-->

Sunday, 30 December 2012

Our world, like a charnel-house, is strewn with the detritus of dead epochs.


Le Corbusier.  The City of To-morrow and its Planning.  Translated by Frederick Etchells.  (Dover 

Publications, Inc.  Mineola, NY: 1987).  Pg. 244.  Originally published as Urbanisme in 1925.

Friday, 28 December 2012

Thursday, 27 December 2012


Over everything—up through the wreckage of the city, in gutters, along the riverbanks, tangled among tiles and tin roofing, climbing on charred tree trunks—was a blanket of fresh, vivid, lush, optimistic green; the verdancy rose even from the foundations of ruined houses. Weeds already hid the ashes, and wild flowers were in bloom among the city’s bones. The bomb had not only left the underground organs of the plants intact; it had stimulated them.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012


THINGS I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT; BORDERLINE, BOUND, BOUNDARY, BUTT END, CONFINE, CUSP, DEADLINE, EDGE, EXTENT, EXTREMITY, FOOT, HEAD, HEEL, LIMITATION, NEB, NIB, POINT, PRONG, SPIRE, STUB, STUMP, TAIL, TAIL END, TERM, TERMINAL, TERMINATION, TERMINUS, TIP, TOP, ULTIMATE, ANNIHILATION, DEMISE, DISSOLUTION, DOOM, EXPIRATION, EXTERMINATION, EXTINCTION, FINISH, PASSING, RUIN, RUINATION ABOLISH, ABORT, ACCOMPLISH, ACHIEVE, BREAK OFF, BREAK UP, ORANGE, CALL IT A DAY, CALL OFF, CEASE, CLOSE, CLOSE OUT, COMPLETE, CONCLUDE, CONSUMMATE, CROWN, CULMINATE, CUT SHORT, DELAY, DETERMINE, DISCONTINUE, DISPOSE OF, DISSOLVE, DROP, EXPIRE, FINISH, GET DONE, GIVE UP, ORANGE, HALT, INTERRUPT, PACK IT IN, PERORATE, POSTPONE, PULL THE PLUG, PUT THE LID ON, QUIT, RELINQUISH, RESOLVE, SETTLE, SEW UP, SHUT DOWN, STOP, SWITCH OFF, TERMINATE, TOP OFF, ULTIMATE, WIND UP, WRAP, WRAP UP. 


Sunday, 23 December 2012

A N T I C O N F L U E N T I A L .

Saturday, 22 December 2012

'In attempting to uncover the deepest strata of Western culture, I am restoring to our silent and apparently immobile soil its rifts, its instability, its flaws; and it is this same ground that is once more stirring under our feet'

'The history of knowledge can be written only on the basis of what was contemporaneous with it, and certainly not in terms of reciprocal influence, but in terms of a prioris established in time.'

MF: The Order Of Things.

Thursday, 20 December 2012

Tuesday, 18 December 2012


私はいくつかの靴を買って、彼らは私には小さすぎます - しかし、私は忘れないようにそれらを着用しなければならない。


Sunday, 16 December 2012

Saturday, 15 December 2012

'Having collected so many documents, how to assemble them, how to fashion a singular artwork out of all these wildly different objects? The answer is clear: by clustering, reducing, shaping, cutting. This is a homage, perhaps inadvertently, to that emerging electronic culture in which "ctrl c + ctrl v" reigns supreme. Marker decided that the accumulation of contents is in itself an act of creation. Which is scarcely a new proposition; but the act of working on digital objects forces you to face its implications.'
'A legal lynching which smears with blood a whole nation. By killing the Rosenbergs you have quite simply tried to halt the progress of science by human sacrifice. Magic, witch-hunts, auto-de-fé, sacrifices - we are here getting to the point: your country is sick with fear... You are afraid of the shadow of your own bomb.' JPS.

Friday, 14 December 2012

Thursday, 13 December 2012

















21世紀には SHIFT: A COLLECTIVE AND PERSONAL BIOGRAPHY IN FIVE CHAPTERS. 



1. In The Time To Come, カイリ カイリカイリ K A I R I カイリ カイリ カイリthe child of the OCEAN Village.

2. 60年前のいずれかの日.

3. E L E U S I S  I N  E N G L A N D . 

4. An experience at the end of the Sunset Store. Or, ポストモダニティの平均物語.

5. グッドバイ。バブル。
C O L L A P S E.


Monday, 10 December 2012





ELEUSIS, HERE WE ARE. 9min.



Mr Tosimatsu is boating across a black river.
Bodies in articulated angles drowned by morning.
The tide casting over those too weak to stand.
A small boy, Toshio, Hersey closes the book, 'Hataya-san told me to run away with her... Kikuki's mother was wounded and Murakami's mother, alas, was dead'.
It is perhaps a naïve voyeur’s standard reaction to question the whereabouts of young children in fact literature, but what became of that small boy of the Nakamura's? The child with the same name as the ghost-boy who could simultaneously haunt an American carer in Tokyo, and the end of the bunk bed of a child who saw a horror film too young. The pop culture ghost who stole my things and pierced through the lens of my over-active imagination. And was thus able to break down the walls surrounding my childhood bedroom utopia. Did Toshio Nakamura become a survivor, those the Japanese term Hibakushi too? Short of breath, I catch the words that fail, a dice with a face lost. Soldiers bloody-backed, climbing out of specially                                  dug                                                                                                     holes. 


Saturday, 8 December 2012



 バブル景気

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI.
KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI KAIRI.





SHOUTING FOR DISNEYLAND

Slade Performance Day.

Thursday, 29 November 2012












--------------------------------- 


You leave the store, fresh air, outside. Hunched, low to the ground, eyes eating hungrily at the burning distance. Here we are again, that same burning distance - those same oil fired trees reaching up to where the horizon leans down. You can feel a tightly clenched shopping bag in your right hand... it's cream-yellow thrush colour mixing with the orange of the sunlight and the red of your hand to formulate a full gradient of phoenix colour. The woman walking next to you doesn't have anything to say. The car park is quiet. The last character in the consumer outlet store's name forms a dark black curve upon this one colour clear sky... A last trolly dances seductively in the eternal light, a woman tugs at her jumper and removes it. The trolley objectifies it's prey. A small screwed up sheet drifts sluggishly across the view. Black character's are all you can see in this light and luckily as with the store, all is printed in this exact colour; THIS ARE ALWAYS STORIES AT END WORLD. The language is wrong, you know it, the writer must have known it. Sadist. Sat alone in his bedroom, hand in his pants printing all kinds of non-grammatically correct sentences and pasting them sperm-coated into the evening breeze. Another woman has just passed on the left, a fragment of blue cinema shrieks out of her poised lips. You wonder what you are still doing in this car park having realized the blood supply to your hand has long since been cut off - your hand now forming a streak of squid ink void blue against the orange sky. It is very beautiful. Your weeks supply of chicken hot pot noodle did this. You wonder why there are so many women leaving the supermarket with the big black "O" at this time of night and why they are so turned on. Thinking of pleasure... your eyes drift back again to the screwed up paper, it's now on it's side mating with another piece of the trash. You haven't eaten and it's getting late. 

----------------------------------------


She was the a simulated image of the post-second world war cinema, a signifier for that time when America was the producer of 50% of the world's goods. I cannot answer as to whether this metaphor of beauty lived in the Americas or whether she lived some place else. It was not night, it was the beginning of time - It was morning. The birth of a new era. All I could see from my place behind the palm tree was the arch of her breasts in a metallic red swimming costume, latex in it's appearance but conservative in cut. Two breasts, reaching towards the sky and through the glass frame surrounding the edges of the swimming pool like the two plateaus in Thomas Cole's The Course of Empire, one breast seeming to be further away then the other. She arched her back and I was surprised to see her in daylight. The water ahead of her was not the colour I remembered it to be, later she told me that she had had to fire her pool staff in this floating ocean village she called home. Nor was the water turning the expected green one would expect from a pool not maintained. The water was the colour of lucozade. Nobody swam in it, though nobody had before, but now her guests made the point to you that they wouldn't swim in it.. It was burning orange. The orange light bending back upon the glass walls and thus refracting endlessly within this space, creating a heavy atmosphere - an atmosphere of an inbetween time. A perma-sunset controlled by a woman's loss of an income. Perhaps this is why I now found her out in daylight. From outside of the glass walls of the swimming pool - we found ourselves in clear day but when one crossed the threshold - the dark orange began to filter in. To hang in the air, pushing against the chest and temples, one felt a fever begin. But she lay there. I had only ever seen her at sunset in the real world and I suppose that despite the sweats that was why she was here whenever I came around. We did not speak. I watched her from behind the palm tree, a good two hundred centimeters from the edges of the water. As she waited, arching her breasts in that plateau formation for the sunset to end. 

--------------------------------


The suit grabbed his hand. The sun was setting, platinum hair, the visible signifiers of a time left, rubble known only by it's dust. Beneath traveling at four miles per hour lies the just deceased carcass of a newly built office walkway, a corridor in, from, and to nowhere. Somewhere there is a corporate hum, but not here under the blinding white and orange pallor. Somewhere there is a hum and he is looking again into the suits cold blue eyes, as if peering just beyond a veil of Jell-o. A deep glow, perspiring weakness found in a handshake that runs too deep. THE EVENT. Straight pains, bit lip, an alien hand clasped over a scar running across the right hands last knuckle. Lucozade glow. A handshake from a time when reality was only just losing it's grip. New York, a sun for the base of our spines and the piercing eyes of an opponent. And, a handshake like that can only be an inditement. Bit lip, platinum hair, New York, held breath. 

In a dream, I was a man with blonde hair and cool blue eyes in a close fitting ribbed t-shirt. A man underneath me in the armed forces had been severely injured... He gave me a copper coin which crumbled in half instantly. I placed an arm underneath him to carry him across a desert road, the last space of the real. He had rolled up camouflage trousers and dark skin. I worried that he would not make it across, and he died in my arms, in the middle of that dusty street. I was balancing history books on the top of my head, then I looked up, to see the mall. 

------------------------

And although my parents lived in England, we dreamt of Disneyland. A grand Chrysler Voyager - bottle green... Just like in Disneyland. I'd run my hand along the warm camel coloured leather listening to Linkin Park in the back seat and place two fingers into each of the fourteen cup holders... Too many cup holders to ever have need of. We came home to a space filled with Macintosh, Santa Clara Valley lived in my living room - John Galt was my closest adolescent friend. The sun was not orange here as in a narrative, light was blue - the economy was strong. I was the first kid I knew who had an iPod, apple green like the Junior Voyager. We had to sell the car, I lowered my eye's and cried. Just like in Disneyland. 

--------------------------- 




Monday, 26 November 2012






You leave the store, fresh air, outside. Depressed, hunched over, eyes eating hungrily at the burning distance. Here we are again, that same burning distance - those same oil fired trees reaching up to where the horizon leans down. You can feel a tightly clenched shopping bag in your right hand... it's cream-yellow thrush colour mixing with the orange of the sunlight and the red of your hand to formulate a full gradient of phoenix colour. The woman walking next to you doesn't have anything to say. The car park is quiet. The last character in the consumer outlet store's name forms a dark black curve upon this one colour clear sky... A last trolly dances seductively in the eternal light, a woman tugs at her jumper and removes it. The trolley objectifies it's prey. A small screwed up sheet drifts sluggishly across the view. Black character's are all you can see in this light and luckily as with the store, all is printed in this exact colour; THIS ARE ALWAYS STORIES AT END WORLD. The language is wrong, you know it, the writer must have known it. Sadist. Sat alone in his bedroom, hand in his pants printing all kinds of non-grammatically correct sentences and pasting them sperm-coated into the evening breeze. Another woman has just passed on the left, a fragment of blue cinema shrieks out of her poised lips. You wonder what you are still doing in this car park having realized the blood supply to your hand has long since been cut off - your hand now forming a streak of squid ink void blue against the orange sky. It is very beautiful. Your weeks supply of chicken hot pot noodle did this. You wonder why there are so many women leaving the supermarket with the big black "O" at this time of night and why they are so turned on. Thinking of pleasure... your eyes drift back again to the screwed up paper, it's now on it's side mating with another piece of the trash. You haven't eaten and it's getting late. 






I saw War again. War had lost it's outline.

Friday, 23 November 2012



一つは、モーター車の中で聖なる道に沿ってレースをしないでください - それは冒涜である。一つは、歩いて昔の人が歩いたように歩くと、自分の全存在が光であふれなることを許可する必要があります。これはキリスト教の高速道路ではありません:それはエレウシスで開始に向かう途中で敬虔な異教徒の足によって作られた。全く苦しみ、ノー殉教、この行列の動脈と接続接続肉のない鞭毛はありません。それは何世紀も前に行ったようにここにすべてが照明の、まばゆいばかりの、喜びに満ちた照明の、今話す。光は超越的な品質を取得:それは一人で、地中海の光ではなく、もっと何か、計り知れない何か、神聖なものです。ここで光は、魂に直接浸透し、心のドアや窓が開かれ、知られることなく、すべてが明らかになり形而上学至福で分離された露出した裸の人は、、になります。いいえ分析では、この光の中で行くことができません:ここ神経症か瞬時に癒されているか、発狂。岩自体は非常に怒っている:彼らはこの神の照明にさらされて何世紀にも嘘をついている:彼らはまだ非常に横たわり、静かな、寄り添う血まみれの土壌で着色された低木を踊りの中で、彼らは怒っている、私が言うと、それらに触れること一度、しっかりと固体と揺るぎない思え何事にも自分のグリップを失うリスクにすることです。一つは、細心の注意、裸、単独で、すべてのキリスト教のペテン師を欠いてこのガリを滑走しなければなりません。一つは、病的で、病弱な地下生活と嘘を無知と迷信の2000年を捨てる必要があります。
一つは、停滞水域で嘘の世紀から蓄積してきたフジツボを剥奪エレウシスに来なければなりません。
かつてない場合エレウシス1で狂っている世界に適応になることに全く救いがないこと、実現しています。
エレウシス1で宇宙に適応となります。
外側にエレウシスが壊れて見えるかもしれませんが、崩れた過去と崩壊し、実際にエレウシスは無傷であり、それは塵に崩壊しつつ、分散し、壊れている人たちです。
エレウシスの生活は、死にかけている世界の中で永遠に生きる。


Tuesday, 20 November 2012











A man below me is walking across a small landscape, he reminds me of that other man... The man with the camera bag wrapped tightly across his knuckles and lost... walking into an imperceptible shifting distance. Little Kairi, the child who is full of love lies not in this place. her future - the space that once occupied the Americas, or is that Japan? Those big-blue eyes on olive - the natural conclusion for a world in which moon fragments land upon an others skin and do not burn. When those two worlds have collided in secret, one no longer aware of the division lines of the other... What makes that culture the culture of the other side of the world. Kairi happens. Kairi is born. The man below me is walking across a damp landscape in an institution that posits itself as no institution. He duplicates an image from Kafka and Van Gogh but I don't think that he is aware. 







Straight Line, a practice in Time Capsule Memory.

Sunday, 18 November 2012

The question of the archive is not, we repeat, a question of the past. This is not the question of a concept dealing with the past which might already be at our disposal or not at our disposal, an archivable concept of the archive. It is a question of the future, the question of the future itself, the question of a response, of a promise and of a responsibility for tomorrow. The archive: if we are to know what this will have meant, we will only know in time to come, later on or perhaps never. 

Friday, 16 November 2012

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

Monday, 29 October 2012

NOTES FROM THE BOARD.






Sunday, 28 October 2012