'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Tuesday, October 12, 2004


I had been experimenting with a number of different resources, all kinds of possibilities to get across the notion that I had a really difficult time expressing myself. Rummaging for hours in the shed I found a bag of rags that had been sealed with a small length of hessian bind. This bag itself had been hidden within an old Adidas sports bag, the exterior of which had begun to crumble as it responded to inevitably tireless campaigns of damp.

When I removed the rags from the bag they were bio-luminescent. They had devised a way to see in the dark, they had needed to see so that they could make things. The rags had rolled fluff and small particles of dust into forms that resembled little people. None of the dolls had eyes; they hadn't needed them, the rags did all the seeing.

I had found my grail! Keeping the dolls hidden carefully amongst the folds and scruffy womb of the old material I placed them together in my top pocket and began talking, talking into a mirror that had lost nearly all of its silver. I had become circuitous, that is to say that I had looped without the need for outside intervention. I had become like the Alchemists pelican, an endless and possibly dangerous seal of metabolising bio-luminescent rags, their doll babies and I, I plugged in without further want, purifying and purifying; vaso circulatorio.