It’s late, I sleep,

It’s early, I’m awake,

But still sleeping,

Make in the mornings.

Write everyday,

For 10 minutes straight,

Dedicate 10 minutes a day,

Barely more than 1 hour,

Each week,

You can write a lot,

In 10 minutes. 


Abilities to receive information The things we see The things we make up Information our brains fill in

Art has failed. Art has failed to achieve anything. In my attempts to see the world through artistic eyes I have failed. All I’ve uncovered is a dystopian reality in which we already live. A dystopia of what art is, and what art does. Within a dystopia. Art fucks. Art fucks like Alex DeLarge. It fucks itself for pleasure, and it fucks everything else simply to screw them over and lord it over them. This might appear bitter, crass and unexpected in tone, but that’s path of the course. The are no reasons. There are no excuses, there is only realisation and experimentation of thought.

perception –             visual

                                    aural            --             senses

                                                            5 senses

                                                            sight

                                                             touch

Perception + reality                                    taste

Reality vs non-reality                                    smell

            (TED talks)                                    hearing

 

The universe is growing, groaning as it stretches its fabric tighter and tighter, ripples and turmoil create channels, the crests and valleys of which capture and spill and rock the boats, the sails suddenly falling silent or billowing out with a shudder. The tension pulls on itself, the centre unshifting, the edges accelerating ever faster to their own oblivion. The fabric of space shall either snap violently, a rupture, a chasm opening between, as the ripples of the fabric, the fabrics as they are now, rended as they are from one another, as the ripples shift ninety degrees, a pair of shockwaves resonate outwards and inwards, towards the centre on one rended fabric, outwards (towards what?) on the other. The grotesque rupture’s edges flail limply across the void. The victims caught at the breaking point roll, fly, sink and rise within the boundaries of the once void void. The void becomes populated again, albeit by chaos, albeit without a fabricious chronology stretching in one predictable direction. The void is not a void because of emptiness, it cannot be empty. The void is the void because it has no direction. The space-time fabric has been dragged away, the rupture forcing the void through. There it is going nowhere, it may expand along the flailing edges of the torn fabric, its adjacent edges may know no bounds, or may find a place where the rended fabric has not yet ripped, but is ripping, or yet still more possibilities abound, a fully enclosed void, surrounded on all edges by the disastrous fabric.

 

Now. Now what? Now I slink back into the shadows of the world and I think I think and I plan. But what do I plan? And for what do I plan? For who, too? For me? Me is not enough. For all? All is too many. For many, if not for all, that who I’ll plan for, not you, nor me, nor us, nor we, but for some.  Surely that’s the only way forward? But that way lies danger. That way lies dangerously. That way lies the ultimate point. That way lies, but there are no other ways.

 

            He put his pen down, rubbed his dry forehead, stroking his fingers through his hair as he completed the motion. He stared down at the paper, his throat was dry, his eyes too. Everything was dry. Even the earth was dry these days, since the rain stopped. The bare flame stung his eyes as he brought it forth to the edge of the paper, held gingerly at its thin corner. As the flame grew the intense light became everything he could see, until suddenly all died down, the flame stood naked against the black wood and earth, the words were gone, the paper to ash, the flame was all that remained. He sighed.

 

The table was barely distinguishable from the bare earth on which it stood, the damp of the ground had seeped its way up the legs of the table and was slowly deepening the colour of the tabletop. The saturation was nearly total, and the surface was beginning to splint, it was soft against his elbows, though the edges of the grain would eat into the fabric of his jacket, thinning the numerous patches that had been stitched one on top of the other on top of the other. Even the candle seemed to absorb the moisture, as it sputtered and dimmed before finding new, dry energy from somewhere. The light fluctuated constantly.

 

It’s so dangerous. The way its formulating, articulating inside, and even onto paper. But is there really any other way anymore. All options have been extinguished, or it certainly feels that way. Everyone is so tired, I’m so tired, but I can’t stop, I won’t stop. But I am in danger of myself right now. Is it just tiredness, exhaustion, frustration, or is it the truth? The dangerous truth. It can’t be. I can’t let it be. But if I don’t let it be, then someone surely will, and it must be better that its me and not some other. No, that is dangerous again. Surely that is just the seduction of the self, of my own image, my own person fooling my own person.

We are already in dystopia. Ballardian without the beasts.

FIVE MINUTES, no… less, less to write. Less to say, maybe. If I’m only given the time I need to say something, I better say it. Rather than what I want to say, but just what I need. What do I need to say? What I need would be beyond me, and that suggestion would be of something that has little or no bearing on my own reality – a.k.a my belief. Why does that notion being itself around so easily and quickly? There’s no reason, just stupidity.

            A man sits, stands, and thinks about not thinking about god, - with a small ‘g’.

 

Maybe it turns out I have too much time.

Non-reality – the encompassment of everything outside of a collective realisation of the nature of reality, if there is no such collective realisation, and its subsequent acceptance and understanding then there is no reality, creating a void within which non-reality may find itself spinning uncontrollably. The emptiness of the void, reacting to the advancing and expanding non-reality begins to draw in its wall/s. The void will fall in upon itself and non-reality, bringing a thunderclap of excitement.

The abandonment of the image. Is that even possible? Can I ever bring myself to do so? What is an image? Who decides? Its not enough that I decide, it simply isn’t, despite what everyone would say. “If you say so, then sure it can be. Or can’t be. Or would be. Wait, what did you say again?”  See, I told you so… no, wait. No I didn't, or I did, but that doesn’t actually matter anymore. I can’t tell you what to think, to feel, to see, to agree. But you can tell me, you have the power here. 


Parallel


thinking.


Perpendicular


thinking.


Horizontally


vague.


Or

visa

versa.

Making work:- outside of an academic environment seems difficult, because the futility of it seems far too profound somehow. That’s something that the academic environment taught me, actually. Taught me how to self-destruct. To implode. Taught me that there really is absolutely No reason for it whatsoever, beyond self-indulgement, and I get so little pleasure from it nowadays that there really is no risk of it being indulgement, or being indulged by anyone else for that matter. What I do wish for, somehow, is some kind of adversity. A sort of fight. In my studies, both times, I was a bit rebellious, and bit reactive (though many probably just saw it as a frustration, or even a naivety, with my quiet and unassuming nature prevailing over almost all else, (most of the time)). I somehow always felt this bubbling desire to fight against the system, the people, the peers. To fight against conservatism, or against whatever it was that seemed to be very much prevailing in the moment. To take everything with a pinch of salt, with a bit of sugar added here and there. To always ask why, to always doubt.

 

So then the same might be true of my current state, which appears to be fronted by a complete protest against working. At least against working for anything.  The first time this came around it was quite a clear and easy, albeit traumatic, rejection of materiality, pure and simple, many of us have been there I suppose. But now its become evermore, and inevitably, complex. A rejection of materiality, of structure, of institution, and of systematic (systemic?) rule. A rule ruled by what is becoming evermore apparently, the bourgeois. There might be more artists in this world than there ever have been before, both in numbers and percentages.  But it cannot be said that these artists represent a broader public, a broader swathe of society, and it certainly cannot be said that the majority of artists represent, even if they come from, the majority, the everyman, the commons. The Brexit crisis proved that, if nothing else could. The middle-classes are the ones that rule, and they rule ruefully, always striving to prove that they are right, from an increasingly right-skewed position, whilst from the comfort of a leftist delusion. My apparent, and at least up-till-now, predominantly subconscious rejection of the of the system, of the neo-liberal ark in which there is two of everything and an infinite amount of itself, is preceisely the antithesis of what it sounds. It is not individualistic, I am not on a raft pushing myself in my own direction, bullheadedly opposing the heading of the ark. The ark is not even nailed together well enough to be going in one single direction anyhow. Rather it's a sea made of everything, everything that ever was an everything that ever will be. Basically, the world. For the most part these are bodies. Bodies make the sea, the sea is a body, bodies fill the sea, die in it, displace it, pollute it, populate it.