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

Friday, November 12, 2004

Leaving the puss behind

I got smacked in the face by a scab that I'd left in the house where I grew up. It fell to the ground twitching like a spent worker bee while piss ran down my leg and collected into a puddle on the floor.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Boxing the hazy

It's a small cardboard box that delivered a small number of DVD's from the states that unexpectedly became the container of everything that I could of been. I wrapped the box quickly, in tears, with masking tape. I would have liked to have gone on winding and winding but you have to stop (Like a scream spontaneous transference has a begining and an end.)

I should have left it at that but the next day I wrote a letter to the masking tape manufacturer asking them to consider sponsorship so that I could just go on winding and winding. I faxed the letter to a Mrs Hart of the marketing department and followed it up with a phonecall the next day. So far I've had no reply and I think that the small drawing that I did to illustrate the purpose of my request might have put them off.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

I don't know...

Apocalypse Now weaves itself out to me. It's always there, the 'Now'. Once it's done, the art it's always there. We carve out. My mother used to see an F4 Phantom pilot for a time during the early seventies. Tony! I remember him really well and I remember this dark skinned, crisp airforce man with all the buttons and stars. He'd come and see us all after his stints in Vietnam. My mum has said often how much he used to make her laugh. I mean really, he really made her laugh. If your dropping Napalm for a living you need a sense of humour.

Monday, November 01, 2004

Storm front