The shadow of the inanimate object quivers.
The inanimate shadow of the object quivers.
My focus on this experiment has not improved, by todays example,only.
Disengage
Decorate
I Dedicate: These Morbid Flowers
Without God There is Nothing
Image: Honey dripping from the table to the floor.
Image: foreign objects enter the body. sex or violence.
Touch: fur, honey, blood, sweat, steel, wax, velvet, silk.
The scales of a dead fish.
Image: wood veneer, dimly lit, close up.
Sound: seagulls
The ringing in your ear
The desert in 45 degrees
The television turning on
Smell: pine-scented air freshener
Repetitive scrubbing
It is kind of about cleaning, but it is more about guilt, and remorse, and removal of pasts or attempts to wipe slates clean - kindof like Kader Atia’s works about repair - somehow navigating the con cept that you cannot remove the stain.
they leave an imprint. Like a tattoo on its surface, it seeps into the pores.
Maybe this will help like gingko biloba and spinach and omega 3 and orange juice and garlic and ginger and turmeric and a good constitution.
Reading teju cole and listening to podcasts about poetry and the process of writing. Maybe this will help like gingko biloba and spinach and omega 3 and orange juice and garlic and ginger and turmeric and a good constitution.
They talk about sitting down to write as being the thing that helps to form the thoughts themselves. Give them the form that makes them an opinion.
So this is that. This is the figuring out what needs to be said and what needs to be figured out. Figuring the figuring
\
perhaps. And the future. Yes, always the future.
what it
might be like one day to feel a little more stable, a little more secure, a little more OK. but everything
here is fine, right. Right. In general, we both got to the point in the conversation where we mutually
believe we are doing the right thing, right. And now we need to build some structures.
\We should record our conversations
and write (right) them down. Id be curious to see it.
end.
How do you recreate that feeling of music coming from someone’s apartment as if you’re listening from the
street outside?
things crossing my mind Actually, a lot of sentences involving ‘I should…’ or generally generating a sense of necessity. Generally generating a sense of necessity. Last night there seemed to be another breakthrough/conversation for the works, fueled by atigue, restless ness, darkness, wine and impending curfew. A summary of hte contents (somewhat, in my now-morning-brain) is that we figured some things about about the surface quality of the silicon, that it needs the thinned extra layer. And to do this on top of the tattoos. But there was more. There was something very affirming that happened. Affirmign and therapeutic. We did our usual questioning of the whole way of being, our existence here, in this city, not that city, and the contrasts of artworlds, and the niceness of the distance fromthe artworld perhaps. And the future. Yes, always the future. Those little future dreams of
Pg1.
And I feel agitated. Lack of sleep. Bad news.
This flurry of excited panic, panicked exc
ent seems juvenile. Just sit and wait. It doesn’t matterwhat yo
u do. Control is anyway an illusion
I have distrust for cults of ‘wellness’
Anti-wellness cult
Anti-ideology
YOU ARE NOT SICK.
YOU ARE NOT LOST.
YOU HAVE NO POTENTIAL YOU ARE NOT MEETING.
If picked or uprooted these beautiful flowers will disappear .
You will not be cured here.
All is Vanity ( breath)
all is vanity; breath
Don’t panic. Just, dont panic.
I lost the words somewhere. As in, they were there, it seemed, but now they arent.
There is a sense of urgency, using the present time to capture things that have passed already.
There is always a lag.
The time it takes for the message to travel the nerve and back again to the acting muscle. Negligible.
Sometimes I have these really boring dreams, in the narrative sense, but they terrify me. Like someone is playing a horror movie soundtrack over a scene where you are just shopping in the supermarket.
Pathologizing human nature
beautiful, kind of theatrical, which I liked. I think there was a girl in the house and it was switching between scenes of her doing something, I don’t remember, cutting hair? I don’t know now.
I was thinking about this image of growth and decay, that we often think of them as opposite but actually the growth is just a step before the decay. Growth is only desirable if it can be stunted.
What is the ideal?
Manicured gardens ( the ones where trees are cut into circles and thick rectangular hedges)
How absurd to cut trees into geometric shapes.
The goal is maintenance. To tend. Controlled growth
Body hair,
Fingernails,
‘health’ - mental and physical,
caring enough but not too much (obsession).
If left untended
Chaos, death.
But these messages are lost. Illegible. So what to do with the now then.
I was trying to say the first words of Macbeth. It began with
what to do with the now then.
Thinking about prostheses; the implant; the manufactured replacement.
The body, and its needs. The implant, and its needs.
The meeting.
Learned a new word whilst reading, (the long-touch-a-word function bringing up a dictionary definition being one of the benefits of kindle-reading) and it was ‘apposite’. Meaning, being apt in a circumstance. ‘Apt’ means appropriate or suitable.
Apposite seems so similar to the word opposite that I cannot help but bring that tension of unfitting into it. Which is opposite to what feeling apposite should have.
Work on this, mentally, this new word and its meaning.
The coffee spill on my book of reflections for ‘out, damned spot’ is apposite.
The arrival of a wine bottle to the commencing gathering was apposite.
Meeting you was apposite.
I always tried so hard to make work that is bigger than myself. To remove the hand.
Failed, always, and again. (Agnes Varda films her old hands in The Gleaners and I) a reminder of time, shared humanity and simply, the hand that directs.
Tell me again briefly, but precisely how it felt
[Repeat]
Tell me again briefly, but precisely how it felt
There’s a story I want to read again, about a girl who is terrified of experiencing an earthquake. The author, as I recall, is trying to emphasise that there is, in the place the story is set, a moderate risk of earthquakes. The fear turned paranoia of this invisible threat overwhelms her until the point she cannot function. Leave the house or stay within it (which is the greater risk) What is this story about? What is the alternative to paranoia?
Don’t Panic. Then what?
I had trouble sleeping last night but came to some thoughts/
visions/aspirations - to paint a graffiti tag ‘Beneath’
And to continue - not to forget- to paint the satellite dishes.
This music is too emotional. Change the tune.
(same band, different album)
[music slows] [keyboard replaces piano]
It sounds like the theme of a 1970s noir film, slowed to a tenth of the speed.
It sounds like watching the light in a microwave.
It sounds like a planetarium at the end of a horror film.
It sounds like 3am.
** self-described on their Wikipedia page as “an unholy ambient mixture of slow Jazz ballads, Black Sabbath doom and down-tuned autopsy sounds.
I would say this is accurate.
With a song like this you can feel your nervous system relaxing. I need this, from time to time, whilst drinking coffee. Coffee to wake up, music opium to calm the nerves. Tug-a-war with mind and body. What a fragile constitution. It's a wonder anything gets done.
I guess I've run out of things to say on that.
Sleep chemistry Growing?
Dreaming of my hips in a room that is bigger than it
ever has been. I’ve been here before?
Measuring the lines around and between before the moment turns into a
memory that I can’t remember; why I walked here in the first place…
It seems impossible to leave out crucial elements of the self and experience- how honest?
What was I getting? My hips.
If you breathe in and hold, and stretch upwards, tilting your sternum to the sky, and leaning a bit to the side you can see the shape that was in the dream. Lift your shirt kind of like you are checking your own skin for mistakes but
And I feel agitated. Lack of sleep. Bad news. This flurry of excited panic, panicked excitement seems juvenile.
Just sit and wait. It doesn’t matter what you do. Control is anyway an illusion
look up, like it is someone else who will do the checking. Is anything there?
Is that what you meant?
Is that what I was supposed to do?
Lower the shirt, leave the room.
Pathologizing human nature
Now you can hear the music from the room getting softer, it is the song from the fishtank scene in Romeo and Juliet, after the main singing romantic bit, when the notes are short and jumpier and the tone is uncertain but exciting and makes you feel like something important has just been encountered, and these next steps you take are the first in a new stage/phase/level. And you can only be as ready as you find yourself.
The sounds gets softer, and you try to remember what you needed, what you will need, and you can never get back to that moment to the other part of the song, ever.
I lost the words somewhere. As in, they were there, it seemed, but now they arent.
There is a sense of urgency, using the present time to capture things that have passed already.
There is always a lag. The time it takes for the message to travel the nerve and back again to the acting muscle. Negligible.
But these messages are lost. Illegible.
Sometimes I have these really boring dreams, in the narrative sense, but they terrify me. Like someone is playing a horror movie soundtrack over a scene where you are just shopping in the supermarket.
So what to do with the now then.
as strange fetish and kink. KINK. behind closed bedroom doors, obsessive, secret habits or grinding your teeth in your sleep
Idea for an Infomercial
[music fades in]
[slowed voice singing with reverb]
I want to be your setting lotion,
Hold your hair in deep devotion
Deep as the deep Atlantic ocean,
That’s how deep is my devotion
Close up of fingers running through hair.
Close up of tropical fish weaving between reeds.
(What is the word to describe when one thing passes through another?)
In a discussion on an internet forum where people debate the correct word to describe an object that can be passed through, participants provide numerous answers.
TheDragonInMyGarage offers:
Incorporeal- having no physical body
And takes issue with permeable.
DCShannon agrees: “much better, Ghosts are not sieves”
RichardK says:
It is not hard to imagine passing through anything ethereal
It is not unreasonable to consider a ghost, mist, etc, as penetrable
allowing something or someone to pass through or enter.
Close up of fingers penetrating the hair
Close up of tropical fish penetrating the reeds
JohnF declares with certainty that:
The word you’re looking for is permeable
Ghosts are permeable, gauze curtains, clouds, are all permeable
RichardK responds: Good to know ghosts are permeable. Do they have a pore size? Other properties of permeable material? Tortuosity, perhaps?
(while I think RichardK is using sarcasm in an attempt to prove a point, I would like to believe this question is in earnest)
What is the pore size of a ghost?
Traversable
Traverse
Traversing
Close up of fingers traversing the hair.
Close up of the tropical fish as they traverse the reeds.
[music fades out]
We discussed a lot ‘in the zone’ last night. Reminded how fortunate this process is when you
can talk about it freely the whole time. And how much it can develop this way. Normally i would not want to say a word about anything for fear it would dispel the whole thing that exists in my head. This actually did happen, many times, because my lack of confidence in the vision meant i was swayed by the someone else not un derstanding or not seeing,
Where are we? It’s time to begin. Now. begin.