Absence Note:
Note so I've moved house, spent time off of work due to diahorrea and gross fatigue, enjoyed a visit from my mother, incurred disciplinary proceedings for the mentioned illness, engaged in casual photography at the local skate park and generally been designing my new room as though it were a curatorship rather than a residency. Bureaucratically, I'm off-the-radar, AWOL, MIA, and intend to be more so once I've quit my job and made life adjustments to the tune of my busking daily in the pavilion gardens, doing occasional tax-exempt work as a bedrock. So long as I can afford the rent and some basic foodstuufs then I'll be absolutely fine. All the resources I need for the creation and perpetuation of my art are already freely available; imminently I'll be initiating a series of beach recordings, wherein I assemble concentric circles of musicians - percussion, reeds, vocalists - around a single mic suspended in the centre, and hit record as they/we launch into a performance, partially-prescribed whilst allowing for improvisation, all the while the lap of the surf pealing out at the fringe of the sound architecture, like a serviette mopping at the grub of falsity, and naturally, all of the character of that exquisite environment will be embedded in the sonic data captured on the recording. I also intend to photograph elements of the event, vast tableaux of 'live painting', human assemblages, with 'props', composed friezes of instruments, plants, heavily chiaroscuro, all flares, candles, and reflective materials, potentially projections also. I now know enough people capable of summoning for free the required resources for the staging of this kind of activity to be very feasible. Fucking fantastic.
Meanwhile, I bought a tiny electric orange harmonium, still a reed organ, but one whereby the player is relieved of pedal duty by a wondroud electric fan, whose sound alone is already very dear to me. I have yet to record anything of this kitsch acquisition, but meanwhile, it's just a comfort knowing that I have something resembling an organic keyboard instrument (i.e. closer to a piano than my synthesizer or Casiotone toaster) squatted in a corner.
I haven't taken heroin for a good few weeks now, having replaced its compelling and cosy cocoon drift with an actual cocoon, fashioned of material scavenged from a thousand-and-three wasp nests, at gross disadvantage to the incumbent wasps, but hey, the world's fucked beyond care anyway, and survivalism is now a pragmatist's daily privilege. I built a gigantic breathing hyde in my new chamber, adhereing the brittle, papery sheaths of wasp-nest to each other with my own mucus and spit, true to biological tradition, and painted the whole construction, which resmebles a giant, tapering penis of inconsistent diameter along its length, various shades of menstrual red, with tiny swastikas, etched with a razor-blade, along the 'foreskin'. I sleep inide this, standing, and its mulch flaps 'breathe' in synch with my body's own rhythm, a duet most conducive to gentle, immersive sleep, and from which I rise early, rested, conditioned to celebrate the day, something I used to only achieve via the ingestion of many, many drugs - transubtoxification - I'd take such a vast and diverse array of drugs, that I'd chemically replace the majority of my body's cells, and actually become more Drug than Human. Once, in a backroom in Soho, a limbless transvestite offered a charismatic sum of cash in exchange for the chance to insulfate the dandruff off my pubic hair, and even more money if s/he could mainline bile from my liver for an evening. I explained I wasn't aptly prepared for a transfusion, embraced the honeyd freak dearly and in sympathy, shaved off all of my headhair, tied him to a stool and fed it to him'her, whilst spitting in his/her mouth, as tenner notes tumbled from her/his cleavage and into my crotch. Later I realized that i'd acuqiesced to a transfusion after all, if only one weakly analogous to the 'fucking-of-the-little-man' by the corporate high-powers, and yet to this day, in the sense of both the anecdote and the analogy, I'm still unsure as to who was fucking who and whether I actually care or not. As long as there's a fundamental tension between parties of superficially oppositional stances, then the world will revolve, evolution will occur, and stasis will be averted, however close a siblingship their passions, desires, anxieties and delusions may share at root, such is the hydra-headed mindfuck that is homo civilis. I was lying in bed yesterday, vaguely delirious in a feverish convalescence, attempting to masturbate over a picture of a beautifully-torso-ed boy, probably eighteen, who self-identifies as straight/curious, and as often happens in the retreat to the subconscious terrain of the wank fantasy, I got distracted, it being a liquid plane - wanking is such a lubricant portal into a realm of hypnagogic contemplation. I got distracted, Into thinking, 'yeah, the notion of this kid being only accustomed to fucking rather than being fucked, him being straight, etc, is hysterically erotic, and yet...' the meditation continued 'would i find him so attractive if he were a creature of identical shape and form whose primary impulse and only recognizable human capacity was to fuck?' I.e. if i were incapable of projecting any 'brooding, wounded, hetero-male intensity' onto that blank canvas face, of assuming the rumblings of a basic subconsious fraught with human attrbutes, behind that harshly angelic face, then would I find his physicality whatsoever erotic? It would likely be akin to retard sex or bestiality and we know that these subtle refractions of our arbitrarily-finessed selves carry their frames with very different characteristics to the wholly-self-reflexive 'functional' human being, whose self-inflated notion of his bearing a specific sexual leaning can and often does dictate how he'll carry himself, how he'll present his core character (i.e. his perception/created incarnation of himself). I found the boy attractive because I was able to freely interpret from a single photo, a sense of confused intelligence, enthusiasm, health, strength, frailty, intensity of thought, disappointment, desire, hopelessness, isolation (he photographed himself, probably in his bedroom as his parents, unaware of his suspected-gay-leanings, furiously wandered their thickshit minds through The Daily Mail, only a room away), male awkwardness, absurdism, and any number of further paradoxical attributes. And I say interpret. Each of those listed attributes likely reflects more on my make-up than anything else, though were I to have directly confessed such, I would have emphasized the terms 'hopelessness', 'absurdism', and 'enthusiasm'. The boy may well a) not exist b) actually be a retard or c) be merely a shaved animal, in which case, I'm either, stupid, deluded, morally-repugnant, or any number of these, and if he's neither of these things, and actually just a boy who's just realized he wants to fuck with other boys, then I'm still those things, but such is the idiotically sublime nature of wanking.
I'd like each of you, upon having read the above paragraph, to unbutton your pants, lie down, and using your full capacity for projection, masturbate whilst thinking of me. Thank you.
Note so I've moved house, spent time off of work due to diahorrea and gross fatigue, enjoyed a visit from my mother, incurred disciplinary proceedings for the mentioned illness, engaged in casual photography at the local skate park and generally been designing my new room as though it were a curatorship rather than a residency. Bureaucratically, I'm off-the-radar, AWOL, MIA, and intend to be more so once I've quit my job and made life adjustments to the tune of my busking daily in the pavilion gardens, doing occasional tax-exempt work as a bedrock. So long as I can afford the rent and some basic foodstuufs then I'll be absolutely fine. All the resources I need for the creation and perpetuation of my art are already freely available; imminently I'll be initiating a series of beach recordings, wherein I assemble concentric circles of musicians - percussion, reeds, vocalists - around a single mic suspended in the centre, and hit record as they/we launch into a performance, partially-prescribed whilst allowing for improvisation, all the while the lap of the surf pealing out at the fringe of the sound architecture, like a serviette mopping at the grub of falsity, and naturally, all of the character of that exquisite environment will be embedded in the sonic data captured on the recording. I also intend to photograph elements of the event, vast tableaux of 'live painting', human assemblages, with 'props', composed friezes of instruments, plants, heavily chiaroscuro, all flares, candles, and reflective materials, potentially projections also. I now know enough people capable of summoning for free the required resources for the staging of this kind of activity to be very feasible. Fucking fantastic.
Meanwhile, I bought a tiny electric orange harmonium, still a reed organ, but one whereby the player is relieved of pedal duty by a wondroud electric fan, whose sound alone is already very dear to me. I have yet to record anything of this kitsch acquisition, but meanwhile, it's just a comfort knowing that I have something resembling an organic keyboard instrument (i.e. closer to a piano than my synthesizer or Casiotone toaster) squatted in a corner.
I haven't taken heroin for a good few weeks now, having replaced its compelling and cosy cocoon drift with an actual cocoon, fashioned of material scavenged from a thousand-and-three wasp nests, at gross disadvantage to the incumbent wasps, but hey, the world's fucked beyond care anyway, and survivalism is now a pragmatist's daily privilege. I built a gigantic breathing hyde in my new chamber, adhereing the brittle, papery sheaths of wasp-nest to each other with my own mucus and spit, true to biological tradition, and painted the whole construction, which resmebles a giant, tapering penis of inconsistent diameter along its length, various shades of menstrual red, with tiny swastikas, etched with a razor-blade, along the 'foreskin'. I sleep inide this, standing, and its mulch flaps 'breathe' in synch with my body's own rhythm, a duet most conducive to gentle, immersive sleep, and from which I rise early, rested, conditioned to celebrate the day, something I used to only achieve via the ingestion of many, many drugs - transubtoxification - I'd take such a vast and diverse array of drugs, that I'd chemically replace the majority of my body's cells, and actually become more Drug than Human. Once, in a backroom in Soho, a limbless transvestite offered a charismatic sum of cash in exchange for the chance to insulfate the dandruff off my pubic hair, and even more money if s/he could mainline bile from my liver for an evening. I explained I wasn't aptly prepared for a transfusion, embraced the honeyd freak dearly and in sympathy, shaved off all of my headhair, tied him to a stool and fed it to him'her, whilst spitting in his/her mouth, as tenner notes tumbled from her/his cleavage and into my crotch. Later I realized that i'd acuqiesced to a transfusion after all, if only one weakly analogous to the 'fucking-of-the-little-man' by the corporate high-powers, and yet to this day, in the sense of both the anecdote and the analogy, I'm still unsure as to who was fucking who and whether I actually care or not. As long as there's a fundamental tension between parties of superficially oppositional stances, then the world will revolve, evolution will occur, and stasis will be averted, however close a siblingship their passions, desires, anxieties and delusions may share at root, such is the hydra-headed mindfuck that is homo civilis. I was lying in bed yesterday, vaguely delirious in a feverish convalescence, attempting to masturbate over a picture of a beautifully-torso-ed boy, probably eighteen, who self-identifies as straight/curious, and as often happens in the retreat to the subconscious terrain of the wank fantasy, I got distracted, it being a liquid plane - wanking is such a lubricant portal into a realm of hypnagogic contemplation. I got distracted, Into thinking, 'yeah, the notion of this kid being only accustomed to fucking rather than being fucked, him being straight, etc, is hysterically erotic, and yet...' the meditation continued 'would i find him so attractive if he were a creature of identical shape and form whose primary impulse and only recognizable human capacity was to fuck?' I.e. if i were incapable of projecting any 'brooding, wounded, hetero-male intensity' onto that blank canvas face, of assuming the rumblings of a basic subconsious fraught with human attrbutes, behind that harshly angelic face, then would I find his physicality whatsoever erotic? It would likely be akin to retard sex or bestiality and we know that these subtle refractions of our arbitrarily-finessed selves carry their frames with very different characteristics to the wholly-self-reflexive 'functional' human being, whose self-inflated notion of his bearing a specific sexual leaning can and often does dictate how he'll carry himself, how he'll present his core character (i.e. his perception/created incarnation of himself). I found the boy attractive because I was able to freely interpret from a single photo, a sense of confused intelligence, enthusiasm, health, strength, frailty, intensity of thought, disappointment, desire, hopelessness, isolation (he photographed himself, probably in his bedroom as his parents, unaware of his suspected-gay-leanings, furiously wandered their thickshit minds through The Daily Mail, only a room away), male awkwardness, absurdism, and any number of further paradoxical attributes. And I say interpret. Each of those listed attributes likely reflects more on my make-up than anything else, though were I to have directly confessed such, I would have emphasized the terms 'hopelessness', 'absurdism', and 'enthusiasm'. The boy may well a) not exist b) actually be a retard or c) be merely a shaved animal, in which case, I'm either, stupid, deluded, morally-repugnant, or any number of these, and if he's neither of these things, and actually just a boy who's just realized he wants to fuck with other boys, then I'm still those things, but such is the idiotically sublime nature of wanking.
I'd like each of you, upon having read the above paragraph, to unbutton your pants, lie down, and using your full capacity for projection, masturbate whilst thinking of me. Thank you.
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