I am learning to fill the spaces with nothing at all. Words better left unsaid eventually lose their meaning; time is your friend.
Saturday, 24 December 2016
Thursday, 15 December 2016
Science Fiction
This song turns my psyche inside out and leaves me so unsure but more certain all at once. I guess if (when) I ever finish Infinite Jest, my next read will be Frank Herbert's Dune.
I am such a shameless Grimes fangirl but whatever...
Journey
I am such a shameless Grimes fangirl but whatever...
Journey
Monday, 28 November 2016
Cribellate
A sharp glint of memory leaves a metallic taste of rot in my mouth. Too unsavoury to speak of in all but the most candid of confessionals. Every so often I remember that this happened, happened to me. I know it's not my fault and yet it's a shame that I will never shake. I can't. I am still a little girl inside, maybe I stopped growing the day my innocence was taken away.
Monday, 10 October 2016
Frames
The roof has been blown off and the blue sky is blinding. Freedom can be terrifying for those who have never been able to comprehend it, or contemplated it. I finally get my breath back and turn my face toward the sun. Was it actually just me holding myself prisoner all this time?
Thursday, 6 October 2016
Monday, 19 September 2016
Wednesday, 14 September 2016
Vapours
On forgiveness:
(Excerpt from an article by Tim Adams for theguardian.com)
The first piece of art that Karen Green made after her husband, David Foster Wallace, took his own life on 12 September 2008, was a forgiveness machine. She is standing in the neat, white studio at her house at Petaluma, north of San Francisco, explaining to me how the machine worked and how it didn't.
"Before David died," she says, "I had been working on some machines, with a five-year old – the son of a friend who had a gallery down the road from mine." There had been a recreating-a-pig-from-bacon machine, and a prototype for a machine that cleverly pitted dates. The day that her husband hanged himself she had been working on a political machine that involved a bright-coloured circus tent, elephants and donkeys. For a long while after that, she says, she couldn't make any art at all, wondered if she ever would again, but eventually, tentatively, she developed the idea for her conciliatory Heath-Robinson. "The forgiveness machine was seven-feet long," she says, "with lots of weird plastic bits and pieces. Heavy as hell." The idea was that you wrote down the thing that you wanted to forgive, or to be forgiven for, and a vacuum sucked your piece of paper in one end. At the other it was shredded, and hey presto.
Green put the machine on display at a gallery in Pasadena near the Los Angeles suburb, Claremont, where she and Wallace had lived in the four years they had been married. She was fascinated by the effect that it had on people who used it. "It was strange," she suggests, "it all looked like fun, but then when the moment came for people to put their message actually in it, they became anxious. It was like: what if it works and I really have to forgive my terrible parent or whoever."
(Excerpt from an article by Tim Adams for theguardian.com)
The first piece of art that Karen Green made after her husband, David Foster Wallace, took his own life on 12 September 2008, was a forgiveness machine. She is standing in the neat, white studio at her house at Petaluma, north of San Francisco, explaining to me how the machine worked and how it didn't.
"Before David died," she says, "I had been working on some machines, with a five-year old – the son of a friend who had a gallery down the road from mine." There had been a recreating-a-pig-from-bacon machine, and a prototype for a machine that cleverly pitted dates. The day that her husband hanged himself she had been working on a political machine that involved a bright-coloured circus tent, elephants and donkeys. For a long while after that, she says, she couldn't make any art at all, wondered if she ever would again, but eventually, tentatively, she developed the idea for her conciliatory Heath-Robinson. "The forgiveness machine was seven-feet long," she says, "with lots of weird plastic bits and pieces. Heavy as hell." The idea was that you wrote down the thing that you wanted to forgive, or to be forgiven for, and a vacuum sucked your piece of paper in one end. At the other it was shredded, and hey presto.
Green put the machine on display at a gallery in Pasadena near the Los Angeles suburb, Claremont, where she and Wallace had lived in the four years they had been married. She was fascinated by the effect that it had on people who used it. "It was strange," she suggests, "it all looked like fun, but then when the moment came for people to put their message actually in it, they became anxious. It was like: what if it works and I really have to forgive my terrible parent or whoever."
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