Saturday, February 6, 2016

Accepted Proposal- The Place of Love (55 Sydenham Road, coming up on the 18th of March, 2016)



---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Z.M. O'Mahoney <zmomahoney@gmail.com>
Date: Friday, December 4, 2015
Subject: The Place of Love
To: Talitha Klevjer <t.klevjer@gmail.com>



---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Z.M. O'Mahoney <zmomahoney@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, Dec 4, 2015 at 6:07 PM
Subject: The Place of Love
To: contact@55sydenhamrd.com


The King’s Two Bodies (Peace T. Klevjer/Z.O’Mahoney) Present: The Place of Love
Conceit:
Like millenia of (painfully) white people before them, The King’s Two Bodies hereby assert their inheritance of the earth by referring back to grand philosophical traditions with their roots in Ancient Greece, which have exactly nothing to do with their hopelessly Norse and Germanic ancestry. They will do this with reference to the (brilliant) 1969 Pier Paolo Pasolini film, Medea, if only in passing allusion to the stylistic turn of accentuating the dirty, brtual tribal nature of life in times reified for their enlightenment by successive (lost) mediaeval peoples (and current governments). With (also passing) reference to the Vandals, for their good work in sacking the monestary of Saint Augustine, sadly not before the damage was done regarding the doctrine of Original Sin (which does not exist as significant in either of the other Abrahamic religions or in the Eastern Orthodox churches), they will recapitulate the essentially short view and blantant theiving of the finer points of history in servive to the oligarchy that has characterised their limited (Australian) education.
Actualisation:
Klevjer was saying something about how the Parthenon’s unique use of perspective blew the minds of both Le Corbusier and Freud and became very important to their various ideologies,  as the perspective was somehow "outside of space and time," it was haunting, recurring, and could not be placed anywhere. Corbusier said that every time he saw it is was like seeing it for the first time... and seeing as O’Mahoney thoroughly dislikes both men, O’Mahoney agreed that they should indeed have scantily clad men form a living Parthenon whilst holding up a glass ceiling. O’Mahoney cannot for the life of them remember why, exactly, but they thought it would make for a very nice painting for T and so will contribute that, also. Klevjer informs O’Mahoney it had something to do with “the glass ceiling”of architecture and its limiting and aggressive relationship with art. Thus, they have decided to stage one of the works of Antonin Artaud entitled: "Paul the Birds or the Place of Love," which is about the early renaissance painter Paolo Uccello and his relationship with the sculptor Donatello and architect Brunelleschi, and culminates in Brunelleschi ejaculating a white dove from an enormous prosthetic penis.
please call Klevjer: 0401 *** *** (for a good time)(for any information regarding her practice) (please text through your questions five minutes before your call and she will be happy to respond).
Sincerely,
The King's Two Bodies

Here is a poetic reference for your enjoyment:
Time marked by how little it mattered, beneath the lights or somehow above them like the first and forever. Strange to think that it seemed reasonable to think, that it seemed reasonable to think that the sky was the blue of the sea and not the other way around, relative understandings of density and refraction, already outdated by the last thing I wrote, but without a science's pretension towards perfectibility. In a sense, the sky is predicted by the sea, a firmament holding back the emptiness that contains us that will surely kill us. 
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
Sorry to speak of everything and nothing, a jarring lilt uncomfortable with the assimilation of the superficial idealism of an imposed tongue, close and bad-breathed, hotly molesting your ear, the strange inclinations of an unrequited lust that is the will to power. The sinking feeling of success like the rapture, to reach the edge of the fluorescent dome and swim for your death, just to be among them, safely above it all in sodden sandals, subprime submission, ununiform, uniform nonconformity unrealised sartorially, real individuality... while I was physicalised the uniform nonconformity of them who can expect to be entitled to little more...
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
But back with those others in sodden sandals that might buy the whole wreckage, float it... Floaters them all, the pantheon. Prima Vera in my pants... the middle of the night ends in closed daylight, the menacing progression of environmental patterns that deviate further and further from their theme. Time used to be marked... it was forgotten and conscripted to hamper all interruption, but it will again be noticed, be imperfect, unrealised.
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
I was one paycheck off the street with only beauty to qualify me and all the blame laid at my feet for having privileged learning over the alienated market of alien labours sent down to keep you from time enough to understand and acknowledge anything, your condition, whatever...
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
Perhaps too long have we been afforded the luxury of personal space, contemplative time, time uncollected, uncollective, uncollated by the wider mechanisms monitoring every human action to the end of inhumanity, presuming that humanity and inhumanity were anything very much to be thought of to begin with, perhaps or even basically only that: to be thought of. The last days of the bourgeoisie, witnessing a last-ditch attempt at it... making good of it... idling in ruinous beauty from when function and form maybe took some precedent over immediate value and expediency in general. The final hours of youth culture, barely lamented by an apathetic youth fully individualised and so integrated beyond identifiable differentiation, norm core. Thought domestication might stand for something for a minute but accumulation has only ever reminded me of precarity, of all the things that have existed in their very scarcity, around the time that it became obvious that money is not made but claimed.
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
...It all could have been named of earthly things, a language not dematerialising around religious conceit, a language recognising its own practice in the passing solidity of sound-waves, and electricity, and pieces of paper... I exist now in gratitude for the glass ceiling, the firmament, (bête comme la paix) (après moi le deluge) staring ceremonial upskirt at their wasted sex like the pilgrim at the edge of the world, writing from without my indolence like a broken promise to superstition. Morality plays that only work. Fruitless utilitarian, so wary of sugar, romancing Mayakovsky but only for his despairing futility. I never brought poverty on myself out of romance and privilege, I never sought it at all, I sought only privilege, like everyone else, found it in taking ownership of my own time, my own future. I need to be coupled that I might live somewhere where I am not being slowly killed by neglect. Writing of my maturity, at first blush, the writing of my maturity was just that, it was writing of it... thinking a chronology would somehow be divorced from the seasons and the cycles, that it would all lift away anew and I would somehow find a way to say things in a way that which would endear me to the greatest number. Now I can't even gratify the will to make physical that always somehow grounded my aspirations with a light gravity, soft power, passive repression, passive violence, like a mirror, only a mirror, souls of others.www.55sydenhamrd.com