A Fine Dead Sound

2012-03-06T01:00:00.001-08:00

Contemplate Anal

2012-03-05T12:37:00.005-08:00

I want you to show me.

2012-03-03T16:31:00.000-08:00

To preface: I myself was given 5 obstructions to write this.
- Present Tense
- Under the influence of something
- As an Adam Sandler fan
- In a villanelle
- Without actually mentioning the topic
Guess. Go.

When we are forcibly bound by rules, we often find ourselves protesting, but when these rules are self-imposed, our energy converts into something more productive: we find a way to make the rules work for ourselves. Obstructions tease out our lateral brains, so that we may circumvent them in order to still achieve our aim. Far from being a negative, obstructions, in reality, are a source of inspiration. For when one finds oneself with unlimited possibilities it all becomes far too overwhelming and the only solution is to lie down in the dark and cry.

The Idiots and Dogville, both directed by Lars von Trier, are products of self-imposed rules; of the Dogme95 Manifesto and its complete opposite, respectively. The proof of the success of self-imposed rules lies in the affective abilities of these two films - when a director finds himself unable to do so many things, “they must be reflective within their methods as to how the game could work; they must pause to consider what is required in order to move past each obstruction. In essence, this is a process of negotiation” (Patton, 2010: )

Shooting must be done on location. Props and sets must not be brought in. (If a particular prop is necessary for the story, a location must be chosen where this prop is to be found).

The house for The Idiots which von Trier finds is not complete and so he is seeking a way of completing the story. When everything we could ever be needing is being brought in we are seeing a play in staging. The no set rule is limiting his “focus without restraining [his] possibilities. Like puzzle games, designed to test ingenuity or knowledge, the mind searches the slippages of the puzzle’s construct so resolutions can be found” (Patton, 2010:3). When nothing von Trier is needing is there, he is no longer needing it and the story changes.

There is no bar in their home. If there is a bar in their home, the idiots would be drinking at home. Because there is no bar in their home, they are drinking in public. In public, we are seeing Peppe maintaining his act. He is playing dangerous with tattoos, mustaches and motorcycles. A Hell’s Angel is being found in a pub and not at home and he is taking Peppe to piss when Stoffer is leaving. We are seeing Peppe squirming and we are squirming. If there was a bar at home we would not be seeing this. If there is a bar at home would von Trier be thinking to look outside the home?

Von Trier is not constructing the set around the scene, he is creating the scene to suit what sits there, waiting for him, asking him to please be immortal on celluloid. The locations discovered are breathing reality and truth into the story, these are real chairs on which they are sitting, on which others in another time are sitting. Without these chairs, the idiots become idiots who are sitting on the floor. Different idiots. Idiots who are sitting on the floor.

Shooting must be done in a completely constructed location. Props and sets must be brought in, but only minimally. (If a particular set/prop is wanted for the story, but not essential, the actor must pretend)

Dogville is not finding its set, but drawing chalk lines on the floor and we are remembering walls for ourselves. It is alienating us, says Brecht, but simultaneously allowing us inside. We are knowing it is a production, a performance, but it is still entrancing. When no set is being allowed, we are confronting only the story, and von Trier is needing to make it so it is filling up with knives that are wounding us. We are not making assumptions based on the wallpaper, we are projecting the wallpaper we are interpreting from the words von Trier is writing, from the accents the actors are talking in. Von Trier is giving us a part in his film and when it is crumbling, we are crumbling.

More than just being Brecht and giving us a transparency of ideas, it is also giving us a “literal transparency: unhindered by walls, viewers can simultaneously see what is hapening inside different buildings and rooms, which for the inhabitants of Dogville are closed, separate spaces” (Simons, 2007:156).

In both films, von Trier is playing a game and the end-game “is to force the truth out of [my] characters and settings” (Von Trier and Vinterberg, quoted in Walters, 2004: ) Dogme and anti-Dogme are pushing von Trier “out of his comfort zone, stretching the conventions of thinking and practice” (Patton, :4). When he is visualising these films, he is thinking how his characters are reacting to their unusual environments. “Solutions in this process are emergent rather than planned because the “problems” are learned through the creative process” (Patton, 2010:4). Setting is minimal, so characters are being needed to be filling the space, they are being created as independent.

The sound must never be produced apart from the images or vice versa (music must not be used unless it occurs where the scene is being shot).

I’m sorry, I have a small confession to make

In post production I have added some sound

Some of the music that you hear is fake

I admit I move about the rules like a snake

Or rather: cower from them like a whimpering hound?

I’m sorry I have a small confession to make

My little indiscretion gives me a slight headache

I feared without music, now and then, I’d be bound

Some of the music that you hear is fake

Sometimes conventions are just so hard to break

And among The Idiots, meaning is occasionally drowned

I’m sorry, I have a small confession to make

Don’t tell me you’ve never made a mistake

At least it’s ambiguous and buried under the ground

Some of the music that you hear is fake

I only twisted the rule one time, for fuck’s sake

But overall, as King of Dogme, I should be crowned

I’m sorry, I have a small confession to make

Some of the music that you hear is fake

The sound must be produced apart from the images or vice versa (music must not be used unless it doesn’t occur where the scene is being shot).

I wish that Grace looked like Miss Lippy, but I give it props for its sound. Cause the, um, set is pretty bare you can’t get the sound of Grace’s feet on the gravel, or her knocking on a door. So, I guess Lars faces two decisions. He could go all dogme on our asses and have no sound cause it’s not right there in front of the camera, but no way man, he totally 180’d on that shit, and like, other than the voices, did all the sound in the studio. The sound not matching what we see does the same for us as there being no set. We hear the crunch and clink and bang and whistle and we see our own sound-sources. The movie feels textual without looking textual and so we’re at least aware of the process (thanks Brecht).

Apart from this, the post-production of sounds is an aesthetic choice, cause to be honest, it just looks pretty cool, to see feet walking on smooth black and to hear something different. He’s giving a big ol’ finger to classic hollywood conventions, and I can’t remember any other movies that have done it. What a genius right, did he just come up with that? I guess “by recognizing those limitations and questioning them at the same time, new ideas and innovations will occur” (Patton, 2010:8). He probably listens to heaps of radio plays.

“The narrator is (mostly) expressing von Trier’s own thoughts, and this disembodied voice’s gloating irony and downright sarcasm” (Alleva, 2004: 20) makes the story so obvious. He precedes the action, so I’m ridiculously impressed by von Trier’s directorial skill and the actors performances that it is still able to affect me. It’s all just in a look and a sigh.

The camera must be hand-held. Any movement or immobility attainable in the hand is permitted. (the film must not take place where the camera is standing; shooting must take place where the film takes place).

Bob sits in the restaurant and checks his watch. It’s 9.45 and his stomach rumbles. The door hasn’t opened in half an hour. He sips his wine and his tastebuds shirk from the cheap liquid but he forces it down because he already paid for it. He feels it slide down his throat and warm him. He takes off his scarf and drapes it over one of the empty chairs. He sips his wine so slowly it’s now 10. Bob stands up. What? Bob sits down. He twirls the glass stem between his fingers. Bob stands up. Bob, sit down.

“No.”

No?

“No.”

What the fuck Bob, sit down. Bob walks to the back of the restaurant and asks for the toilet. Bob, this isn’t how it goes.

“I have to piss.”

Please, just wait, another 10 minutes, I swear.

“Nope, gotta piss.”

Bob leaves the room. Fucking Bob. His glass is stained red from when he was swirling the liquid. The waiter tucks in his char and wonders if Bob will remember to come back for his scarf. He picks it up, not knowing that Bob is only in the bathroom. And there is chatter in the room, I guess, but Bob is not here. Fuck.

Bob always uses a cubicle, always the second last one. He pisses sitting down because he’s a lazy piece of shit.

“Fuck you.”

Bob pisses standing up, one hand leaning on the wall. Someone else enters the bathroom but only to wash their hands. They turn on both hot and cold taps hard and the water splashes all over the floor, but Bob doesn’t notice because he’s watching the yellow liquid swirl out of the toilet with the flush. It’s 8 past 10 Bob, I need you back in the restaurant.

“I want to wash my hands.”
Bob moves towards the sinks. NO TIME. but changes his mind and swings towards the door. The ground is slippery.

At 10.10 a redhead, flushed, runs into the restaurant. She asks for Bob but is instead given his scarf and forlornly leaves the way she came in. Bob isn’t found until 11, head smashed on the tiles, blood swirling down the drain. They were only supposed to have an argument, but when you gotta go, you gotta go...

The camera must not be hand-held. Any movement or immobility attainable on a tripod is permitted. (the film must take place where the camera is standing; the film must take place where shooting takes place).

The camera is not bound to a hand, to one specific action. Von Trier has chosen “camera angles which visually combine foreground and background events” (Simons, 2007:156). “The director keeps his camera so close to faces for such a long period of time... Then, just as we are immersed in this realist we’ve conjured for ourselves, bang! Von Trier jerks the camera back into a long shot, and we see, once again, nothing but actors on a bare stage” (Alleva, 2004: 20). More than this, the camera offers a literal ‘God’s eye view’, that on neither a normal film set or dogme film set is possible. The action is not slave to camera, instead, the camera is able to capture action for various angles, and when edited (discontinuously), creates a whole and full picture for the audience. We see all possible scenarios, yet, they all come out the same - Grace gets fucked up (then fucks shit up).

The film must not contain superficial action (murders, weapons etc must not occur).

What can idiots do? My idiots have to pee? No, I have to pee, my idiots are soft-core porn actors who love their own tits. I believe you, soft-core porn actors. You and me baby, we’re just like mammals. Let’s do it like we do on the discovery channel. Why aren’t you laughing? I’m being funny. If I want to show my idiots as idiots what can I make them do? I make them pay witness to those who really feel what they pretend, let’s see if they cry. Are they real tears? Hope so. My weapon is my gimp hand, right? Right! “Film should be like a rock in the shoe” (von Trier, quoted in Walters, 2004:44).

The edge of Stoffer’s face blurs into von Trier’s...Obvious enough? Down to the line, straight down the line, foot over foot right on the line. Idiots don’t kill. Fake idiots certainly don’t have the balls to do anything evil and superficial is out of the goddam question.The spectacle is gone, what is solid melts into air, nothing is fake, so what is it that idiots can do?

The film must contain superficial action (murders, weapons etc must occur)

With grace, Grace goes bombarding with transparent fire. And a fake gun in her hand from which she fires blanks? I would like a croissant please, but perhaps I’ll settle for a semen string. I know Kidman doesn’t allow the fuck (ignore Eyes Wide Shut, husbands don’t count), so I know you are superficial. I know I still have to pee and I know it doesn’t matter if things happen we don’t see. Dogville is full of things that we see not happen. If you allow one intsy bintsy abuse, then you gotta allow the whole shit bucket, a bit of murder, a bit of fire, a bit of that sweet old rape.

I think what I was trying to say, one minute ago that in the superficial action, it is up to von Trier and his actors to force more than superficial feelings in response. Perhaps I wasn’t trying to say that, but I’m trying it now. In this superficiality everything is so ridiculously fake, without pretense. The weight and chain, for instance, doesn’t look heavy, it only sounds heavy. But, because of this, von Trier can add in an overwhelming amount and thus I am overwhelmed. I’m yelling at a screen that I know can’t hear me, because honestly, she should know better. STOP LETTING THEM FUCK YOU, YOU DON’T NEED YOU, I SWEAR. WHY DOESN’T TOM HELP?

Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. My hat fell off, I hate it when it does that! Ha. Ha. HAHA. Not sure if I wanna vomatron from the films or the goon. They make me hurt so well.

Essentially, what von Trier creates with The Idiots and Dogville are two very unique films where the content is inseparable from the way in which they were created. I confess, I hardly know what a pure Adam Sandler fan is, and based it off my housemate. I also confess that I’m afraid this isn’t very good. I was challenged and I view some parts positive, but there are quite a few sections which irk me. When von Triers destroys classical filmic conventions, his story comes to the fore and breaks hearts, with my obstructions, the ideas got quite muddled up.

Reference List

Alleva, R. 2004, ‘The Melancholy Dane’, Commonweal

Kaufman, A. 2004. Breaking von Trier: Jorgen Leth survives “The Five Obstructions, Indiewire.com, last viewed 20 May 2011 < http://www.indiewire.com/article/breaking_von_trier_jorgen_leth_survives_the_five_obstructions/>

Odgen, B. 2010, ‘How Lars von Trier Sees the World: Postmodernism and Globalization in The Five Obstructions’, Quarterly Review of Film and Video, Vol. 27, pages 54-68

Patton, R. 2010, ‘Obstructing the View: An Argument for the use of Obstructions in Art Education Pedagogy’, The Journal of Social Theory in Art Education, Vol. 10

Rice, S. 2004, ‘Dogville: The American Effect’, Art In America,

Simons, J. 2008, ‘Von Trier’s Cinematic Games’, Journal of Film and Video, Vol. 60, Issue 1

Simons, J. 2007, Playing the Waves: Lars von Trier’s Game Cinema, Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam

Walters, T. 2004, ‘Reconsidering The Idiots: Dogme95, Lars von Trier and the Cinema of Subversion’, The Velvet Light Trap, Vol. 53

A lot of the references are fucked up, but ah well, fuck it.

2012-02-22T05:17:00.001-08:00

We are the crypt keepers

Key kickers

Cupping cockroaches

And being cupped by muppet men

A slow dancing schnoz

meets sweet makeout corners

Or seven minutes in heaven

Heaven knows why

Finger-pointed hunchback

Huff-huffs with a bootydancing ginge

Just need a sigh and a lay down

I can never sleep anymore

Melbourne: It's official.

2012-02-22T05:12:00.000-08:00

Green Porno.

2012-01-31T19:16:00.000-08:00

Inspired a story for me. I'll upload it when it's edited. I can't even explain how wonderful this series is. Go to the site and enjoy it for yourself. Isabella Rosselini is a god. Sex, etc.

Women's Magazine

2012-01-30T20:36:00.000-08:00

Yep, I think I am pretty hilarious.

The sun don't shine

2012-01-29T19:18:00.000-08:00

Everyone loves a sneaky asshole. So, if you want a copy of my zine (yes, I swear to fucking god it's going to be ready this week), email me at emmarayward@gmail.com with an address and I'll send it! Unless I know you and I'll give it to you in person.

Quite Kraut-y, surprising for my sister, who seems to by unaware of my little passion for the genre. I'll upload scans of the collages I did for it too. When I find a scanner.... As well as some disposable photos I've taken lately.

Teeth and Poe

2012-01-11T19:57:00.000-08:00

Tonight I feel the pain is stabbing

And in my mouth I sense it grabbing

Can’t you tell, my life, it’s having

For dinner, with a side of fries

And the cockroaches, they are crawling

And lots of blood my nose is bawling

In this heat, you’re cruelly calling

For me to slowly shut my eyes

Down my face the sweat is dropping

And on my bed I am flip-flopping

In my head I see me chopping

Off my hands to feed the flies

My teeth, they are not numbing

And you can quietly hear me humming

The sound of death, which is a’coming

So play along these battle cries

And in the darkness it is closing

In on my mind, disposing

And the sidewalks you are hosing

Of my blood, and so she dies

A Flying Lotus

2012-01-11T18:48:00.000-08:00

I'm terrible at reviews, i'll just say shit, fuck and balls. But I broke my avocado so i'm sad.

Where the forest meets the sea

2012-01-05T18:51:00.000-08:00

I'm not really that good at taking photos yet.

Transgression

2012-01-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

They’re watching you, and lord do they have greedy eyes.

They wish that they could suck all of you right out your skin through their eyes, have all your innards come pulsating out through your pores, beads of blood and sweat emerging shyly and floating on over into their corneas, soaking right on in, bloating their bellies up nice and full and making them bounce on down the road.

They make you give birth to yourself through your own asshole, you’re inside out and you can only see the blackness of the back of your skull and can only feel this closeted warmth of the inside of your body.

You know your muscles are out there somewhere, they tense somehow and flex like a peacock’s mating call,

let’s see you flash some skin.

You would have, if your skin weren’t now on the inside of yourself, getting dank and mouldy in the damp heat.

You smell that?

It’s your festid self, but it’s not your fault, they turned you inside out with their eyes.

My life as a blood cell

2012-01-03T18:06:00.000-08:00

She, who comes from the water, wraps her vine-like legs around my body, binding my limbs, enclosed on my throat. They are wet, and covered with a blanket of short hair, bristling with an electricity which comes with the kill.

She is naked, except for her hair, and she moves like a spider across its web, with seemingly chaotic instruction, but each step is precise and forms an intimate performance across the surface of the water.

Her tentacles melt into my skin, refusing oxygen’s passage to my brain. Slowly, i fade.

In a distant memory i can see my life in my blood, my consciousness as a mixture of dancing red and white blood cells, skipping through each vein. In my final moments of lucidity i take my fingernails and gouge into my belly, letting my blood pour into the water, leaving only a shell behind.

As the blood, as myself, disperses into the water i feel a clear chill, but cannot place where i feel it - it seems it should run down my back, but with a back gone, it is felt in each potential moment of backness, in each cell, but also in the absence of a cell, in the spaces in between.

The water ripples, as if with a breath, and forms two hands, taking hold of the vine creature and pulling her under.

In her shock she forgets how to breath and so gulps me down. In her, i spread and envelop myself around her blood cells and i eat them. I eat them all until i am full and then i become her and gently float away, leaving behind parts of myself in the water and in the roots and in the mosquitoes and eventually there is a thin layer of myself in everything and i am everything, but i am nowhere.

Beechwood

2011-12-30T19:46:00.000-08:00

Christmas this year was spent in Beechwood, a teeny tiny little town 30 minutes west of Port Macquarie.

Photos taken on an old Olympun Pen half frame, either by Rodrigo or myself. The blonde one is my sister and that is the shirt she made me for christmas. I'm also wearing a silver Avocado around my neck.

General Science

2011-12-21T19:09:00.000-08:00

I have just realised my favourite section in bookshops is the general science section.

In the past two days I have bought for myself, (merry christmas to me la-di-da),

A Tenth of a Second: A History by Jimena Canales and

Modernism and Perversion by Anna Katharina Schaffner. I am so excited for both.

The first combines idea of time with photography, cinema and modernity and the latter, is well, obviously about modernism/ity and various areas of sexuality, with reference to literature.

The first thing I've been excited about in the past two weeks.

I Promise

2011-12-18T22:35:00.001-08:00

That I will read The Aeneid. And Seneca. And that I won't ever forget. I promise.

Hop on Pop (Foxes Mate for Life)

2011-12-08T20:00:00.000-08:00

You got some firepower girl

In between those legs

Legs eleven

Twenty four seven

It’s the firepower baby, you

Better watch up

I got a dumpling burp coming up

(I got some special talents)

And god said ‘shit’

And sat on the golden throne

(squats, knees above hips)

His thundering thighs spitting chips

And cheeseburgers

And the giant sat and shat

And I forgive, cause I do that

Spitting out shit out of my mouth, out

Cheeseburgers,

and dumpling breath

(foxes mate for life)

The lady red comes a visitin’

She’s a cheeky bitch, I know her well

I snap and snarl and coo and crone

I got a towel between

these firepowered legs

It’s getting dirty

Legs eleven

Twenty four seven

Here it comes again

The dumpling breath,

Foxes mate for life

The tangled vines don’t stop

On tranny cats

They bop bop bop

And hop hop hop

Seven eleven

Silver lined heaven

Where’d you get them girl

Snarly legs, Ya crimson cunt

Is that a stained harmony on the back of your dress?

Or do you just do the rounds?

Hop bopping kittycat

Bop hop in

Hop on pop and pop the hip

Hey nice legs

I can be funny

It’s only breath, dumplin’

It’s fuckin’ nothin’

I am Schrödinger's Hairless Cat

2011-12-07T00:46:00.000-08:00

meow.

A Skin That Walks pt 2, in which the writer turns her screenplay into a story

2011-12-03T17:37:00.000-08:00

I am Schrödinger's Hairless Cat.

His hands fondled the plastic open, running his thumbprint along its under-side, peeling it apart from the plastic cheese it covered. A brown wooden box sat beside him on the table and the plastic was laid to sleep inside it. The box smelled like he thought the outside would and he breathed it in. He tore strips off the alabaster cheese and ate them, his tastebuds squealed with delight and stretched out their heads to greet each one. Their little tongues salivating. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

His toes vibrated on the carpet as the door knocked. His hands lingered on the wooden box as he checked his watch. Ten-fifteen. She’s never late. And there she was, affected smile painted on her smooth skin, blue striped shirt tucked firmly into a white skirt, hair straight and black and tucked gracefully behind her ears, arms skilfully managing bags full of groceries. She was perfect. She was perfect and it irked him, like plastic with a breath and a heartbeat. She was the uncanny and he was deep within the Valley. Within it and without it. And he felt like he was sinking, that plastic would grow from underneath him and cover him, would be drawn tight like cling wrap, sticking on itself and on his skin. Maybe she would kiss his plastic lips with her fish scale lips, but probably not.

“Judy, hello. Come in.”
“Hello sir! I hope I’m not interrupting? Shall I put these away for you?”
“Of course not, and of course. You know where the kitchen is,” his arms directing the way. But she would always wait until he had led her there. And so he did. And she left the door ajar.

William S. Burroughs coined the term 'heavy metal', and now i've cut him up to pieces.

2011-11-20T20:18:00.000-08:00

Tattooed fingers twice removed wrapped pressure inexorable. Claws desperately attempting to carry silently flickering people invaded Corridors of debarred lawyers, bird parts and audience half-brothers.

The host sucked sexless parasite life forms into the cool blue mist and vapourised time for all screaming attourneys. Photo-collage banners and tv screens received distant pantomimes, controllers seeking permissions holding up terminal interview processes.

Life brokers, fixers, and catatonic judges service officials and petitioners and plaintiffs- flesh for the first connection. All of the proclivities of court officials’ second cousins corrupt all of the movies illustrating deformities of the limestone dead. And with their insect brains shrieking for metal notes in a thousand languages, professional drug runners served the necessary nerves for insect people of minraud, they flash compensation or influence birth dances in their horrible conditions.

With your Feelings- calm and cold and hearing biologic diseases. Diseases which many have cancelled in their claims and all manner of the green virus courts death with their remote reporter and family porticos are giving me a green bone, living on uranus. Their residence had others picket the insect bank with colour certificates.

With Animal count in animal manner and chamber low. Short Willy’s stand with their music extension and forms the connection to the chamber people. They were swarming through the halls and patios claiming contempt of heavy metal.

And,

And-

I wont fade out, he said, in an orgasm.

2011-11-15T01:47:00.000-08:00

I was comforted by the buttocks that warmed the toilet seat before me, and I wondered, did they think of me too? Did they wash their hands? Did they have crabs? Did they whistle while they pissed?

I wanted to meet them. But I knew they would never look me in the eye.

Voice Boxing. Pt 1

2011-11-15T01:27:00.001-08:00

Her mouth was this sucking, gaping hole, that pulled everyone around her apart. They felt layers of their skin peel off and submerge into her blackness, with little stars to see. It wasn’t long until they stopped speaking all together, she’d stolen their voices with her own, and made them quiet.

So quiet.

So quiet was the night-times of her mouth, where the moon was swept behind clouds and only cicadas chirped. That’s what her voice sounded like, the cicadas that had lived underground for so long, that when they breathed the air and fucked in a frenzy they screamed just to hear their own echo before they couldn’t scream at all. They screamed so hard they killed themselves and fell out of their own skins.

She was afraid of being buried so yapped all she could, to anyone, to no one, to her own teeth and tongue and lips and she stole all other screams so hers was the loudest. She screamed so she didn’t forget her own skin.

A Skin That Walks

2011-11-10T00:04:00.000-08:00

Have just finished my second draft of my very first screenplay.

Unfortunately, it will never get produced because who will want to fund a man with a skin fetish, a festering wound, masochistic sex with a prostitute and peeling skin.

However, if you, strange internet pal, want to read it, comment with your email and I'll send it to you. If only I could add it here to download, or open the pdf, but egas, the pesky thing is mighty unhelpful.

To let you know, I've written some real ~indie~ music into it as some kind of a soundtrack (in other words, they're awesome songs). So to entertain you, let me lay them down (wukka-wukka - that's the sound that a record makes)

Ps. It's called A Skin That Walks after this article. If anything, read this. It's wunderbar.
(As a side note, i just found his website, and my god if it isn't full of amazing essays. splooge.)

Susumu Yokota - Live Echo

Who ever thought you could use Suicide for a sex scene... yeah... this one's Che

And wonderful Billy Holiday - Strange Fruit. I actually think it's my favourite song ever. It goddam gets to me. And it ends the screenplay

2011-11-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

The Fucking Pits

2011-10-26T18:54:00.000-07:00

Fuck you, fuck off, fucking hell, fuck yes, fuck no, fuck it, fuck over, under fuck, what the fuck, oh my fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s just a fucking word you fucking asshole fuck, what the fucking, fucking, fuck. You don’t know a fucking fuck. Flying fuck, diving fuck, deep sea fuck, fuck a duck. Too many fucks on the mother fucking dancefloor, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. How’s your fuck, up your fuck, round your fuck, in the fuck, up the fuck, up shit creek? It’s so fucked, fucking fuck, I don’t have a fuck in hell, fuck you, I fucking said that, fuck. This is fucked, so much fuck, too much fuck, heaps of fuck, there is not enough of fuck. Fuck, there is not enough of fuck. Why the fuck, is the fuck, in that fuck, what a fuck, he’s a fuck, she’s a fuck, we’re all fuck, I am fucked. He can go and fuck his fuck. I don’t want to hear your shit, fuck.

History of Shit

2011-10-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

The likely odours find a wholesome myth to shit in

and hence to evince the beautiful, whose reproduction is witnessed by translucent bodies

and emerges as a fetid exchange of one moment,

visible, to a vanished separation of morbidity.

Wholesome smells of the race.

The absence of bloodstained sound signals the functioning of the body betraying none of its processes,

as it eludes excremental riches.

The inscription of its olfactory vitality immediately belongs to the rich,

to the quasi-palatable society of the attractive,

society where wholesome digestion signals the liquidation of pure production.

Nutrition escapes and gives away nothing.

Survival is odour and blood and excrement and sets bodies wholesome

even where money stands for everything.

From the digestion of the species to simple well-beings,

An economy of odourless progeny occurs.

I like to do cut-ups. I also really love this book.

Dave

2011-10-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

Rasping hands clasped a warm gun, recently fired. A can lay on the grass. It lay smoking, punctured, and the gun was still smoking. He was smoking. Everything was smoking. He didn't really like to smoke but when there was a gun in his hand he couldn't help but light up.

Purple clouds rose higher as suns set over different horizons seen from different landscapes, but everywhere smoking. He stalked his aluminium prey and eyed it up through the imaginary cross hairs. He never missed. Prepare, cock, finger to trigger, the slightest of pressure. The tension waved all inside his body.

“Dave.”

Someone yells out to him as he pulls, and misses. This wild beast turns to the voice, squints his eyes from the harsh, orange, setting sun and like the predator, pounces. He doesn’t stop to see who it is.

The gun goes to the head and blood patterns spatter and skin ripples and the head makes its descent towards the dirt and he continues to pound the gun into the skull of the voice and he thinks of missing and the bile rises to his throat, but he swallows and his arm keeps going and the skin drains and he sweats and the liquids mix and mud forms, but he doesn't slip, only crushes the head into the floor and seeds grow from the blood and blossom, dyed a dull red, and autumn comes and the petals fall off and grow again and he buries the bones under the fallen cans and lines more up against the fence.

He never stopped to look at the face and no face was left after he stood back and stared at the mess amongst the scattered grass. He couldn't feel remorse over some bones and muscles and skin, he never saw into the eyes.

He has given up smoking but the gun still smokes and the stains on its base dry and brown under the rising sun.

I drew a header

2011-10-18T18:44:00.000-07:00

~ Because i'm really good at drawing ~

If I had an eraser I would rub out the pencil lines.

Oops/oh my.

This is what happens when your bestie's a sick cunt.

2011-10-12T20:18:00.001-07:00

The Foot Fetish

2011-10-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

Ziney is coming together. I just need to learn how to draw. Here's a little snippet from the zine, which I realised actually has a lot of writing in it. Too much? dunno. oops.

Outside the pink neon sign flashing 'tits, tits, tits!' three boys appear and paper, scissors, rock.
Scissors cut paper, rock crushes scissors and paper wraps rock.
No one wins, until they all win, when they decide to go in together.

Dollars and sense are lost, but nobody minds.

Bondage and Domination

2011-10-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

Or rather, Black Dice.

I really need to stop spending money, but luckily we won free tickets.

(okay, the youtube uploader is being an asshole. So here's a link to a boss song, Nite Cream.)

Holy fuck though, they were incredible. The visuals were phenom.

And speaking of amazing visuals, I saw Scattered Order for the second time on Sunday, I love how into it these dudes are. And an EMS VCS3 in the flesh? Magical!

This is a VCS3 ladies and gents. Rare as fuck.

This is a loop, it is repeated.

Please go and watch What the Future Sounded Like. It's on Youtube!

Watching Videodrome made me realise how much it inspired me for my short film script. I don't know what it is about grotesque body horror and skin that gets me riled. P.S thanks Dome Home for the fantastic night (and zine). I sweat to god, i'm running out of adjectives for 'good'.

Long live the new flesh.

(p.s i swear to god these posts will become far more interesting when I get my own camera/stop being such a lazy cunt)

In the name of Herzog, Zizek and the Holy Faulkner.

2011-10-03T20:50:00.000-07:00

It's been a wonderful past five days.

It begins with Moon Duo on a Thursday night,

And Kitchen's Floor and Wet Hair follows on a Friday.

Saturday brings The UV Race,

And on Sunday it's an evening with Slavoj Zizek.

Finally Monday we're tipped into The Cave of Forgotten Dream and the wonderful Werner Herzog (I could die listening to his voice)

And then an hour or two spent in Goulds,

Where I unfortunately found no copy of As I Lay Dying, but did find a first edition, out of print, German language book of Thomas Mann's essays.

I'm tired now.

Hallo, Ween

2011-09-27T22:01:00.000-07:00

My friends certainly know how to make good costumes, say hello to Herbert West, R2D2, a box of goon, Patrick Bateman in the background and my hilarious Regan, who had a wonderful bloodied up cross ready to shove up vaginas.

Child's Play

2011-09-27T20:55:00.000-07:00

First in a series of Cut-Up children's picture books. Funzo.

Traum(a)

2011-09-20T01:53:00.001-07:00

We become reminiscent of dreams and I float through the hall and can’t touch the walls lest I be sucked through them and turn invisible, and I’ll be there but I won’t and I’ll be asleep but I’m not because I’m walking, not touching the walls. It comes again and again as jack continues to climb and the golden goose whines, as I do. Her eggs are cracked under my heavy head and they ooze between my fingers and drip-drop onto the cold tiles in my mother’s house and she follows me with a mop, like she follows everyone.

And I miss that clean house and I hate my fetid room with all its sweat and drip-drop of blood on the carpet and the men who stand at the foot of my bed, watching. I’m watching them watching me through my dreams and they’re watching me watching them watching me watching me watching them and I don’t remember who looked first and our eyes turn inside each other and are connected by a thin kaleidoscope where colours inverse are seen and mirrors make a pattern of infinitely receding hallways and as I walk through them the floor shifts and I can’t touch the walls because I don’t want to disappear even though now I don’t want to be seen.

The voices around me explode in such a gust of pettiness that I can’t help but get petty. And I don’t care but I don’t but I do, like never always. I am no longer ghostly, every time they look at me, the ether whips around my face and gets sucked into their mouth, my skin is stolen and I’m made naked on the inside.

My hair isn’t mine anymore but belongs to my pillow, my bed, my brush and where ever it falls and if you cleaned under my fingernails you’d find bits of skin on bits of skin mixed with dirt and sweat and knots. The walls are crying as the night air stands cold and moans with pretend silence for its lost fecundity, pregnant only with raindrops and hidden whispers it couldn’t carry from one mouth to an ear.

Das Ding is hidden within the walls that I am too withered to touch.

Time Changes Little (except haircuts)

2011-09-20T01:47:00.000-07:00

These girls are my cunts and I hope the sign is true, because i'm going to Berlin for a year in February and they aren't coming with me. They are the cutest and they are so perfect in this picture, Holly with her classic band (or Big Lebowski) shirt, Batch has her batch face on and Emmie is eating like a mouse again (except she has no food in between those mousey little hands- look how mousey they are!)

But, time has changed a butt load since then, i'm far more white than my photo counterpart, we never go to OAF anymore, Emmie cut her hair and Holly moved further South. I mean, a year from now I could be dead.

Möbius

2011-09-20T01:27:00.000-07:00

On this first cold night there is such a presence drawn around the absence, a Möbius strip winding in, and I find it hard to forget the trail of vomit I have left over Sydney, and if you follow it you can find my ghosts, most lamenting, though I’m not sure if I can die more than twice.

My steps run short and I find my feet can only turn in circles and I get a glimmer of the reason why, but it washes grey away. My second skin has burnt and there can only be a few short breaths before it peels away into my bloodstream.

There is little now that I can do.