Upon deciding not to be an artist anymore

 

I do not want to be a part of something I feel is atoning

You are asking me to support your atonement

Being born this instance

I, like them, have nothing to atone for.

Perpetuating a genocide of classified pregiven status

Located in making up for something 

We can’t quite place

Feels like something I don’t want to join in with.

Communication is the display case arrowhead 

of those who seek to control

Those who remark on how dogs can remember names

They seem almost human they say

Forgetting that birds make new brain cells singing in the wild

How do I carry on singing in the wild?

Do I tell you I’m deaf by communicating in signs?

Do I tell you about a trauma and the overcoming of it?

Cancer feeds on the not grieving 

The fat lump in the collective windpipe

The loss of singing in the wild

We no longer grieve in life as a song to living

We grieve to communicate our location status

We wear the colours of creative solutions

Dyed with the pigmentation of differentiated clarity

This is something I am choosing not to continue doing

Instead I will gleefully dip myself in a bluish blood bucket of joy

Losing my mind to find out what I think in a plume of vapour

Trailing into the beyond of cosmic Crawley indigenousness.

Until that ever-present moment I am not an artist any longer.

deadednds

The following is an extract from the Pinchbeck Document (named after its first keeper)

A small fragment of vellum coloured veneer,  it is thought to possibly be the only written legacy of the Deadends but may in time prove to be  the product of a later living culture or even an ingenious forgery:

Deadend deadend deadend ended ended ended ended 

Deadend deadend deadend ended ended ended ended 

etc etc etc

Repeat to fade

The Deadends were recently excavated from a growing awareness that  psychic identity or Art is somehow trapped in a tomb of post-rationalised certainty. A certainty that is certain it can define the uncertain and so choses to view it from the wrong end of the telescope whilst scoffing at the uncertain's abilty to function beyond the certainty of the certain.

Who or what were the Deadends?

Rising Universe

Horsham's Rising Universe or The Shelley Fountain destroyed Father's Day 2016. Once again economic efficiency and good taste dictate useless progress. Banality is more efficient than awkward plurality via genuine singularity.

hammering a nail

The Knowledge of Princesses - Text by The Aug Stone images by The Vessel

Dawn Drawings

For the last six or seven years I have made a drawing every morning (after first writing three pages of stream of consciousness). A few hundred of these formed the basis of an installation called Howl of the Mounting Kin at the Hart's Lane Gallery in New Cross.Visitors were invited to peel away at the drawings layered on the wall. These are clearly a playful exploration of the futility of my own quest for the perfect automatic drawing but at the same time they honour the need for dialogue between the two modes of being which seem to come closest upon waking. Think of Bagpuss and Professor Yaffle in conversation. The waking or "enlightened" state is useful, for sure, but relied on in isolation it nullifies the life force - by which I mean that the objective point of view necessitates stasis. 

When Bagpuss sleeps all his friends go to sleep too.