Sunday, November 30, 2014

SUBPRIME poster

Upcoming performance at ARTSPACE Sydney 5pm this coming Saturday the 6th of December, 2014.
Image: Priscilla Bourne and Z.O'Mahoney, 2014.
Text made legible:

Fighting through these arbitrary and base justifications of living earned, a living already spent, as much as through the assertion to prove the truth of what is owed, though it be owed abstractly, unjustly. Deferring here to my living earned, already spent, deferring not to any sense of personal responsibility but to that of authority, who had full ownership of my future before I began, if not through avarice, through education, if not through education, through marginalisation, and all it now implies, giving my life in service to anything other than the security of the few, practicing anything like love I tempt fate, the great machine of these arbitrary gods against me, overlords demanding that life be spent and then “earned.” Now actively deactivating my engagement, deference only to a purity of purpose, I can’t quite understand why, but I know that I can no longer demand from this context, it is useless to comment on acts of art deformed by their institution and within it. In not knowing what to do I am beside myself, like god on the beach, forgetting always the the times when I have carried myself, forgetting that I never have deserted myself. Now I have this power this power of motion, at the worst moments only having one voice, at all others; a cacophony, where either will serve… have served… anything that will serve for a living… I can’t say that I’ve earned but that I’ve owed, but never to those who would claim it.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Record of the Present: An Object (Opening Remarks)

Writing back into it. How can you quantify all the time spent doing nothing when you can't even qualify it? Not enough hours in the day to prove conclusively that there are any. But if I go down that track again I'm not sure what I'll be left with, like painting a flat plane of colour, an homage to a revolutionary statement. Trying to make it all happen incrementally without just starting... Without anything to refer to. The most regrettable thing is that it all goes on unimpeded without an object, or objectified without an impediment. Here I am settling into this bourgeois regime to get it all down, past the pretensions to the external, get down years of what you might call Research met by living, subtle realisations of my own invention. Unmask me at the seat of industry in the tradition of somnambulists and nothistorians... strange then to have substituted the fluorescent light for the low light of this office, simply to do as others do: regimes, disciplines, works for posterity only to be read by it, for it... equivalence, looking for it... Opposite the heteronormative and not as an opposing force, but as part of the whole, in ignorance of that invisible third, that structure bound to make us speak in useless dichotomies, humanity always defining itself as against. But now I write of nothing... But afterall, perhaps that's how it goes. Writerightthrough. Out of practice or in. Some things are from birth. In Broken Hill, even if they'd lived there from when they were two years old they were "from away" and would always be said to be "from away', presumably because "away" was inevitably so very far away. Many of these things with a mildly fascist underpinning were oddly charming and quaint with the right distance or rather "from away." They no longer exist inside the city limits, or inside any other limit/s. All words fail in the face of the bogan. Try as I might, I can't seem to issue a translation, and so I write dumbly and speak wordlessly the long drawn out drawl of the island desert. Waiting for the twentieth century, ending up marooned on my own consciousness. Playing with an inherited tongue like it was my struggling and frightened food, even as it imposed its hegemony of images on me, making me predator of my own future (student of the institution, indentured servant); with all the social responsibility without actually amounting to any kind of form that is enshrined in law. I could write like this forever: I could love like this forever: without a referent; papering the world with itself... the localised metastasis, never a microcosm but for self-imposed limits... a changed moralising; a simple murder in these times is not wrong, not irrational in the intellectual sense per se, but wrong, irrational, in the sense of its inefficiency, something to be pursued by those able to afford such a luxury in their private moments, those outside the law that prove it, though while they would even bother to enjoy one murder, whilst being summarily responsible for so many more, enjoying the fruits of so many more, would really have to amount to some kind of perversion... to the extent that one may trust the rich and powerful, they rarely have the taste for it, their taste is made by the market, the unobtainable desires of others, it's what cements them in the public imagination, the most mediocre. What could this hope to be then? Another bourgeois revolution? Nose to tail art... In a lifetime prepackaged, in which we were limited to our own distribution, I sought only the the the best of what America had offered us, unburdened by the old world assumptions of its system of pathologies and pharmaceuticals: I thought I was staring an animal in the face (watching its lifeforce drain from it) unlike the prepackaged notions dehumanising the very animalism I sought.

...The lips or the heart, each taking their form from each: a heartless paradigm. Whatever I can't have right up until I don't need it anymore... Reactionaries: like they loved. Of course today was the day after yesterday before it was tomorrow. Writing back through every lesson I have learned and growing bored upon reflection, looking for some new class: beholden by the system. I was writing about my boyhood in later nineteenth century France for the good of the "humanitarians of Tinder": that much was evident.