So you're wondering, after receiving a card -- or perhaps we spoke to you, secretly, calling; or the surprising email . There is a good chance that you do art. Whether you want to or not. Everything you do could potentially be art. Fluxus. You are a cog in the machine, a whisper of the spectacle, a ghost in the production. Everyone is. The production that smashes you, pushing you over the edge, falling farther in love with what destroys you. It's Basic Instinct. It produces you and your desires. How horrible. Disgusting, really, this State of Affairs. Our advice-- Get The Fuck Out (While You Still Can). Alive and Breathing and able to do something about it before your life is over and done with. Capiche? So instead of serving the Big State Machine, give up *serving* anything and come create. With us. In a different Machine. The Art Machine. The Art Machine. Salon. Ready to serve no one and no-thing but itself. An interacting neverending movement of parts and pieces that jettison speed and ecstasy and machinic production of hedonistic beauty. Becoming Rhythm. Create your own desires, then fulfill them. Create all that is the chaos of entropy. Destroy inertia with tongue licks to the belly of the beast, embrace it with warm hands on your temples. It does not matter what you create, for we are beyond matter. Particles. Microart: not in size, but in its infinite indeterminate directions without beginning or end. An ensemble with only the loosest conductors-- yourselves, all of them, en/crypted and lost. We would expect that you might be interested. And if you are, you should email us to obtain an invitation to our next weekly gathering. Don't be shy. There are many newcomers. Aristocratic psychedelia. The best example of anarchism is the dinner party. The TAZ is an alternative network of tentacles and thongs.