Thursday, 24 January 2013
Monday, 21 January 2013
Saturday, 19 January 2013
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
Monday, 7 January 2013
Nothing better to do, I fish the milk out of the ditch and crucify it… but I haven’t any nails. So I wait for a nail to come along in the shape of a milk tanker (there are lots of farms hereabouts). As I wait in the ditch, like a tramp - like the dispossessed drifter in Jeff Wall’s photograph of milk exploding - I think of Edgerton’s Milk Drop Coronet, I think of Roland Barthes being run over by a laundry van: all that intellect hit by linen… Barthes hit by towels. I think these things yet I’m uncertain whether or not I was breast-fed. I think so much about milk yet I don’t drink it. Never. Soya. Where’s that milk tanker? I phone my mother but she’s out. I leave a message: was I breast-fed?
Lost in these thoughts I hadn’t noticed the milk was bleeding. Like road-kill.
Friday, 4 January 2013
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Ring the doorbell to make sure nobody’s home, before fixing your eyes on the rubbish bag, and arranging the white stones. While you work, repeat the mantra: Stone by stone, white on black, bricolage the visage of the guerrilla in the orange sack.
And if you’ve done your work well, when the homeowner’s return, they’ll find what they’ve binned, cloned: their garden path Che-shale-ified… stoned.