she is
solitary. under a lot of pressure. committed as ever to her cause, but i would
imagine feeling somewhat defeated, tired, and pissed.
this
princess leia pez dispenser
writing
– and by this i mean poetry, writing’s conscience and concupiscence, not poetry
necessarily in any substantive sense but that which breaks through language the
spirit of language in the human – lacks volition and in this lack substitutes desire.
that poetry seems to be contained in that other writing, and that in this,
gives writers a distinct advantage and disadvantage alongside other artists.
with the former, they work with the most common human element – so always
(ostensibly) available; with the latter, the inbred schizophrenic
choreographies are so omnipotent, omnipresent, and impotent that the work is
constantly falling into itself, this element so polluted by history who can still give oneself over to it?
let it
all be animal, my life and death, hard and clean like that, anything but human
… a lot i care, me with my red heart in the dark earth and my tattooed feet
following the animal ways
i am now beginning to understand the
languages of dreams and fungi more than the human languages ...
the
chinese poet du fu in 758 complains about his office job …
i am about to scream madly in the office
especially when they bring more papers to pile
higher on my desk
a problem with and enticement of interiority is that
one can reach the abyss with sufficient time and work (this perhaps is the
record of mysticism and poetry); the abyss, though, is always just beyond, with
exteriority … isn’t this why we’ve migrated from poetry and religion to prose and science?
though this just beyond – is it not just a just beyond hiding in the reaching?
even with 7.5 billion of us vertical
now, the human dead outnumber the human living 14:1
i wiggle tubes into the heat of my
decay, suck on them. what cold fire. i almost don’t need food. food makes me
sick anyway, makes my gut curl into itself, my ass splutter its garbage. i
eat the vapours of myself and become some elemental thing. my eyes are a
periodic table of putrefaction. i record my rot, the artist-i a coroner, the
rest a body farm.
exhibition is a practice to produce
permanence, to arrest decay
