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Wednesday, March 12th, 2008

Time:11:45 am.
saw christian bok last night. i'm not going to bother with the umlaut. he's a great performer. it was lots of fun. it also made me realise, for the first time in all these years of having this name, that my name has every vowel once and once only. Elliot Waugh. fantastic stuff, i tell you.

been a period of creative fecundity. syntheses and so on, along with countless stupid jottings on small pieces of paper. i would go mad, i could go mad, i have gone mad and nobody has noticed.

:
well-fed in an aroma-filled room
A roman room
A Nero-shaped room
style's irrelevant
style needs coaching

Uniformity
The wings all the same
Alike isn't good enough
It has to be the same

no remorses/ no recourses/ Nestor, breaker of horses

By what name may we know you? Take your lips from my name.

This is a form of incantation. You will know the effects of the incantation.

the form traced back to its owner/ the effects find their keeper.

fuck you're a fat bitch how did you get to be such a fat bitch
you must eat a tub of ice cream at least every fifteen minutes
and i'm not talking about the low fat shit
far out
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Friday, May 4th, 2007

Time:10:28 am.
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Thursday, May 3rd, 2007

Time:4:43 pm.
I want to have an affair with an older woman.
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Tuesday, April 17th, 2007

Time:3:33 pm.
Curse Mark E. Smith for making me think my accrued jottings and half-formed sentences were anything but valueless.
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Sunday, April 8th, 2007

Time:8:42 pm.
I keep telling myself it's only temporary. Only temporary.
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Wednesday, March 28th, 2007

Subject:For those that are interested
Time:7:43 pm.
Some photos of where I'm living right now.

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unrelieved tediumCollapse )
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Wednesday, February 7th, 2007

Time:8:41 am.
bloody good dead ringers movie.
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Thursday, February 1st, 2007

Time:9:27 pm.
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this is my new scooter. it's pretty good.
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Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007

Time:2:45 pm.
Something Nasty but Terribly InterestingCollapse )
Like a swift rhyme,
snapping to attention:
The brows, in the dark,
knotting around the pale question.
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Time:2:32 pm.
It was an impasto death, smeared, bloody. He was a smear on the earth.
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Monday, November 6th, 2006

Time:1:10 am.
DON'T BE COMFORTED.
REFUSE ALL HOSPITALITY.











I don't know why I bother with this thing anymore.
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Wednesday, October 25th, 2006

Time:3:17 am.
Finished ECT. What a relief. Now maybe my memory will have a chance to recover.
Going over to NZ soon. Good.
Considering living in a 'Richmond Fellowship' house. Only hope it's not filled with crazies. I want to live in Katoomba again, achieve some real isolation.

They do not hinder me. They let me go.
They say that nothing can happen.
How good.
Nothing can happen. All things come and circle
constantly round the Holy Ghost,
round the certain spirit (you know) --,
how good.

No, one must really not think that there is
danger in it of any sort.
Of course there's the blood.
The blood is the heaviest. The blood is heavy,
sometimes I think I cannot go on --.
(How good.)

Ah, what a beautiful ball that is;
red and round as an everywhere.
Good, that you created it.
Wonder if it comes when one calls?

How oddly all that behaves,
running together, swimming apart:
friendly, a little indefinite;
how good.

(Rilke, The Song of the Idiot)

When it was about 2 o'clock p.m. I saw a ghostess who was crying bitterly and coming to me direct in a hut where I laid down enjoying myself. When she entered I noticed that she held a short mat which was woven with dried weeds. She was not more than three feet high. Immediately she entered she went direct to the fire, she spread the mat closely to the fire and then sat down on it without saluting or talking to me. So at this stage I noticed carefully that she was almost covered with sores, even there was no single hair on her head, except sores with uncountable maggots which were dashing here and there on her body. Both her arms were not more than one and a half foot, it had uncountable short fingers. She was crying bitterly and repeatedly as if somebody was stabbing her with knives. Of course, I did not talk to her, but I was looking at her with much astonishment until I saw the water of her eyes that it was near to quench the fire, then I got up with anger and told her to walk out of my hut, because if the water quenches the fire I should not be able to get another again, as there were not matches in the Bush of Ghosts. But instead of walking out as I said she started to cry louder than ever. When I could not bear her cry I asked her- "by the way what are you crying for?" She replied- "I am crying because of you." Then I asked again- "because of me?" She said- "yes" and I said- "What for?" Then she started to relate her story thus-
"I was born over two hundred years ago with sores on my head and all over my body. Since the day that I was born I have no other work more than to find out the doctor who could heal it for me and several of them have tried all their best but failed. Instead of healing or curing it would be spreading wider and then giving me more pains. I have been to many sorcerers to know whether the sore would be healed, but every one of them was telling me that there is an earthly person who had been lost in this Bush of Ghosts, so that if I can be wandering about I might see you one day, and the sorcerers said that if you will be licking the sore every day with your tongue for ten years it would be healed. So that I am very lucky and very glad that I meet you here today and I shall also be exceedingly glad if you will be licking the sore with your tongue every day until the ten years that it will be healed as the sorcerers had told me. And I am also crying bitterly in respect of you because I believe that no doubt you have been struggling for many years in this Bush of Ghosts for the right way to your home town, but you are seeing the way every day and you do not know it, for every earthly person gets eyes but cannot see. Even it is on the right way to your home town that you found this hut and sleep or sit in it every day and night. Although I believe that you will not refuse to lick the sore until it is healed."
Having related her story and said that if I am licking the sore it would be healed as the sorcerers said, so I replied- "I want you to go back to your sorcerers and tell them I refuse to lick the sore." After I told her like this she said again- "It is not a matter of going back to the sorcerers, but if you can do it look at my palm or hand." But when she told me to look at her palm and opened it nearly to touch my face, it was exactly as a television, I saw my town, mother brother and all my playmates, then she was asking me frequently- "do you agree to be licking the sore with your tongue, tell me, now, yes or no?"

(Amos Tutuola, from My Life in the Bush of Ghosts)
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Monday, October 2nd, 2006

Time:11:06 am.
'DOCTORED NEWSPAPERS'

- The idea of a newspaper, dependent on its distribution - form tied to functionality & economy, produces an 'economy of information' - political ramifications of this approach - how can these politics be skewed, bent?

- Double meaning of 'doctored', invoking both the scalpel & the spin doctor - in this practice the two are married

- Processed newspapers - reading, absorption involves a kind of processing, structuring & selection of information, but this process suggests passivity - Another, different kind of processing that is entirely more aggressive, more interventionist, evoking a situation where the raw material undergoes transformation, radical & decisive change, in order to draw out other (hitherto submerged, suppressed) meanings - similar to assembly-line production - ambushed meanings, blocked messages, stymied transmissions

- The age-old metaphors of collage spring into being, but here we are less concerned w/ recontextualisation than w/ blocked meanings, interfering w/ channels of communication - a practice arranged around ambiguity, incoherence

- The polar opposite of extravagance - in this instance, succinctness equals money - what happens, then, if we reverse the equation, opening the newspaper to the possibilities of excess, altering the frenzied rhythms of journalistic practice, reconciling them perhaps w/ something older, deeper, lumbering...

- Ideas incorporating the practice of Tzara & Burroughs - esp. Burroughs' idea of language as a virus - quite reasonable, then, that we should fortify ourselves against its onslaughts, innoculate ourselves w/ the understanding of its effects

- What determines 'newsworthiness'? Neither the sensational nor the commonplace, but the intrusion of one into the realm of the other

- Interceptions

- Faces indistinguishable; all acquire anonymity in print: in fact, if an appearance in print media constitutes the end of a person as a discrete entity, and their entrance into a bland homogenous data-stream, why do we regard it as an honour?

- The re-telling of 'grand narratives', the archetypical myths we weave around everyday events. In this respect, even the most fantastical stories conform to some kind of pattern orr conventional form - recognisable features abound.

- Interfering w/ 'the news' points to the arbitrariness, the samishness of it all - nothing can really obstruct the constant, unstemmable flow of bullshit, nor alter its uniformly brown tone.

- Marks of respectability, reliability - measured in increments of 'seriousness'.
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Tuesday, September 5th, 2006

Subject:happier times.
Time:11:59 am.
why can't things stay the same?
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Monday, September 4th, 2006

Time:4:03 pm.
Who will annoy our crocodiles now?
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Monday, August 28th, 2006

Time:9:13 am.
feeling bloody awful. there's got to be some way to relieve the tedium. christ, i'm cutting off everyone in my life without even meaning to.
"perhaps being a poet means realising the responsibility behind all those words"
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Monday, July 24th, 2006

Time:1:11 pm.
to define is also to sculpt with lecherous hands.
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Monday, June 26th, 2006

Time:12:33 pm.
Red with panic, Red with woe
Grief comes to those that love him most,
vengeful prows angling to shore
CARVING SCISSORING SLICING
repelling change,
white poison broth
like the dim thrust of flowers
breaks at their enemies' throats
/A WAR ON SPEECH
Appetising, seeing what their stomachs yield
The pauses between the brigadier's paws
the intervals in paws, the rush and the pause
The hunting trophies projecting their dead gaze
HALLS FULL OF STEAM.
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Wednesday, May 3rd, 2006

Time:5:32 pm.
An eye that stares and bends on its stalk.
A tilting, rotating,
reflecting eye.
An eye
that bends on its stalk.
That stares. A tilting, rotating, reflecting edge.
A reflecting eye.
An edge that stares,
That bends on its stalk.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Grief subsists on the living
The rolling eyeballs, the reckless legs

and arms
The minute preying on the clock’s

ticking,
Feasting on the coloured lights.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Something indelible,
ineradicable,
pale iridescent letters
ant-trails

Reciting in the witness box,
Eyes blocked, voice clogged,
Testimony shot through with holes.

Exquisite torture, sweet agony etc.
Constricted roots.

The stars, bereft
Ammoniac winters &
bleached faces –
Why so much talk about faces? – break her perfect face

Coming in on the pulses,
Coming in on the wingbeats
Wings are slabs of death.

Little white pilgrim & lonely frontier boy.
The meaning of these two types.

Impeded progress/ lingering near the water’s edge/ Evacuation fumes/ Come forward. Kneel down to pray, then sit down. Come forward to accept the burden of prayer./ Saints, preserve us/ priests burrowing in/ SQUAWK!/ Too thin & probably on drugs/ A parody of happiness/ A drunk gondolier/ Can’t interfere/ cant intercept. pale flowers/ a hand plunges into the fur/ I feel the inside expanses filling out, the Mime’s cavernous gestures/ To begin a book, a process: Showing Up/ A History of Masculinity in sleeping bags/ Reliving the entire tedious experience for the fair-haired policeman’s benefit

Gums drawn back from teeth, salty taste, sandy hair out of place, snub nose blocked, voice can’t break through, murderous thoughts, something that nests in the skin, a greyness that lingers on the lips, stupid fingers can’t feel, no nose, hand idle on the bar. Grief touches those it loves the most, sad-eyed dog. Pornography – 1. Bellmer illustrations, photocopied 2. Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas 3. Burroughs
Capable arms in disuse now, angelic head caved in. Where are your friends now? When are things going to be all right? Toilet paper glued to walls 4. Four unexpected four four no alms for the poor. What are these things? – Item one: An interest in violence 2. violence, potential, within limbs, within flesh demanding burning a small red core NO NOSE impressionable 3. cold abrasive music. The book, the brain diet, a healthy feed, unusable, anaesthetic closes anxious lids, bid GOODBYE TO ANXIETY, scrawled on his chest, making love on parent’s bed, he’s a shit, worthless too, told some brat FUCKING BRAT, an unusable lyric too tense to write properly. The tourniquet goes all the way around. PORNOGRAPHY: reduced size. An impasto death, smeard, bloody, he was a smear on the earth
An imagined authority: I imagined my own authority, imposed my own stamp

I'm not saying they're really thick
But all the groups who've hit it big
Make the Kane Gang look like
an Einstein chip
chip
NYC
chip
A place to live
chip
This is the Thule group.
This is the cool group.
I'm telling you now and I'm telling you this.
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Monday, January 9th, 2006

Subject:an eye that bends on its stalk.
Time:5:06 pm.
a page from my brother's mind:
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