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Just to be clear I do not watch daytime TV, unless I am catching a repeat of Frazier. I do occasionally drag my sorry ass and slightly overweight frame down to the gym. I don't generally enjoy it, although at the end I feel invigorated, apparently the endorphins I am told. So here I am pounding on the running machine, Violent Femmes Blasting in my ears. On the wall are these four giant screens and on one of them is this morning show. I catch a title "my daughter does not believe her dad is dead". So I can pick out two obese women and one TV host leaning in with his mic and looking concerned, there is no sound. Another women is lead in, now she is slightly less obese but wearing an awful bright red wooly hat. I think one of the women take a swipe at the other and then there's lots of tears and hankies wiping eyes. Through all this I just see these women become more gross, as if the emotion is festering deep inside, replicating itself in fat cells, which seeps out into the outer layers of the skin, stretching and distorting. This emotion that they seem to have no control over and can't stop feeding it, gorging on the public attention, the TV host shoveling in more shit and sweetness and honey and and ....oh just stop this. What are these people doing. She has FIVE double chins and the tears can't trickle down her cheeks because there so inflated with fat that they engulf her eyes. When she was a child she had such pretty eyes, they sparkled and they lit up the day like huge suns, they burnt you and turned you to gu. When she made love they pierced and staked you out on the bed like a trapped animal. Now, there just small little slits. She's sobbing so hard that the fat is wobbly like a mountain of jelly and all around the people look on. Then I realize, its a gladiatorial encounter and there is all these fucking slim pretty girls in the audience. The skinny people have come to watch the fatties slug it out, to see all there emotions spewed out on the floor. To see all their beasts and demons laid bare. To hear all the gutural cries and sniveling. YES YES get it out, give us more. Tell her the truth " your Dad IS FUCKING DEAD!!!" " no mum, no, I know its a lie, I saw him, it was him I could tell" "why do you do this to me, I am in such pain and you insist your dad is alive, Charlene it hurts me right here. I watched him die Charlene, I gave him his last cigarette, I carried his nebulizer when he wanted to sit down by the telly and have his last beer....he's dead darling" Sob fucking sob sob sob. Now the women is huge, the fat drips over the edge of the chair and runs along the floor, creeping closely to the front row of the audience. The skinny girls edge back in their seats and shuffle their feet in anticipation that the fat might soon wash up on them, they look behind to see if the exist is clear. "Mum!! he's not dead...I saw him on a morning TV show about men who had faked there deaths to run off with other wives they had. He was there with this really really fat women and she was saying how she had endured years of pain because dad was never around, always working away but she forgave him when he came clean and told her all about us. Then he talked about his daughters, about us mum, about Debra and me. He said the only way out was to fake his death and take on a new identity. Thats right mum, he has a new identity now but its him, I know, I could tell, do you know how...because the fat, i could tell it was him from his fat!!" Charlene collapses into a crumbled heap and cries and cries. Mum and the other lady, who I ain't got the fuck of a clue who she is but she has her arm around...actually not around because mum is so gorged on emotion it is impossible to put your arm around her. In fact the girls in the front row are now standing on the chairs to avoid the fat that is slipping into the aisles, unable to exist as the battle has reached its conclusion and surely now there will be a victor. They chat " he's alive " " Charlene. Charlene, Charlene !!!" Mum slowly and awkwardly, swaying under the weight of the fat on her frame, like a mighty oak in a great wind. Taking the soaked hankie from her eyes and clinching it a fist, a giant fat fist. She stoops, looking down on Charlene and raises her arm, pointing a big fat finger at her daughter and lets out an almighty " WELL WHO THE FUCK DID I BURY! " At this point the cover version of Gnarls Barkley by the Violent femmes crashes into my consciousness from my MP3 player. This is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar.
So here I am in this street with rather small houses and then we find this house (I recall my wife being with me) thats on the market really cheap, £5000 but is in need of some work. We go in and have a look around, my wife having previously obtained either the keys or permission, it must have been permission as we just turned the handle, I remember thinking how did he do that, how did she know we would be here on this street with this house. So we go in and it looks quite a mess and there does not seem to be much of a garden but it looks like it might have potential and that somehow we could fit in a larger studio for me. We go down into some kind of basement which might not be part of the house and this is very clean and industrial and I ask what are those little houses all around this centre that kind of takes on the appearance of a covered pool. I am not sure who speaks or if anyone does but these little houses are chicken coups and I think that could be quite noisy. Now we wondered out into another area and this is busy and it appears to be a beach and I am following on a bike and the the beach is black and very ash like and has lots of dog foul on it and I have to navigate around all of this. The sea laps up on the beach and someone tells me there is a better beach but we have to climb a cliff, which we both start to do and as we are part the way up what turns out to be a steep incline so we are climbing not walking, a warning goes up that two Exocet missiles are inward bound. with no way to quickly retreat or even know where they will hit, we cling to the hill side and I watch these missiles speed passed and land with a massive firery explosion into what must be some target a little away from us. The fire filling the air.
I went to the Condo exhibition in London, at the Hayward called Mental States. Didn't really appreciate most of the work but loved the large pieces that are part of his spatial theme. I did though discover Pipilotti Rist, who is a visual artist with some great work and ideas. I spent lot of time with her stuff. I will have a go at putting up some of the recordings I made. |
This BlogI come here not enough, the occasions of speaking up are infrequent. I should try harder to talk more. Maybe 2019 I will find a voice to tell..... Archives
January 2018
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