I went to Sainsbury's for a prawn mayonnaise sandwich. Nothing beats a hangover like a Sainsbury's prawn mayonnaise sandwich. All those tiny bodies swimming in viscous white. While I was waiting in the queue I saw a guy next to the magazine rack. He was drinking a can of Red Bull like it was medicine - quickly and deliberately, dealing with the burps as they came.
Later, at a gallery opening, I watched a middle aged business man take photos with his mobile phone; on his face I recognised a similar grim determination.
The Kebab
I wrote a list today, it was titled, 'Things I Like And Would Like To Fill My Life With'. I won't bore you with the details, but one part of it was about occasionally being able to eat a kebab after drinking several pints of lager in a pub. I discussed the idea of a perfect kebab with a few people. There were various ideas about what constitutes a great kebab, and I came to realise that there is no 'perfect' kebab. The kebab is an experiential object, and qualitatively relativistic. Here, for the record, is the sort of kebab that would fulfil its role, for me, after several pints of lager.
b) It looks like a substantial amount of food, i.e. more than one skewers worth of meat*.
-Onion
-Cucumber (not slimy, if possible)
a) Does this look like exactly the right amount of food for me?
b) Is this, in reality, way too much food for me?
I wrote a list today, it was titled, 'Things I Like And Would Like To Fill My Life With'. I won't bore you with the details, but one part of it was about occasionally being able to eat a kebab after drinking several pints of lager in a pub. I discussed the idea of a perfect kebab with a few people. There were various ideas about what constitutes a great kebab, and I came to realise that there is no 'perfect' kebab. The kebab is an experiential object, and qualitatively relativistic. Here, for the record, is the sort of kebab that would fulfil its role, for me, after several pints of lager.
- Doner, possibly shish if:
b) It looks like a substantial amount of food, i.e. more than one skewers worth of meat*.
- Naan bread, rather than pita.
- Lots of salad
-Onion
-Cucumber (not slimy, if possible)
- 2 large pickled chillies.
- Good, hot, chilli sauce
- Good, garlicky garlic sauce (mainly for chips, see below)
- Chips - eaten ALWAYS with meat and sauce, plus possibly salad and naan if quantity allows.
a) Does this look like exactly the right amount of food for me?
b) Is this, in reality, way too much food for me?
Little review of 'Modern Romance', the gig I played on Sunday with House of Strange, Judas Zero and Robin Ince. Along with a scan of a biro comic I drew while I was there for 'We Are Words and Pictures'
What I think about when I think about Haruki Murakami
I just finished reading What I Think About When I Think About Running, by Haruki Murakami. I just finished reading it, about three minutes ago. I also just started reading it. I started reading it on a train earlier, and finished it just now.
I found the book in a friend's rucksack. His rucksack was in a gallery. I went to the gallery to take down an exhibition of work that had been made by my friend and myself. It was a sort of collaboration. We made an installation together - my bit was some sound that I made out of computerised voices, and his bit was a slide projection of some photos he had taken. To put the work up, all I had to do was come along with an mp3 player and plug it in. My friend on the other hand, had to carry a slide projector all the way to the gallery in a rucksack. He isn't in London any more, and the exhibition has finished, so I had to go down to the gallery, pack away the slide projector in his rucksack and carry it on the train back to my house. And that is when I found the book.
What I Think About When I Think About Running, is a short book, about 180 pages long. Murakami is a good writer, and he has a good translator, so it was easy to read. I find all his books easy to read. He makes me feel reasonable. I said this to my girlfriend on the phone. I had just eaten lunch, and my girlfriend phoned me. She said, "What are you doing?", and I said, "I'm reading a Murakami book I found in Ben's bag. Murakami makes me feel reasonable."
He does make me feel reasonable. He makes me feel that the world is reasonable - or, he makes me feel like that the world is not, or should not be, unreasonable. There is a lovely moment in the book. He runs from Athens to the town of Marathon in Greece, and writes about it for a magazine. They send a photographer along to take pictures, and as Murakami prepares to start running, the photographer asks him if he is going to run the whole thing, or just run for a while, get the photos, and then go back to the hotel. That is what normally happens with the these sorts of things, the photographer says. Murakami is totally astonished - the thought had never even crossed his mind that he could fake it. Of course, thinking about it, Muakami could be lying, he might not have run the marathon. He might never have run any marathons, or even run at all. The book could be some sort of hyper-meta-critique of fiction, a commentary on membrane between the real and the unreal. On further reflection, as I don't intend to do any research while I write this,
a) I'll probably never know for sure
and therefore
b) It probably doesn't matter whether it is or isn't real, as I'll never know anyway.
But if someone suggested to me that Murakami wasn't really a runner, that he hadn't run at least 26 marathons in his life as well as an ultra-marathon (65 miles), and that he had faked the book as a sort of hyper-meta-critique of fiction, then I would be just as astonished as Murakami had been when the photographer had suggested the possibility of faking the run from Athens to Marathon. That would be so unreasonable. Murakamai wouldn't have even thought of it.
Murakami is so reasonable, and his writing is so reasonable, that it rubs off on me, and make me feel reasonable. The title of the book is a rejigged version of the title of one of Raymond Carver's books, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Murakami has translated several of Carver's books, and before he published this book, he contacted Carver's widow to ask permission to us the title, What I Think About When I Think About Running. How reasonable of him. And, of course, Carver's widow, being similarly reasonable, said yes.
When ever I read Murakami, I start thinking like his prose reads. I get all cool and calm, and like I said, I feel reasonable. I begin to crave the things he craves, mainly a cold beer. I like cold beer, and Murakami really likes cold beer. He mentions it a lot. In the summer of 2009 I was in France and they sell beer in small cans. Not like the big cans we have in Britain, probably about the size of a can of Coke. It is super cold and in the heat of the afternoon when you are thirsty, nothing (and I mean absolutely nothing) beats drinking a small, cold, can of beer.
In this book he mentions that when he is thirsty, he doesn't normally drink water, he just eats a piece of fruit. This accounts for the apple core sitting next to the headphones on my desk. It wasn't as good as I had hoped it might be. I think I prefer water for quenching my thirst. That though, is no fault of his. In the book he writes that he never recommends running to other people. He writes that he just happens to enjoy running, and other people might not enjoy running. That didn't stop me thinking that maybe I might enjoy running as much as he does, even though I'm pretty certain I don't enjoy running at all.And it didn't stop me thinking that I might prefer to eat an apple rather than drink a glass of water.
As you may have also noticed, when I read Murakami I get the urge to write like Muakami. This piece of writing probably isn't as concise and clear as a piece of writing by Murakami, but it probably aims towards something like how I think he writes, if that makes any sense.
So anyway, the reason I wrote this was to say that Murakami makes me feel reasonable. I'm not sure I know exactly what I mean by that. And, if it doesn't really make sense when I think about it, then it probably won't make sense when I write about it. If you read Murakami you might feel reasonable too, but maybe you won't. I'm not going to recommend that you read any of his books, it doesn't feel very Murakami-like to do so. And although I won't start running, and I'll probably go downstairs in a minute and drink a glass of water to quench the thirst that the apple could not quench, I'm still going to go and drink a cold beer later, and I can gaurantee that it will be the best thing I do all day.
I just finished reading What I Think About When I Think About Running, by Haruki Murakami. I just finished reading it, about three minutes ago. I also just started reading it. I started reading it on a train earlier, and finished it just now.
I found the book in a friend's rucksack. His rucksack was in a gallery. I went to the gallery to take down an exhibition of work that had been made by my friend and myself. It was a sort of collaboration. We made an installation together - my bit was some sound that I made out of computerised voices, and his bit was a slide projection of some photos he had taken. To put the work up, all I had to do was come along with an mp3 player and plug it in. My friend on the other hand, had to carry a slide projector all the way to the gallery in a rucksack. He isn't in London any more, and the exhibition has finished, so I had to go down to the gallery, pack away the slide projector in his rucksack and carry it on the train back to my house. And that is when I found the book.
What I Think About When I Think About Running, is a short book, about 180 pages long. Murakami is a good writer, and he has a good translator, so it was easy to read. I find all his books easy to read. He makes me feel reasonable. I said this to my girlfriend on the phone. I had just eaten lunch, and my girlfriend phoned me. She said, "What are you doing?", and I said, "I'm reading a Murakami book I found in Ben's bag. Murakami makes me feel reasonable."
He does make me feel reasonable. He makes me feel that the world is reasonable - or, he makes me feel like that the world is not, or should not be, unreasonable. There is a lovely moment in the book. He runs from Athens to the town of Marathon in Greece, and writes about it for a magazine. They send a photographer along to take pictures, and as Murakami prepares to start running, the photographer asks him if he is going to run the whole thing, or just run for a while, get the photos, and then go back to the hotel. That is what normally happens with the these sorts of things, the photographer says. Murakami is totally astonished - the thought had never even crossed his mind that he could fake it. Of course, thinking about it, Muakami could be lying, he might not have run the marathon. He might never have run any marathons, or even run at all. The book could be some sort of hyper-meta-critique of fiction, a commentary on membrane between the real and the unreal. On further reflection, as I don't intend to do any research while I write this,
a) I'll probably never know for sure
and therefore
b) It probably doesn't matter whether it is or isn't real, as I'll never know anyway.
But if someone suggested to me that Murakami wasn't really a runner, that he hadn't run at least 26 marathons in his life as well as an ultra-marathon (65 miles), and that he had faked the book as a sort of hyper-meta-critique of fiction, then I would be just as astonished as Murakami had been when the photographer had suggested the possibility of faking the run from Athens to Marathon. That would be so unreasonable. Murakamai wouldn't have even thought of it.
Murakami is so reasonable, and his writing is so reasonable, that it rubs off on me, and make me feel reasonable. The title of the book is a rejigged version of the title of one of Raymond Carver's books, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Murakami has translated several of Carver's books, and before he published this book, he contacted Carver's widow to ask permission to us the title, What I Think About When I Think About Running. How reasonable of him. And, of course, Carver's widow, being similarly reasonable, said yes.
When ever I read Murakami, I start thinking like his prose reads. I get all cool and calm, and like I said, I feel reasonable. I begin to crave the things he craves, mainly a cold beer. I like cold beer, and Murakami really likes cold beer. He mentions it a lot. In the summer of 2009 I was in France and they sell beer in small cans. Not like the big cans we have in Britain, probably about the size of a can of Coke. It is super cold and in the heat of the afternoon when you are thirsty, nothing (and I mean absolutely nothing) beats drinking a small, cold, can of beer.
In this book he mentions that when he is thirsty, he doesn't normally drink water, he just eats a piece of fruit. This accounts for the apple core sitting next to the headphones on my desk. It wasn't as good as I had hoped it might be. I think I prefer water for quenching my thirst. That though, is no fault of his. In the book he writes that he never recommends running to other people. He writes that he just happens to enjoy running, and other people might not enjoy running. That didn't stop me thinking that maybe I might enjoy running as much as he does, even though I'm pretty certain I don't enjoy running at all.And it didn't stop me thinking that I might prefer to eat an apple rather than drink a glass of water.
As you may have also noticed, when I read Murakami I get the urge to write like Muakami. This piece of writing probably isn't as concise and clear as a piece of writing by Murakami, but it probably aims towards something like how I think he writes, if that makes any sense.
So anyway, the reason I wrote this was to say that Murakami makes me feel reasonable. I'm not sure I know exactly what I mean by that. And, if it doesn't really make sense when I think about it, then it probably won't make sense when I write about it. If you read Murakami you might feel reasonable too, but maybe you won't. I'm not going to recommend that you read any of his books, it doesn't feel very Murakami-like to do so. And although I won't start running, and I'll probably go downstairs in a minute and drink a glass of water to quench the thirst that the apple could not quench, I'm still going to go and drink a cold beer later, and I can gaurantee that it will be the best thing I do all day.
A poem for the woman who reluctantly moved out of my seat on a (not uncrowded) train from Manchester to London.
I'm sorry
about all that with the seat.
I could have moved somewhere else
but I've done that before,
out of politeness,
and it's ended badly.
Also,
I did book that seat;
specifically requesting
to be facing
forwards
and to have a table
(with power socket).
Not that I wanted those things
that badly back then.
Or now, for that matter
as I have forgotten
to bring my laptop.
I'm sorry
about all that with the seat.
I could have moved somewhere else
but I've done that before,
out of politeness,
and it's ended badly.
Also,
I did book that seat;
specifically requesting
to be facing
forwards
and to have a table
(with power socket).
Not that I wanted those things
that badly back then.
Or now, for that matter
as I have forgotten
to bring my laptop.
I'm on the tube and there's this drunk guy. Really pissed and really big. Not just fat; tall and long and wide. And he is asleep sort of diagonally. He is leaning on what looks like his daughter, but she seems like she's his girlfriend. They both look a bit downtrodden, life not treating you so good etc. and I feel bad about not wanting to sit too close - there's a smell etc.
I'm there for a while, reading my book and doing this weird grimace thing I seem to do on public transport now, and I'm wondering what is perturbing me about this guy so much. I keep staring at his ankles. What's my fascination with the lower portion of his legs? I realise, he is wearing trainer socks. You know those weird short socks that gelled-hair-sixth formers and super-camp guys and girls who are worried about VSL (visible sock line) wear? He isn't even wearing trainers.
I'm there for a while, reading my book and doing this weird grimace thing I seem to do on public transport now, and I'm wondering what is perturbing me about this guy so much. I keep staring at his ankles. What's my fascination with the lower portion of his legs? I realise, he is wearing trainer socks. You know those weird short socks that gelled-hair-sixth formers and super-camp guys and girls who are worried about VSL (visible sock line) wear? He isn't even wearing trainers.
This will be one of those posts in which I apologise (to myself) for not doing all the things that I want to be doing on this blog. I'm in the middle of preparing for several things in the real world, and therefore have had to put my web-life on the back burner for now. But here is what's happening, so that I feel better about my lack of posting.
-I have an exhibition preview this Saturday 9th, 6-8pm at the Centre for Recent Drawing on Highbury Station Rd, London. I will be showing some of my Psychosis drawings.
-I am in the middle of setting up an exhibition with Andrew Sunderland to take place in the spring themed around the logic of emptiness. I am helping organise it, writing some text for it, and also making work for it, including an exciting collaboration between me and Attack!!!! magazine editor, Wes White.
-I am making a sci-fi film using found footage for a possible exhibition responding to a text by Dominic Rich.
-I am preparing the tracks for a Dogtanion album that should be out this year.
-I'm recording with the guys at Tape Club Records, and attempting to form a Tape Club House Band so that we can tour Europe at some point.
--------------------------------------------
On the blogs (here and http://www.arkaanalysis.com/), I have several larger posts that I want to concentrate on.
On ashortdescriptionofmypoo
-An analysis of the two bloggers I read most fervently, Momus and Kpunk. I often think that they cover similar ground but in totally different ways - a sort of left brain/right brain male/female style. Neither of them think that much of the other (as far as I can tell Kpunk thinks Momus spends too much time deflecting criticism in his comment boxes, and Momus thinks that Kpunk's writing style is an example of the failure of abstract language). Anyhow, like I said, I can't write it now...
-A survey of Cai Nyahoe's work - possibly with an interview if I can pin him down on a single topic for more than ten seconds. An artist and a friend who makes work that disturbs, disgusts and delights. Hopefully the seed of a future biography.
On Arka
-Continue to post excerpts from Awakenings by Oliver Sacks. Finish with a post analysing his ideas about theoretical chaos in disease and parallel his poetic descriptions of hallucinations with dream descriptions as the basis for cultural production.
-Read Freud's The Interpretations of Dreams. I have only ever read Freud on humour, and it seems odd to be writing about dreams without reference to the most (in)famous text concerning the act of dreaming and their meaning.
-Post an interview with Ben Jeans Houghton (though Emma Cummins will probably conduct this). ARKA needs to be formalised a little, and this would be a good way to define the section concerning Field Work One, the art work that the blog was meant to parallel
---------------------------------------------------
And that is it! So far... Right. I'm off to look at Facebook or something equally productive.
-I have an exhibition preview this Saturday 9th, 6-8pm at the Centre for Recent Drawing on Highbury Station Rd, London. I will be showing some of my Psychosis drawings.
-I am in the middle of setting up an exhibition with Andrew Sunderland to take place in the spring themed around the logic of emptiness. I am helping organise it, writing some text for it, and also making work for it, including an exciting collaboration between me and Attack!!!! magazine editor, Wes White.
-I am making a sci-fi film using found footage for a possible exhibition responding to a text by Dominic Rich.
-I am preparing the tracks for a Dogtanion album that should be out this year.
-I'm recording with the guys at Tape Club Records, and attempting to form a Tape Club House Band so that we can tour Europe at some point.
--------------------------------------------
On the blogs (here and http://www.arkaanalysis.com/), I have several larger posts that I want to concentrate on.
On ashortdescriptionofmypoo
-An analysis of the two bloggers I read most fervently, Momus and Kpunk. I often think that they cover similar ground but in totally different ways - a sort of left brain/right brain male/female style. Neither of them think that much of the other (as far as I can tell Kpunk thinks Momus spends too much time deflecting criticism in his comment boxes, and Momus thinks that Kpunk's writing style is an example of the failure of abstract language). Anyhow, like I said, I can't write it now...
-A survey of Cai Nyahoe's work - possibly with an interview if I can pin him down on a single topic for more than ten seconds. An artist and a friend who makes work that disturbs, disgusts and delights. Hopefully the seed of a future biography.
On Arka
-Continue to post excerpts from Awakenings by Oliver Sacks. Finish with a post analysing his ideas about theoretical chaos in disease and parallel his poetic descriptions of hallucinations with dream descriptions as the basis for cultural production.
-Read Freud's The Interpretations of Dreams. I have only ever read Freud on humour, and it seems odd to be writing about dreams without reference to the most (in)famous text concerning the act of dreaming and their meaning.
-Post an interview with Ben Jeans Houghton (though Emma Cummins will probably conduct this). ARKA needs to be formalised a little, and this would be a good way to define the section concerning Field Work One, the art work that the blog was meant to parallel
---------------------------------------------------
And that is it! So far... Right. I'm off to look at Facebook or something equally productive.
A long time ago, someone honest asked me if I washed my legs in the shower. He asked me this because he didn't. He said he couldn't see the point, didn't really know where to start, and that they probably weren't the dirtiest part of you. I thought for a while, and then realised that I didn't wash my legs either. We were working at a restaurant at the time and asked one of the waitresses whether she washed her legs in the shower. She said she did and looked at us as though washing your legs in the shower was a basic human instinct.
From that day on I made a conscious effort to wash my legs in the shower. More recently I realised that in washing my legs in the shower, I had given up washing my arms. This, I realised, was the sacrifice I had unconsciously made. Most people have a standardised shower time - dependant not on how dirty they feel, but on how long they normally spend in the shower. My internal timing mechanism was not about to lengthen my allotted shower time simply because I had decided that the cleanliness of my legs should be a priority.
This is how it remains, although because I agreed with my friend that legs probably don't need washing that much, I don't really put the effort in. Also, water from a shower moves in a downward flow, so your legs probably get a rinse anyway, whereas your arms get no attention unless you make an effort.
I was thinking of switching attention back to my arms, or maybe starting a rota (Monday = legs, Tuesday = arms, etc.), but I'm not sure the effort would be appreciated.
Maybe we could establish some truth through the inter-subjectivity of the comment box.
Which do you wash, your legs or your arms? And why? And how?
From that day on I made a conscious effort to wash my legs in the shower. More recently I realised that in washing my legs in the shower, I had given up washing my arms. This, I realised, was the sacrifice I had unconsciously made. Most people have a standardised shower time - dependant not on how dirty they feel, but on how long they normally spend in the shower. My internal timing mechanism was not about to lengthen my allotted shower time simply because I had decided that the cleanliness of my legs should be a priority.
This is how it remains, although because I agreed with my friend that legs probably don't need washing that much, I don't really put the effort in. Also, water from a shower moves in a downward flow, so your legs probably get a rinse anyway, whereas your arms get no attention unless you make an effort.
I was thinking of switching attention back to my arms, or maybe starting a rota (Monday = legs, Tuesday = arms, etc.), but I'm not sure the effort would be appreciated.
Maybe we could establish some truth through the inter-subjectivity of the comment box.
Which do you wash, your legs or your arms? And why? And how?
I would like to teach in an art college at some point. When I do, I will pin up two pieces of paper on either side of the studios. On one will be written
pragmatism
and on the other will be written
idealism
And the students will choose which group they want to be in.
I'm not sure what happens next, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
pragmatism
and on the other will be written
idealism
And the students will choose which group they want to be in.
I'm not sure what happens next, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
The Pursuit of Fecality by Antonin Artaud
There where it smells of shit
it smells of being.
Man could just as well not have shat,
not have opened the anal pouch,
but he chose to shit
as he would have chosen to live
instead of consenting to live dead.
Because in order not to make caca,
he would have had to consent
not to be,
but he could not make up his mind to lose
being,
that is, to die alive.
There is in being
something particularly tempting for man
and this something is none other than
CACA.
(Roaring here.)
To exist one need only let oneself be,
but to live,
one must be someone,
to be someone,
one must have a BONE,
not be afraid to show the bone,
and to lose the meat in the process.
Man has always preferred meat
to the earth of bones.
Because there was only earth and wood of bone,
and he had to earn his meat,
there was only iron and fire
and no shit,
and man was afraid of losing shit
or rather he desired shit
and, for this, sacrificed blood.
In order to have shit,
that is, meat,
where there was only blood
and a junkyard of bones
and where there was no being to win
but where there was only life to lose.
o reche modo
to edire
di za
tau dari
do padera coco
At this point, man withdrew and fled.
Then the animals ate him.
It was not a rape,
he lent himself to the obscene meal.
He relished it,
he learned himself
to act like an animal
and to eat rat
daintily.
And where does this foul debasement come from?
The fact that the world is not yet formed,
or that man has only a small idea of the world
and wants to hold on to it forever?
This comes from the fact that man,
one fine day,
stopped
the idea of the world.
Two paths were open to him:
that of the infinite without,
that of the infinitesimal within.
And he chose the infinitesimal within.
Where one need only squeeze
the spleen,
the tongue,
the anus
or the glans.
And god, god himself squeezed the movement.
Is God a being?
If he is one, he is shit.
If he is not one
he does not exist.
But he does not exist,
except as the void that approaches with all its forms
whose most perfect image
is the advance of an incalculable group of crab lice.
"You are mad Mr. Artaud, what about the mass?"
I deny baptism and the mass.
There is no human act,
on the internal erotic level,
more pernicious than the descent
of the so-called jesus-christ
onto the altars.
No one will believe me
and I can see the public shrugging its shoulders
but the so-called christ is none other than he
who in the presence of the crab louse god
consented to live without a body,
while an army of men
descended from a cross,
to which god thought he had long since nailed them,
has revolted,
and, armed with steel,
with blood,
with fire, and with bones,
advances, reviling the Invisible
to have done with GOD'S JUDGMENT.
There where it smells of shit
it smells of being.
Man could just as well not have shat,
not have opened the anal pouch,
but he chose to shit
as he would have chosen to live
instead of consenting to live dead.
Because in order not to make caca,
he would have had to consent
not to be,
but he could not make up his mind to lose
being,
that is, to die alive.
There is in being
something particularly tempting for man
and this something is none other than
CACA.
(Roaring here.)
To exist one need only let oneself be,
but to live,
one must be someone,
to be someone,
one must have a BONE,
not be afraid to show the bone,
and to lose the meat in the process.
Man has always preferred meat
to the earth of bones.
Because there was only earth and wood of bone,
and he had to earn his meat,
there was only iron and fire
and no shit,
and man was afraid of losing shit
or rather he desired shit
and, for this, sacrificed blood.
In order to have shit,
that is, meat,
where there was only blood
and a junkyard of bones
and where there was no being to win
but where there was only life to lose.
o reche modo
to edire
di za
tau dari
do padera coco
At this point, man withdrew and fled.
Then the animals ate him.
It was not a rape,
he lent himself to the obscene meal.
He relished it,
he learned himself
to act like an animal
and to eat rat
daintily.
And where does this foul debasement come from?
The fact that the world is not yet formed,
or that man has only a small idea of the world
and wants to hold on to it forever?
This comes from the fact that man,
one fine day,
stopped
the idea of the world.
Two paths were open to him:
that of the infinite without,
that of the infinitesimal within.
And he chose the infinitesimal within.
Where one need only squeeze
the spleen,
the tongue,
the anus
or the glans.
And god, god himself squeezed the movement.
Is God a being?
If he is one, he is shit.
If he is not one
he does not exist.
But he does not exist,
except as the void that approaches with all its forms
whose most perfect image
is the advance of an incalculable group of crab lice.
"You are mad Mr. Artaud, what about the mass?"
I deny baptism and the mass.
There is no human act,
on the internal erotic level,
more pernicious than the descent
of the so-called jesus-christ
onto the altars.
No one will believe me
and I can see the public shrugging its shoulders
but the so-called christ is none other than he
who in the presence of the crab louse god
consented to live without a body,
while an army of men
descended from a cross,
to which god thought he had long since nailed them,
has revolted,
and, armed with steel,
with blood,
with fire, and with bones,
advances, reviling the Invisible
to have done with GOD'S JUDGMENT.
I was searching for stuff about Jason Rhoades' piece at 'Walking in My Mind' at the Hayward, because of it's references to the creative process as ingestion/digestion/expulsion. While side tracked by his collborations with Paul Mc Carthy (another artist who I will write about on here at some point), I found this wonderful story on, of all places, Kanye West's Blog.
Here is the link to the original story on the Guardian site.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/aug/12/3
and here is the text in full
Giant dog turd wreaks havoc at Swiss museum
Inflatable artwork blown from moorings and brings down power line
A giant inflatable dog turd created by the American artist Paul McCarthy was blown from its moorings at a Swiss museum, bringing down a power line and breaking a window before landing in the grounds of a children's home.
The exhibit, entitled Complex Shit, is the size of a house. It has a safety system that is supposed to deflate it in bad weather, but it did not work on this occasion.
Juri Steiner, the director of the Paul Klee centre, in Berne, told AFP that a sudden gust of wind carried it 200 metres before it fell to the ground, breaking a window of the children's home. The accident happened on July 31, but the details only emerged yesterday.
Steiner said McCarthy had not yet been contacted and the museum was not sure if the piece (pictured here) would be put back on display.
The installation is part of an exhibition called East of Eden: A Garden Show, which features sound sculptures in trees and a football ground without goalposts. The exhibition opened in May and is due to run until October.
The centre's website describes the show as containing "interweaving, diverse, not to say conflictive emphases and a broad spectrum of items to form a dynamic exchange of parallel and self-eclipsing spatial and temporal zones".