Monday, 5 December 2011

Screening at Corner College in Zurich

Sunk In is being shown at Corner College, Kochstrasse 1, CH-8004 Zürich, 
10th January 2012, 8pm.

Soirée Video
Nicole Bachmann


Still from Dave Charlesworth: Wander (Walker), 2011

Die zurzeit in London lebende Künstlerin Nicole Bachmann zeigt einige Videos frischer künstlerischer Positionen. Bis heute sind Videos folgender Personen vorgesehen:

Annie Davie (UK)
Dave Charlesworth (UK)
Ralph Dorey (UK)
Eunjung Park (Korea)

Weitere Informationen folgen.

Monday, 7 November 2011

Friday, 28 October 2011

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Paul Thek / China Miéville / Axioms of Uncertainty

I built jig after jig after jig to manoeuvre some material past. Through the line of a blade's becoming. Everything is a surrogate, everything is a use-value of some sort. Chips and chocks are not an ends but a means to more means, a balancing system that stacks thoughts on moments on places on forms. Everything waltzes round and around like the pins in the lock's cylinder. No, more like planets, decaying orbits of time, the imperfection of repetition inherent in the most simple operation. It all just got older, then it just got weaker. 

dumb fucking mischief and broken bones from about 2007. It was all a jig, I just couldn't figure it then, couldn't use it right. All build up and then a mis-swing.

I tried to write a comment on Ben Woodard's wordpress, I don't know if I managed to do so, let alone articulate myself.
here it is
Hi Ben,
Surely there is an argument that the flaw in what Fabio proposes is held within this line "The limits of our epistemic grasp cannot be overcome via either poetic talk nor via a mysteriously efficacious intellectual intuition. They can only be probed and pushed by rational inquiry."

The assumption here is that a fluid and "poetic" mode is firstly a muddying of language. This is just as false as to state that there is such thing as a transparent mode of discourse in the first place. Therefore I see no problem in a writer accepting the instability of the language used and using this language to bring out something from its resonance of uncertainty. This seems not just suitable but preferable when attempting to deal with ideas which would resist that language of "rational enquiry" just as physical matter resists the translation into description.

I'm reminded of what David Lee Roth said in response to his being told that money couldn't by him happiness. He said that while it might not buy happiness, it could buy a yacht that would let him sail up right along side it.
There are things which we can't hit head on and expect to contain them, however we have come to the belief that we can because our methods of approach and evaluation do not allow for the missing parts, they do not have the means of seeing them so they don't acknowledge they have been missed.

The point that I'd like to make is that the express use of language, of the disjointed animal resonance of words and images forced into proximity with one another and denying in the reader the illusion of a direct link, forces a relationship of uncertainty in that reader.

This would be the sailing of the boat along side, a creative act that seeks not to encapsulate something, but to create both a platform for examining it and quite simply a new thing.

The breed of academic writing which comfortably strays into an unstable language of poiesis is one I readily welcome for its acceptance of fragility, its denial of a mono-authority and its activation of discourse away from commentary.

That said, plain Lovecraft pastiche is never acceptable because like all nerdy fandom it utterly misses the point by getting bogged down in some talismanic detail. 

I wrote something in the comments of one of my own earlier posts about Méiville and Thek, how I wanted to write about them as models for how to deal with the unstable through unstable means.

This is also what I like about Alex Hudson's paintings, how they depict a space which is failing through means which are equally failing. Experience is ragged and falling down on its knees and through the floor and the only way to approach this experience is through an equally cracked and splitting viscous cell.

Fabio Gironi's post on Hypertiling, was the subject of the Woodard post, and my own commentary. I think the point about Black Metal is astute, it is part of a conservative insular mindset, it is the appropriation of the pagan and the classical to justify the white self just like the worst Germanic history.  I'd planned to write about how there was a progression in the community of musicians who played black and other kinds of extreme metal in Luton toward right wing ideology (not actually ideology, more like style). How this had been explained to me as the need to be more black in terms of being darker, how as the music was to get more rigid in its adherence to genre (like the way Hardcore killed itself), to a certain (incredibly stylised and conservative) angle of extreme noise the self had to push further too. To be a Nazi was to prove that you were capable of playing hard enough (like you had to be X to be hardcore enough, that Puritanism, an exemplary self inflicted restraint to show you could take it). I decided to just leave it at that, the Nazi Black Metal musicians where not people I remember talking to and anything more than this would be so blown away in it's anecdotal character.

As for Paul Thek, writing about him almost seems to doomed to fall apart and descend into discussion of form mired with biography. I thought about the Artist Co-Op and the Greenbay Packers, and then that thought ended like that. snap. A hard end.
Thek's work was total and temporal. The timelyness and the thinglyness are overwhelming in everything pretty much that came after the meat vitrines. After he stopped making work about things. After he stopped making work about protection. When the meat became pyramid and the pyramid became a head

Thek's head.

I want to write about how Thek's physicality and ruinous corporeality was true and honest. How it was the opposite of stylized (and how stylized was the wrong word because style is not the negative that I'm referring to, it's more like a cardboard suitcase blacked in polish, the lies of bad design and worse art. One thing as another, Mimesis), and how I'd go looking for and find a word that meant that and all the other things I need it to do, a perfect ready-made jig as if such a thing ever existed!

Was going to write about bronze casting and the chain of form killing matter like a chain of evidence, a long line of agreement held fast by something, I don't know what but it's like a social contract that's for sure so back to Latour.

And the difference between a found object and a model.

 That stuff is all coming, or not, or past or never happened.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Publication / Compound Second Edition / 2011

Compound (second edition), work present, work not present, work borrowed work, and work undone.
16 pp
Edition of 20 plus 5 artist's proofs
BW prepared laser print on 135gsm cartridge, plus coloured laser copy paper, plus four dye inkjet plates mounted with animal skin glue, perfect bound with red thread.

Compound is a rogue spoke from a lost work.  
Compound is a bound composite of documentary images, instructions for an application of sculpture and a one act play for three sailors discussing the ontological implications of a future parliament of noises, rock videos and marine geography.

Sunk In / Installation / KPH Volume, Copenhagen.

Photo credit: Bibi Katholm

Above is a photograph of the work Sunk In, (2011, paper, DVD, hemmed cotton, inkjet prints, laser prints, photocopies, iodine, collage, various local materials, dimensions variable) as installed by Bibi Katholm and Shane Bradford at KPH Volume, Copenhagen in 2011 as part of the group exhibition, In Case We Don't Die.

For video see earlier post.

Sunk In comprises of a set of ephemeral duplicate materials and a loose series of interoperable instructions for their installation in my absence.

Thursday, 13 October 2011

... and what will be left of them?: On The Corner

... and what will be left of them?: On The Corner: It’s hard to imagine now that Third World War ever existed. They are a singular proposition, Communist (or at least communist-leaning) ...

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

In Case We Don't Die part 4

In Case We Don’t Die
October 14th – 22nd 2011
Open daily 1pm – 5 pm or by appointment
Grand opening Friday 14th of October, 6pm – 9pm
with live performance + DJ set by Moonbird (DK)

Location: KPH Volume Project space, Enghavevej 82 – 84, Copenhagen, DK

Andreas Emenius (SE), Bibi Katholm (DK), Kasper Sonne (DK), Shane Bradford (UK), Ida Kvetny (DK), Nicholas Jeffrey (UK), Ralph Dorey (UK), Astrid Myntekær (DK), John Strutton (UK), Pascal Rousson (FR), Alex Hudson (UK), Alan Ruiz (MX/US), Thomas Øvlisen (DK)
Curator: Bibi Katholm
The exhibition has previously been shown in different versions at Chausseestraße in Berlin, Vegas Gallery in London, and Helene Nyborg Contemporary in Copenhagen.
For further information :

Yet another railing against the Anti-Praxis, the Doom Carrion animals of art.

I wrote an essay for The Institute of Spectralogical Audio Research on the subject of belief.

notes from the last weeks of summer 2011

Looking up at me from the bed they were utterly terrified, covered in sweat and lacking blood.

All the time we talked my eyes rest bringing themselves to rest on fluids, the water in eyes, the blood wet beneath translucent surgical tape which led the tubes feed by drip, the urine in it’s square box beside the bed, the morphine in another box, in a parcel within a box, locked. I looked out the window at the rain and with no anxiety at all let minutes pass which must have been agonising for whom I was supposed to be comforting. I fell again and again into a balanced meditation, the rain, the urine, the measured bottle of water, the measured cup with that was to be filled. I drifted out of measurement, into fluid. I regret this, I was there for another, and yet I could not resist this pull into something so completely selfish, just perfect balance oblivious to time.

The hair had been pulled from the back of the cat’s shoulders by her brother, it is wet at the edges, the skin, like it is too permeable to hold back the water inside like sodden marsh ground which gives up when you stand on it. No, not like marsh soil, it is too firm, it still looks solid, there are no breaks, the water just springs forth, like if one stands upon a waterlogged board, perhaps in the bottom of a boat or on a building site, carting barrows or buckets of hardcore over that same marsh ground. The separate parts, the granular, that is underneath the board, that is still to come.

When you slip your hands into mud whilst ascending a bank it is the stones within the mud that most hold your attention, these things which resist their own compression and destruction but do not hold their place. They move with your hands, just same as the rest.

I own a guitar which is compressed. It is  a small guitar, a bass guitar not the size it should be, bigger than a six string but less than a standard bass guitar. Over the years I have compressed it further. I have beaten it about in service of music and carelessness. There are gouges on the front which are in fact the grain of the wood, my playing as warn down the wood and in some places warn harder (perhaps where the hard resin is within the wooden strata), deeper.

In our kitchen we have a table, one of who’s legs shows the same sort of marks, the lines of the grain define as some parts have been taken and some left to stand. This was done by the cats, the first cat started on the leg of bench I built into the wall of the studio, when it came to move I brought the leg too, built into a long kitchen table. It stands out being a good two inches thicker than the other timber used. The cats (now four of them) have clawed it over and over. They often pull at the fractions of nearly dislodged wood with their teeth and drop them places, in shoes for example. The table leg is beautiful, I am amazed at how the resinous (?) parts have stayed smooth, unmarked, it looks like petrified roots coming down in petrified soil, and in small places like lightening. I think there is a material which when struck by lightening records it somehow, this might be sand but I’m not sure.

The marks on my bass guitar look less like the leg compared with rest of the table. The whole guitar is too beaten, the source of the damage too clear (me). I have compressed it further, I had the nut filed back and the bridge re set to accommodate much heavier, thicker strings. I tuned these strings low, so when struck they vibrated slowly and with purpose. I plugged this instrument into a loud and responsive amplifier, actually I plugged it into two, one that could concentrate on the low frequencies, and one that could take the high. This second one was a guitar amplifier. Both amplifiers are very responsive, the slightest touch sounds out. The sound is broad, covering a large spectrum, but still ragged, full of holes. This is perhaps what I meant by it’s being compressed, it feels over full, the slightest touch sounds out, but iregular, not just spilling from the top but from the sides, like a hernia. When I am not playing I must stand very still, hold my weight in on both feet and to the centre or else my movements will cause the point where leather strap meets wooden body will groan like a ship and creak out. I have to pay close attention to this because I am aware that the sound does not stand out in my perception, it is like breathing, you don’t hear your own so well. I stand very still and something find my self swaying, this sound is like a ship, very low, like wood under pressure.

I made a note to myself today to remember that I do not wish to represent anything

Saturday, 17 September 2011

All physicallity is left behind (one part of three readings)

You can't take it with you. As we become base matter we lose the other kind of physicality, leave it all behind. It becomes memory, phantomic. It becomes representation without flesh, whilst all around the grit piles up. Ghosts in the graveyard, ghosts in the junkyard. It splits. Substance, Sub-stance, what stands beneath, the systems of the netherworld. I will send you telegrams from this Hades, nothing of me touched them, I can't get through the twists and cyphers of the methods of translation and transport and transplant. This is a stand in, it is a place holder, it defines a space for me, marks it out. I can only send an indication of form, and a request to pile up matter at its corners, earth, grave dirt. Made potent by mere agreement, nothing more. More ghosts there.

I was writing to you, and now I am reading out what I wrote, I wish this speech to be shown in the event of my absence, I wish I could be there in person with you all, to accept this award, to give my testimony, but I can't. Instead I send this totem, this ghost totem, it moves it's mouth and says my words and when you rush at it in anger or in love or in irritation it just dissolves. I do not wish for transubstantiation, for that agreement of substance.

My pre-recorded messages are only thinly clad, they will fall about and fall apart and I shall not stand by them. Shall not sign them or sign for them should they returned to me. The messenger is dispatched without the key to his own encryption or the key to reopen the crypt. The diplomat is dead to me already but build a cairn for him, and around it the stone walls of Cornwall, which in turn wrap slate in root and living fibre. Now beat him with these rocks so that my words might crack inside him, become therefore new, belonging not to me, nor him, but to that place, surrounded by matter. Let these broken words spark against stone to render the élan vital, for as long as the animation spell can hold. Not long, before all crumbles. Returns. Is left behind.

Sunday, 4 September 2011

Dear All, I have a request.

Dear All. I wish to come to you and produce a work that operates between sculpture, drawing, sound, text and action, all wrapped up through and by video.

I am interested in objects as protagonists in the discourse of an unreliable narrator. This is the very scenario occupied by the sculptor, by the design-maker, an everyday scenario of interaction with veiled material that becomes something infinitely more active in synergetic moments.

I believe that the creative act is a means to something.

I believe in training but not rehearsing.

I would use the space, time and resources of Your Institution to create a place to make film. This film has its point of departure in the literary and cinematic tradition of the “lone astronaut” as a means of examining a world in which objects are also actors. It is along the frontiers that we are most engrossed in the physical.

This framework mirrors that of the residency itself. Arrive, establish, study, respond, declare.

The film will document itself, a home made steady-cam is a beautiful thing to behold.

I am interested in broken language as a means of access. Certainty is clearly a myth, but one we hold on dearly to (who is speaking? The authoritative voice! Are you certain?). All work is in progress, and we should not be shamed by the realization that nothing is ever truly done. We should certainly not pretend it is, rather we can recognize that what makes it beautiful it’s use, the light of what passed through it. There was nothing there and then after the growth and passing of idea, there was something left.

This is not to say there is nothing but a working out, a detective story, reality is rarely that neat and neither is good art. The artists is a conduit of mediation and we might note that in terms of the creative act the rules of physics (matter and energy cannot be destroyed or created) do not apply, instead we should think more of a muscle or of memory, the more you use it the more there is.

The poetry is the thing outside of language, on the other side of a language which has always wrought it’s tyranny on the rights of objects and on our ability to engage with the real.
This is tragic news indeed but the lump of broken language can, like an atom, be turned to more energized uses. There’s clearly more to Joyce than footnotes.

If you let me stay, I’d like to interact with people, encounters are objects too. Our most powerful institutions are invisible, they are simply agreements.

It isn’t performance if you mean it.

I am interested in method, a way of behaving and a philosophy of work, as opposed to an easily reduced description of intent and content.

What do our heroes look like?

Parallel discourse and adventure are the only certainties with the indescribable undercurrent.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

message from last week on riots.

Hey [...] thanks for that[...]I certainly agree with your sentiment that two lazy narratives have been produced by the left and the right, the former putting the blame solely on the crushing of expectations and the right on simple yobbishness. After a lot of trawling (over the last few weeks I pretty much dropped everything else in order to read all kinds of news and comment on the rioting, like I imagine a lot of people did) I found three articles which seemed to engage a bit more, firstly one by Sophie Himmelblau which finally puts a name to the horrendous unspoken of "gentrification". likewise James Meek in the LRB  and then Owen Hathery at Verso which deal with the fact that what is described as culturally dissolved is actually more a vinaigrette, it's two separate things stuck together in the same space.

I haven't felt confident enough about the history of converging lines which met with the riots, to fully articulate what I think is going on. What I am fairly sure about is: firstly there is no break between the time pre-riots and the events themselves, there is no transition from one thing to another, its just the same as it has been, only turned up. Secondly the riots (as the state of play prior to the riots) were a reflection of a people's dislocation from reality. By this I mean that we have been engaged with things which are entire fictions (as you mentioned in your post, the American gang culture, the middle class thrill of living within a cultural safari park). We have engaged not with the phenomena but the narratives we have grafted to such phenomena. I think this is what people are referring to when they describe a "life style" they would like.

I'm writing a huge article for an anthropology and Hauntology blog at the moment. The most I've been about to talk about the riots within that is this footnote;

"10 I’m dredging up the armatures of the 1980’s because the lumps which they initially dealt with has also bobbed up from the bottom of the river again, albeit in a slightly grown and mutated form. As I am writing this violence is blooming across London and other urban areas throughout the country and this violence has focused most prominently on acquisition of commodities. It is in the light of fires at furniture stores and the faces people with armfuls of electrical equipment and Tesco-Value rice that a cultural of acquisition is most strongly illuminated. Riots and looting seem to push acquisition to a point of extreme abstraction, but really we were already there. The streets are not full of naked people stealing clothes and I assume that most stealing food are not starving, in fact I doubt many walking off with televisions do not already posses one (though perhaps not as good) already. An 11 year old boy who was caught with a £50 rubbish bin has made the news frequently as the youngest (so far) to be prosecuted. We must wonder if he still would have been carrying this object 20 minutes later, or whether it would have found itself amongst the thousand of articles littering the streets, bait for the wonderful legal invention of “theft by finding”? The point in the looting seems to be about the taking, not the having. Taking is a dimensionless space between the hard edges of the future and the past, and it is exactly what our Capitalist society is driven by, the need for the unattainable, the crossed out thing between what you want and what you have. People are stealing luxury articles, and we could be forgiven for citing their high value for this, but remember than in a situation such as this, the depreciation of value is huge, (these items could not be any hotter!) and who would buy anything in the midst of a looting spree? No, the situation is itself more abstract, it’s the surpass value, the cultural value, the unreal value of points that count here. Like the shopping zombies in Romero’s Dawn of The Dead people are performing an action that is really no less or more meaningless than it was before. The site of value in society has been on the unapproachable point of acquisition, to get the new thing, that transition from the object of desire to the deterioration badge of shame (the past), this has been the goal, so when an opportunity to achieve this goal over and over again, with hundreds of others at your side as appeared, quite a lot have been unable to resist. The emptiness of this action (there is nothing in that gap) is perhaps a cause of the event’s frenzy and the capacity for people to transgress accepted rules of behaviour. Acquisition is empty, and therefor it is unreal. It is like a dream where you (repeatedly) reach out for the object and never seem to actually touch it, yet this absence is what we are focused on when we buy and re-buy and upgrade and renew. Everything else retreats into the background, the marker of the future acquisition and the record of the past acquisition have faded. We can see how the currency transference of money (acquired through the sale of labour) to simple labour (lift, thrown, reach, grab, run) could be a relatively minor detail."

I believe it is all part of the same condition, a total disfranchisement from reality that has at one end has the previously-law-abiding person suddenly stealing from a burning BodyShop at the other has MPs threatening to evict people from social housing, as if that would do anything but stoke the fires! It's just the mirage of the narrative, rioters regurgitation the same rhetoric of our jobless recession world that the MP's fabricated to sell them the misery of less services in the first place. The spin has become real, we told the story enough times that it's made itself a body.

Ah well, fuck it all. This is a lot longer than a facebook message should be. I might edited it and put it on my blog, which has gone silent since the riots. What's your plans for back in London then?
all the best

Cast of Revival: Redux



Title: Cast of Revival Redux
Author: Ralph Dorey
Self published, edition of 20 (plus 5 artist's proofs)
15cm x 21cm, 28 pages on 130gsm paper.
Shellac varnish and oil paint on BW laser print, staple bound.

An exhibition folded into it's source material folded into its making folded into a publication folded into its method of printing. Cast of Revival Redux is concerned with trees and flowers and the history of German youth movements prior to the Reich, the élan vital of samurai films, ideology and temporary autonomous spaces. Cast of Revival Redux is a bandage wrapped around a notebook of folk songs.

Saturday, 23 July 2011

Nick Land says and Jeri Johnson replies

fade up to
man kneading bread on a board, dark tanned hands on white dough containing seeds and flakes of barley. when the man pulls the bread toward him the board slides too so that when he pushes it forward again it sometimes bangs against the tiles at the back of the kitchen counter.

voice over, female, late teens:
Philosophy, in its longing to rationalise, formalise, define, delimit, to terminate enigma and uncertainty, to co-operate wholeheartedly with the police, is nihilistic in the ultimate sense that is strives for the immobile perfection of death. But creativity cannot be brought to an end that is compatible with power, for unless life is extinguished, control must inevitably break down. We posses art lest we perish of the truth.

Man stops kneading bread, fade to black

sounds of wind and birds. Cut to close up of spout of kettle. Voice over continues:
The words make the man. One cannot see through them to the character underneath; there is no underneath. Or, to return to the metaphor, one cannot chop down the trees to find the wood; the trees are the wood.

kettle boils and whistles. a hand enters shot to flip the whistle from the spout. Fade to black.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Jam Econo, makes a stench.

The question is how to do it right. What code do we follow when no ideology exists that we would not tear down with the tenacity of a raging immune system?

How can we train?
We could replicate an action observed in order to learn it, learn how it feels?

It is not macho to be independent. Rather it is a sexist distortion of what the feminine is that makes this natural state of resourcefulness appear brutish by comparison.

We don’t need to think in terms of the extremes. This midway monstrous point can be the purest and in fact is more likely to be so.

Break open the language and break open the branch. The story should be as remembered. 

Produce works, perform actions, make a video entitled “how to work out”

I deal with fragments. This is forward looking archaeology, though all archaeology is forward looking; we find one piece then look for the next, find a tooth, look for a jaw!
The board is changing so what we are looking for is a way to keep our knees bent against he rolling and rocking. We need our sea-knees!
I’m not into extremes (there are not any extremes except in theory). I’m into the network, always local always close at every step. Finished is a farce!

A room contains 5 sycamore branches of between 6 and 8 foot in length. The end cut form the trunk is bound in a cast of plaster formed from a rough clay mould.
There are six low platforms around the room and the some of the branches rest on, against and across these. The platforms are 1 foot high with a top surface of variable dimensions between 3 foot by 9 foot and 6 foot by 6 foot. They are all finished in a black liqueur and two have a horizontal cream stripe, 1 inch thick that circles each platform at 2 inches from the ground.

On the wall are three large black and white photocopy prints each 4 feet wide and 10 feet high. Each of the prints are on separate walls and their contents are as follows: print one, an image of an alpine mountainside taken from a  1980s climbing magazine, the manner of printing in the original combined with the increased contrast in the blown up print leaves it uncertain as to whether the image is upside down or not. Print two, a photograph of the musician David Yow taken from a free poster in Kerrang magazine, a similar shot to this was used for the cover of the 1995 Jesus Lizard album Goat. In neither image can we clearly see Yow’s face. The third image is filled with block text which states “I Tried/To Kick/ The Ball /but My /Tenni Flew/ Right Off”

The content is


I believe in the undesirable synergetic relationships between objects.
I am interested in method, a way of behaving and a philosophy of work.

Should we not just wander off somewhere and produce? Does this limit the scope of production?
Not really, on the amount of time/resources can limit that.

The content is

The content is making art.

And other things. The fracturing of language and other methods of creating. Post Apocalyptic cinema arrives in force right at the end of the second world war to reflect on the new threat of total war however it also overlaps with another product of WW2, space exploration. Europe is in ruins and we explore these. Then begin to fantasise about future ruins when what we have is wrought into tamer landscapes of new development. Over these years we come to terms with the unlikelyhood of new and exciting lands, the globe is mapped, the moon is empty and the enthusiasm of the pre-landing days are not the same of the enthusiasm of a world after the race. However the cold war offers the possibility of new space, the thrill of the disaster movie is the awakened terrain. 

Broken equipment is the only new thing under the sun. We name these new things, put down our flags and move on further, we were promised progress for ever by our parents and if we must destroy half the planet to have a new land to map then all the more Romantic. It will not be us that presses the button for sure, it will be a government, and it will be the government and the infrastructure which is destroyed leaving us to start again. The broken equipment is visible to us, we are in it, in the real and playing with the un-named and what if we, this time, choose not to name it?

We have broken language before to get it’s insides, it’s messy organs. When we did it right it was not just to create a Fiji mermaid for us to christen in front of the world, to fix down in a tank, It was because these broken words, this broken language, could retain it’s visibility only through remaining broken. To footnote it, to socialise, was an attempt to harness it and that was a crying shame really. However much was too wild and in fact all the harnessers fixed were themselves and proclaimed to be the thing they were trying to tame.  But this itself is no surprise because that’s all we have ever done, placed a veneer down and called it the floor. That was the dream of progress we were promised, there would always be more round the curve of the earth just waiting to be accounted for, whether by the disaster of nature or the disaster of man. The question is whether this time we can keep the language broken, not a fix to it a footnote that will tie it down. I’m not suggesting we deny it history, in fact I am proposing that we hold all of it’s history with it, and our own, including what has passed since we last looked at it. 

jersey devil

He's the plan, if we walk about we can construct an institution out of nothing but discrete human relationships, and this institution is as much an object as a ball or a bat or a crown.
This institution is then responsible for it's own affairs and specifically with it's diplomatic relationships with such objects as a ball, a bat or a crown.
We could borrow the power of other established institutions, the industries of design, of management, of our parents with the way they used to loom over us at dinner, chewing like a combine and breathing through noses. We could do that too.


Four legs under the table. But one keeps falling off.

Down tune to SEA bridge pick up in the  neck.

The silence gets Bigger.
What is the opposite of erosion? or is there no opposite? because whatever is wearing away is being replaced by something else? The cliffs at Dover are crumbling away sneaking back but all the time the sea is advancing? The dirt your standing on came from Rotorua mate.


But can we sneak out of the power game? Every radical break becomes part of the canon, every method of survival becomes a means of further coercion one hundred yards down the track.


Put your hands in clay and just hold them there.

It's all fragments the stuff that's falling out of the sky. Put it in a box but it on a box put it under a box its still a  fragments, a meteorite, a thought experiment. Bergson was utterly wrong when he denied objects history, objects are all history, it's common sense.

Went for a walk in the forest to get out of the heat. Beautiful in the shade, in the damp, in the cool. Smells of washed sand. I sweat like anything, saw a grass snake, first time I've ever seen a snake in this country, led it's way out of a pile of ranger's woodchips and into the ferns. saw another in the pond, just head above water, the washed.
Walked too far, no buses, no nothing. Had to walk down the dual carriage way all rare plants and stolen drain covers. The weight of air carried past. fields and trees and just under the M25. Waltham Abbey is a shit hole.

Saturday, 18 June 2011

What I believe

Things to remember begins with things being ready. where something winds up should not be a given, should not be thrown hop-skipp-hop into the waves and deny all responsibility. Obviously we are responsible!

How does memory come into this? Memory must be the model for it all, in terms of an imperfect-perfection, outside of power. How do things mutate? 
My memory is getting worse to the point that I'm thinking about going back to the doctor again. I know working memory is about 20 to 25 seconds but the rate I read at i can barely hold a sentence together. I write notes everywhere. 

We think of the past as stable, rather, we use the past as a stabiliser. "This is what we have done before". However, it must now have filtered through to even our most general public conciousness that the past is not stable at all. Not remotely. So does my memory problem really mean anything? I start form the bottom of the pile and the top of the page every morning. I'm as dumb as the day. But who isn't because surely to trust what you remember is just as ill advised because fairly unlikely to be true today.

So I wake up each day on the ground. I don't wake up on the first step of the third or the ninth. I wake up on the ground and start again. but its fine because the steps are different anyway and who am I kidding thinking they might not have changed might have left it all the same today.

Some things I remember pretty well. On Friday the 13th of May 2011 I jumped a red light coming onto Stoke Newington High street at about 08:30 and got caught in a police trap. I got given a spot fine and the policeman complimented me on my bicycle and all I kept looking at were his MET cycling gloves and thinking how much I needed to new pair since leaving mine on my bike in Ramsgate last summer and how the police ones were probably very well made yet they looked so simple and maybe I could get a pair.

I am an awful musician. I can't hardly remember what's coming next in a song and it takes all my concentration to keep it all lined up ahead of me that I respond to what's actually happening in that particular moment purely through instinct. I'm better when I'm drunk and I'm better on stage. I think. If there was just now then I'd be fine. but I'd have to know there was just now.

My day to day generally involves just the now part though, so most of the week I'm ok, I just get on with it. Yesterday I sat with a student for about 20 minutes and she rolled about the tiny balls of clay that I was making and we both made karate noises. I didn't plan for that to happen, its just the way things worked out. The aim was simply to both be focused on the same thing and in that the activity was a total success and I'm really proud of how it worked out. Surely it means a lot to be unquestionably in a dialogue with someone who can't speak a single word and has a sign vocabulary of about two. However It means a lot more that the dialogue itself is beyond translation into anything, it's utterly resistant because it's far too complicated, that's a useful state to be able to get into.

 I'm responsible for where I wake up. I got here somehow. There is no void-grid space in which no one reigns and there is no government and its just blank. I used to think there was, in the pages of a book, on a picture plain but that is surely absurd, you can't stand anything on nothing, even philosophy.

Read fiction for a while and listen to Minutemen.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

We don't need to bail out the boat, it's sitting as high in the water as we need it to.

There are an awful lot of things you could do with the power from a bicycle.

I made a lot of stuff that looked like parts of buildings, I've got pretty good at digging with an azada as well, I obsess on the rotary motion.

There is a clicking noises coming from my bike but I can't manage to work out the reason or the cure.

Sometimes even the best design looses track of itself and drifts into Sunday afternoon.

I want to write a story but its all just colour and texture, I can't handle the sequentiality of narrative, it should all be there at the same time. the best I can do is camera instructions, to pan through the object on a huge all terrain dolly.

I really like food and animals the most.