I’ve managed to take some poor quality photos of my work so that you can all see what i’m doing. When i get a chance i will replace them with scans, but that’s not possible at the moment. If you would like to take a looook then here is the address. I’ll be adding to it as and when I make more things that I want to upload.
This is not the entire series, just a few of the better photos. Also, if I show everything now, there’ll be nothing for people to come and see at exhibitions.
there’s probably a better way to do this than just stick that ugly link in there. I’ll have a look.
I think i’ve reached a point where every thought i have must rhyme. It used to happen very rarely, now it happens all the time. I don’t know how it started or what provoked it into action, but it’s like a losing battle where the overwhelming faction has a fraction of a second before thought becomes reaction and the words come spraying forth out of a thousand angry traps, shun the censors, do not edit, don’t allow any redaction. Just let the mind go as fast as it can and worry about the drama when all the jaws are off the floor, that’s when we’ll deal with karma. I know it comes back a thousand fold to bite you in the back, son. So i’ll just talk and you can walk back to your little shack, son.
I had a dream that I went for a holiday to my mums house, except my mum lived in a futuristic warzone in the deep south. For some reason I took with me everything that I owned, which is a really stupid idea when you holiday in a warzone. Suitcases and bags full of books and clothes and personal effects, which really didn’t make things easy when we had to stop to help the vets. The stretcher is more difficult to carry with one hand, when the other hand is filled with bags and a canvas of buddhas face, a hand carved statue of a wizard, a box full of old birthday cards, the prototypes from an old girlfriends greetings card test set and half a life’s worth of love letters and hate mail and photographs and phone numbers and sketches and drawings, but here’s the fucked up part. The longer I took, the more people died around me, I realised that i had to just take things that I’d require. I had to leave most of the books, just take a couple of the letters, cut the face of Buddha out and roll it up to save space better, ball my shirts and all the books into the corner of the case but don’t look up too soon, cos here’s another dying woman’s face. The stretcher is looking pretty full now, there’s a lot more people on it and the people just keep dropping, never stopping while I’m totting up the reasons why I should or shouldn’t keep this magazine. It’s from that day when we stopped off in Leeds to get ourselves a drink and saw the face of this young man staring out at us from nowhere land, I had just enough change to buy it, something to read on the train for Pan. While I’m remembering this stupid story, the sergeant’s looking restless, looking down at me he dare not say I’ve plenty of time to get this stuff sorted, now it’s time for us to move out. He just sits and realises in one last moment of doubt that this place is where he’s going to die, of that he is now sure watching a full grown child decide which memories he enjoys more. As a troop train rumbles past outside the front door he thinks “I’m sure that it was never this difficult before” and he’s right. Before it wasn’t nearly as hard to abandon my entire life’s worth of possessions, but sarge, think about it now. Before there wasn’t nearly as much stuff and I hadn’t based 30 years around this much stuff and I hadn’t realised that this stuff was so important to me I hadn’t really thought about it, I hadn’t understood you see. I wasn’t sure, but now I know with all this stuff around that the memories they hold are the ones that are weighing me down. And as this realisation hits me in my forehead, the final bomb blast destroys the house, the sarge and all the wounded and I sit up, open my eyes, alive awake in bed. And the first thing I see is the mountain of stuff that now surrounds me. The canvas face of Buddha stares down from the bookcase, his eyes half closed he looks at me thinking “you’re a fucking disgrace”. The pity and contempt etched into his features make me think of the faces of disappointed teachers. It makes me feel quite bad to think that even with the sarge dead, I’ll still probably never sit and sort through all this stuff. It’s hard, yeah? I know I should but mostly I’m thinking if I get rid of this, then it’s all gone and all that’s left is me. No defences, no artefacts, nothing to remember them by, the people that I loved and lost, the people i let die. In an act of violent rebellion against my thoughts I decide that the first thing I get rid of will be this report. I thought I ought to have caught the sort of thing you’d like to hear. But all I’m doing now is writing down fear and I can’t stop myself although this journey’s at an end. I guess I’ll get this train wreck started. Actually, fuck it, where’s the pen?
Whenever i see something good, something that makes me happy I immediately want to rip it off and change it and make it fit me. I want to take that good idea that filled me with joy and make it fit a story about a lost little boy. I want to take the things that made me smile and stick them down my throat until i choke on all the hope that something might just come out of this. I want to spit it all back out through my mouth and my nose and my arms and hands and hope that whatever sticks, shows. I want to make a thing that shows me in all my true colours. Something that will make it that much easier to discover other better things that make me even happier still. I want to find a thing that changes me, that changes my will, my desire to succeed at this game we call life. Something that makes it that much easier to get through a night without doubting myself, my ideas or my talents. Something I can set down on the other end of the see saw and balance. I want to make a thing that makes other people feel jealous that they didn’t think of it first, that they want to develop into an idea that fits them the way it fit me. Most of all I want to make something that makes you happy. I want to do something that makes other people want to do something and one day maybe they will feel as guilty as me for stealing someone else’s brilliant idea. I want to leave something that makes you want to leave something. I want to give this feeling to everyone I see. I want to inspire as much as other people’s work inspired me. I want to be remembered as a man who took what he could find and made it fit a certain way, provoke a certain mind. I want to do something that makes you feel like this is your chance to have the best idea that anyone has ever ever had. I want to say a word that makes you think you’re onto something beautiful. I want to make you think that creation is an act that makes you dutiful and makes you want to jump onto your feet and clap your hands and shout. This is me and this is what my head is all about. I want to be me to enable you to be you. That’s pretty much it for now I think. Thankyou.
Nerves and fear and jaundice yellow eyes apart head down watch where you go mind how you walk the walk the talk isn’t cheap it’s fucking extortionate words require renewal each time you go around opening windows and doors and letting the cold air out blow winds, come rain, come thunder and flash and break me a new one.
Fighting something unknown wants to take over can have want need not know what happens happened happening over and over and over again thrumm thrumm thrumm goes the something in my chest hurts like a burning pentagon chasing itself tracing itself outlines outside open doors and windows let the cold wind in must be warmer out here than it is in there is no need to panic my friends this is just a test of what is to come down upon your head like like a hundred thousand pianos
Words must find voice must find page must find pen must find ink and quick and now it’s leaving my arms and my head empty and finally, relax. This is the noise that the inside of my head makes whenever I try to sleep
Goodnight at last.