; wasn't the idea somehow worth at least a talk about Diagram; the machine that watches all lines of kinetic flight, with employees that had the time and lust to read them.

Language and behavior is the topic.

In the best end we created the following package : the delivering of 1 PrinterInstalation in Space, that could print 1 Cultural Corset around Urrth from Sensorial Silk Paint. The plan remained historical: By misusing our audience, we financed the space installation, the Sensorial Corset, that, Activated by the Sun, transmitted Cultural Signals/Human Utterances from Urrth, to us on the Moon.

Papa and me, and more often and often Mama also. We sat there fully happy with a scientific interest in human culture. Fluffy software we handled, with the wish to push human life style into the real stars, far away from the centralistic price cows, in a pathway of their own. A room with a view indeed. Those observing years in the clean black box, created the best time, the best job for the co-traveling post-human rest.


for more information on this play

See for continuation of this text: Diagram -A Speech-in-Space-Act 2