1. Bodily unnerved. Flesh describing flesh and its lack. Flesh trapped in its own self-definition, and the lack, no definition, exception. Proving the rule = equation. And equivocation... and just being sick of the whole sordid business.
2. Convalescing as though I might merely digress, digression an operative function, a tangent, a touching line, but on a steeper or slippery slope, who can say?
3. Need in its myriad forms. Over-sensibility as insensible as that may seem at this juncture... couldn’t hear it, just didn’t quite read or register... didn’t sound right... whatever other expression means exactly the same as all those others... something like poetry: listing, the listing of tautologies, the simplest of devices.
4. It just so happened that it happened when it happened, and so every thing was quite cleared up: after the fact.
5. Daring you to pay for someone else’s self-indulgent paradox spiral... Some attempt towards content pinned to its side.
6. Content that it might not be classified as either “art” or “critique” (def. the art of passing judgement) (hence art is devoid of judgement) (except on them what might attempt it).
7. I studied that face for a long time and drew a blank for a study, and that seemed to be exactly what she had been going for, namely the zeitgeist.
8. This account is not of the first person, nor any way in it, nor am I a faultless narrator, nor guilty, nor uninvested, though, invested admittedly without the possibility of gain... which is important...
9. There is no contemporary equivalent by which to set my stocks, though the market be rife with losses... They nonetheless could not have lost so much had they chosen to lose as I did.
10. Capital and its abstract: capital. Capital and its meta: capital.
11. And so I explain my investment unwittingly, like most investors... like most stockbrokers, in point of fact, though we will not turn to them for the moral for a change, that time has passed.
12. Now we are left with the reality of the physical consequences of our tacit complicity.
13. The sky has changed and the fires have raged already, but not for her as she sits post-apocalypse like they never wrote or feared before.
14. That was all that had been on notice for quite some time, the great manipulator, the arbiter and trend-setter for all of mediocrity.
15. We were all obsessed with fame that weren’t, narcissism is surprisingly nihilistic.
16. The very real fear of history that all artists have, that will consume and subsume and will count for nothing as soon as it is accounted for.
17. The moments when I felt the most like being afraid, all the apparitions available to me were not ghostly but bodily... realised it the other day while listening to the gentle rumble of my dentists stomach- that ghosts are forever breathing, that those hairs that stand up on the back of the neck are the inspiration of the living...
18. That was the power of Dante’s Inferno: the utter mundanity.
19. For all else your muse might protect you, the same one that might have you labelled an hysteric, the phallocentric equivalence of possession: the dispossessed, the exception. Of the birds...
20. Friendless and unsung, it was until it was: there’s not a lot of times you get to say that, and that’s important: it was until it was.
21. An underclass of thought: like you were always listening to pragmatic music. Everything had purpose, purpose was an end in itself... party drugs and purpose, antidepressants, industrial psychology: business as abstract right.
22. Youth left yesterday with my sense of urgency.
23. Still, I’ve been circling my own carcass.
24. I was scattering breadcrumbs into the wind... of the birds, but not for them... though, they soon catch on... the prehistory in their mien...
25. Men are afraid of emotions, women are their masters.
26. Any man... when I get my hands on him... my grow... exponentially... in... value.
27. As though the greatest courtship ever consummated was between scandal and heterogeneity.
28. The dependent disciplines clamouring like private interest groups levying the politicians into public spending on military failures (economic successes). Feminism being a dependent discipline, wartime liberation.
29. Intellectual repression and indiscriminate sexuality as a way to restore the balance from the hypocrisy of Victorian values.
30. Anyone could fall in love with their love but their love.
31. Sometimes all the wit of my (arbitrary) generation is focused on social mediation with the aged, selling a vacuous skill set back to the enfranchised, whom apparently lack facility with glib sexual puns, though they nevertheless profit by them. Youth is subsumed by its own corporate identity, suggested, though un-located by the corporeal. Holographic labour. YOLO.
32. I would call this movement French Art, as movements always had some character who
would name and thus reduce them to their provenance. Moving myself, into one, a practice (never to do). I would call it French Art in the same way that the French translation for French toast is “du pain perdu” or lost bread, thus the translation for French art would be “du peintre perdu” or lost painting. That was the power of Dante’s Inferno: the utter mundanity.
33. This has particular resonance with the common language of art, which is more usually made in the aesthetic of contemporary art, meaning a decorative iconoclastic as against representational whilst referring to any essay by any French theorist or similar, and spouted in the language of translation, bearing its own aesthetic quite removed from the version originale.
34. Not busy being an artist: an occupational hazard.
36. The anti-socialisation. Another definitive essay on why art should no longer be representational... like there are so many now it’s become its own genre.
37. Meantime visual culture is served only by graphic designers, and we call our counter(-) an exit strategy, where the only way out is in, because actually there is no way out, social media is merely another distraction from totalisation as opposed to the ultimate manifestation of it.
38. There is no sacred life and so we speak to the profane to play out over a century of pseudo rebellion, and speak of how busy we are and how much we do, and whether or not things are professional or”resolved”.
39. It’s a shame that I have nothing better to do than art.
40. Remade corporeal, writ physical.
41. These ludicrous forays into “knowledge creation,” whatever that ever meant. The words “knowledge” and “creation” altogether sound pornographic... probably is pornographic.
42. Still looking for an answer to plot in its obvious absence, unless it were for someone else’s reserves and resources.
43. One hundred different ways to drive oneself mad, or one hundred different ways to be mad, more presciently after the fact.
44. After the face? =Better. After the face: sociopathy. After the face: plastic surgery. After the face: autism. After the face: the zeitgeist.
45. Autism and sociopathy all dependent on whether one defines oneself as a genius from within or without.
46. Both are necessary components to “the word,” which identifies (false) dichotomies and decimates pluralities, basically out of just being bone idle.
47. The sociopath (often a poet) will use whatever is at hand, often the malleability of language itself, to create a better self-identity.
48. Of course you are what you say.
49. It’s entirely possible that I am a sociopath.
50. I am at the very centre of my own horror.
51. Yet, there is more at stake here: going down the rabbit-hole of State vs. Self-sponsored horror.
52. If only I could write like I still believed in fiction or I still believed in fact.
53. No such luck: just this end of history without end.
54. Another violent dichotomy: the sentimentalists and the sociopaths... But who could say which side I came down on...?
55. Like everyone else I just wanted to be in control like that, to be the one that didn’t care... or to love without fear... or to love without pain... No fear or pain for the sentimentalists, only sentiment.
56. Defining the marginal for want of a worthy pursuit.
57. Doubtless, doubtless in mind.
58. Subtlety on a whim: echoing bolder statements with their latent absurdity.
59. Do less work. Less work like you live, like you have. But living was just it. Every day complete at day’s end. Messing about in the ruins, wearing kaftans, the loudest laughter... so jolly excited was I that you were so much more fully integrated than I, that you never felt the need to adopt the mantle or the aesthetic of the rebel.
60. I assumed you were conscious of your own absurdity as I was of mine.
61. A savage mistake on my part, a brutalism I could not have committed wittingly.
62. All the instruments you used to seduce, I had only ever used to stop the bleeding.
63. I found myself without my instruments in times of surplus... or I found them localised as fond predictors of future crises/depression.
64. I couldn’t believe that you could ever think in another way, that there could be an entire lifetime in which abundance had so reigned.
65. My birth and death having been waged between civil wars, like being replaced by like, passive hostility.
66. The only upshot being the abandonment of the construction of thought and a destruction that might amount to wisdom. Wisdom and not purpose.
67. I think we both knew enough to see what we wanted in the world and then create it, and in that way we became our own manifest destiny.
68. ...Apt to shed pitiless tears as we go on in destruction and relative acts of creation with something like the motivation of a plague and associated deities.
69. It all depends on how many people will listen to yours truly as to how digestible I prove. And Western Civilisation owes everything to constipation. In this lucky country I’ve been raised on Martin Luther’s reformation meat diet- with so many hours stolen by we the impotent rich in the name of contemplation, whilst locked in constipation, thinking about our next meal. But now I know better, you see… the trick with creating a religion is to offer a solution and leave it open-ended.