Dirty PDF

mail3

“Mail vans always crash. It must be the new laws of physics or something. Or the postmen and women are all blind drunk down the depot. Or they’re getting done over by organised gangs of hunters or something. There’s mail vans all crashed up all over the side of the road. Like…its’ an epidemic is what they got there. An epidemic of crashed mail vans.

mail4

“Wonder if it’s got anything to do with what they’re carrying? What I mean is, all these mail vans got commandeered by the government into helping deliver ‘denunciations’ to the police, right. Well, I think it all sounds a bit suspicious. I think it was all part of a government plot to drown the police in paperwork.

mail5

“You know, like, how when it snows in London, how everything, like, everything stops working all of a sudden? Well, this is the exact same thing. And I think it was engineered. The situation, I mean. You see, the police got snowed under almost straight away after the first few lorry loads of denunciations arrived. And ’cause of government pressure, they were told they had to just deal with it, any way they could.

mail6

“You could tell from the way that mayor bloke, that Boris was talking out of his mouth about it on the news the other day. He kept sayin’ it was ‘a grave situation’ – you know the way he does – over and over until it stops meaning anything. “This is a grave situation. A grave situation. Grave. A grave situation. A very grave situation…” And so on. Nobody knows rightly what goes on in that head of his. But obviously it meant something.

mail1

“But I mean – that must have been some pretty toxic stuff they had there, in the back of them mail vans, if what they’re carrying is denunciations from the general public. Blimey! I mean…’cause the public – I mean, the public’s a horrible thing, isn’t it? I mean, I hope they took all the proper Health and Safety precautions before they started handling all them filthy little notes, all them dirty little downloadable PDFs, people grassing each other up.

mail2

“What I’m sayin’ is, if the general public’s started grassing each other up – on an industrial scale, I might add – I mean, perhaps it’s affecting things. Like, radiation and stuff. Maybe all them dirty bits of paper, when they’re all concentrated together in a confined space, like in the back of a mail van – perhaps they get dangerous? And maybe its affecting the drivers’ brains and stuff.

mail7

“I mean, it’s a bit of a coincidence innit; all these mail vans crashing all up the sides of the roads like that? But then again, the government did warn everyone that there was going to be a sharp rise in coincidences in the future, so perhaps this is what they meant…”

 

An excerpt from “…drifting towards (x)”

View the whole project here

Three posts down the end of the road, and their multipliers.

posts-1

 

“They stand there. And the shadows all point the same way. That’s something I’ve noticed. The shadows all point the same way, and they stand there. That is all. How I ever got mixed up in this darned business is far beyond me; whether it was all the fates all weighing heavily right here, down the end of the road, I don’t rightly know. All I know is that they stand there, and the shadows all point the same way.

I guess you must think I’m  a bit soft in the ‘ead, gettin’ all fixated on these darned concrete posts and everything. I mean, these three posts have got to be the most boring thing in the world, haven’t they? I mean, they’re so boring, they just disappear, don’t they? You kind of just block them out of your mind when you’re going down the shops, don’t you, maybe so you don’t have to see how utterly miserable these things are. You know they’re there, but you can’t see ‘em. Funny.

Well, so long as I stand here, I make one of them. My shadow points the same way, doesn’t it? And, you know, your shadow points the same way too…”

Transcript of an interview with the old woman down the end of the street, from which nobody ever comes back.

CADE, 2013

 

The project “…drifting towards (x)” is an EIE – an Evolving Interactive Environment.

To enter into the full environment of these ideas as they grow and adapt, visit us here…

“…drifting towards (x)”

The filthy carcass of London is still twitching spasmodically. It jerks about like something is still alive inside it, even though everything else has stopped. Everything else has stopped.

David Cameron PM

On the occasion of the passing of the Rubbish Act, 2013, only two Members of Parleyament voted on the bill – The Chancellor Mr Osborne, (who has been sleeping rough on the back benches with several other refugees,) and Mr Cameron himself, who has the only remaining firearm.

Severe rubbish drifts prevented any other Members of Parleyament from gaining access to the House, and therefore the only people to know of the new law’s existence are the people still trapped inside the Lower Chamber, like a pocket of methane expelled from a dead body.

image

“My addiction to following pieces of litter around as they are blown to and fro in the wind often overtakes my walks these days, to the point where I usually cannot tell if I really am the author of my own movements, or whether I follow some long caravan of garbage on its meaningless journey from one dusty corner to the next. Today is no different.”

CADE, journal extract

image

See things from the right angle

“My bed seems to have developed some kind of gravitational or electromagnetic field all of a sudden, because I just cannot get out of it. It only started yesterday I think, but it feels I’ve been stranded here for aeons…a bit like those statues on Easter Island. I’ve tried climbing out, fold by fold, but my desperate struggles just seem to erode the chance of ever being set free…”

Dolly, victim of Evelina Mansions Housing Association SE5

image

“Shuffling myself into a spit-ridden corner where I might keep out of the vicious flows and undercurrents passing through the street, I decide to put the toilet under observation.”

[more]

CADE, journal entry

Dealing with the city as corpus, CADE explicitly approaches the breakdown of the normal functioning of the metropolis through the digestive tract, examining much as a doctor would the waste products of this body for signs of illness or disturbance.

In CADE’s notes, he explicitly makes the following assertion:

image

“The health of the whole state can be ascertained by its attitude towards
rubbish

image

Chief Curator Prof. Bettany Unction

“In conversation with CADE”

Copyright © 2014 The Unstitute, All rights reserved.

Concentrated Boredom

Walking through Mary Datchelor Close, a semi-ordinary looking 1970s housing block, in colour, annexed between Church Street and Camberwell Green Youth Court – a building of which I am always cautious for its ability to stir unpleasant images in the meshes of the afternoon. I am aware that, amidst the almost perfect stillness and silence of the afternoon, there is a feint droning noise coming from somewhere out of view, flooding the estate with a malevolent, nauseating tone, a sub-larynxial movement almost inaudible to the ear. I decide to investigate further, having my curiosity stirred by this intensely monotone sound, uncertain whether it originates from the exterior or interior world. I swiftly go incognito by putting on the appearance of someone going up the shops, (so as not to draw any unwanted or hostile attention to myself,) and move from wall to wall around the estate, pausing now and then to press my ear to a surface, detecting the source of the grumbling drone in this utterly unremarkable landscape. Before long I come across an unmarked white Transit van parked up in front of a house which is coupled to some kind of trailer. An assortment of plastic hoses – three dirty-white ones and one green one – lead from the underside of the trailer unit and in through the kitchen window, evidently pumping something into the house, or sucking something out. The droning sound must be coming from the trailer, but it is impossible to be sure.

There is a lot of congestion in each of the fist-thick pipes which probably accounts for the droning sound – the vibrations of an engine working beyond its capacity, overstrained. As it coughs and splutters under its difficult load, a thick brown tar-like liquid, a little like dirty amber, seeps out from a tear in the green pipe and drips into a puddle around the trailer. This inexorable, tardy fluid, a sort of highly concentrated boredom, holds me in its trance until I gradually become aware of one of several pairs of eyes watching me from behind a dirty lace curtain in the kitchen window of the house. I stop and wonder whether the residents of this house are even aware that there is somebody in their house performing ‘works’ of some kind. Slowly the front door unlocks from inside and a trio of ‘workmen’ emerges, looking as if to demand some kind of an explanation for my standing here and taking photographs. As they walk towards me I notice the Health and Safety warnings on the trailer about decontamination, which would most likely explain the protective white plastic garments the three ‘workmen’ are wearing. They look the way you would expect a team of scientists or engineers to look in one of those science fiction films, who have been charged with digging up the remains of some ancient alien object buried deep beneath London streets, that alien object buried deep in the unconscious viewer.

I decide it would be a good idea to respond cautiously to this unfolding situation, and to that end I make a half-gesture towards the puddle of gravy-coloured fluid accumulating round the trailer tire. My gesture, perhaps tinged with a shade of divisive malice, a bit of divide-and-rule, causes two of the ‘workmen’ to suddenly become animated, and they start bickering to each another in whispers and hushed yelps. The two of them, in their Laurel and Hardy-ish way, are trying to hide behind the back of the third man who is, I now notice, somewhat taller and more impressive-looking than the others. After removing their protective masks and outer gear it is almost impossible to imagine how I could ever have thought all three men were the same size just a moment ago. These two are considerably more scrawny, undernourished and pathetic than the ‘foreman’, who just stares impassively through me just as though my presence was, to him, little more than a detail in the unfolding drama of his work day. Without my noticing, one of the two thin men has placed an empty bottle of Grant’s Scotch Whisky under the drip in an effort to minimize the waste of, (or to prevent contamination by,) this strange fluid. The second thin man just watches the other with a strange intensity, his hand down the front of his trousers, eyes rolling backwards into his skull.

I must escape, I conclude, before this situation, (or my own folly,) achieves its full degree of unpredictableness. Gesturing a second time to the puddle, this time more forcefully, I remind the ‘foreman’ how instrumental I was in the recovery of this apparently precious fluid. Had I not been passing something irreversible might have happened – and he knows it. I guess that he was probably ignoring the gross misconduct of his colleagues – their wastage of the fluid – so as to spare me, an outsider, from the spectacle of their punishment, but there was now no way it could be overlooked. By indicating the leak a second time, I had sealed their fate. They alternately throw hostile glances at me for having betrayed their incompetence, clawing at my conscience for a life line, but this hardly bothers me much – on the contrary, it brings me pleasure to know that I will be able to escape when their punishment begins. The foreman crouches down to the whisky bottle and slugs the contents with a single discharge of his gorge. His stern gaze, then dissolving into small rivulets of moisture in the corners of his eyes, echoes the spreading dark patch around his crotch, a Rorschach  image steaming and clinging to the inside of his thighs.

As I slip away from this narrative lurking in the housing estate, I see the faces of those thin men which seem to say – ‘It was the boredom that did it; your boredom! And we will never forgive you.’ Or at least that’s what I try not to tell myself as the droning sound fades into the distance, becoming little more than part of the background of the afternoon, a layer of autumnal parallax. To be sure, a million such monotonies lurks in the plain light of day, each threatening to disturb the apparent order of things. But if it really is my boredom that is responsible, if my boredom carries such charge as to be able to draw latent possibilities out of the monomanias of an afternoon, I am pretty certain that my being there to watch them unfold won’t really change anything.

The whole project to which this text belongs may be seen here: “…drifting towards (x)”

Barry Cade @ The Unstitute

‘THE WRECKAGE OF STARS’: DR. JAMES LUCHTE @ THE UNSTITUTE

The Unstitute is proud to present the essay ‘The Wreckage of Stars: Nietzsche and the Ecstasy of Poetry’ by Dr James Luchte – available in English for the first time. It has been included in the permanent archive ‘[dis]Corporate Bodies’.

The essay artfully argues against the scholastic traditions of Western academia, the creation of the modern ‘theoretical man’ and the philosophical ‘spectator’, and explores the challenging alternatives presented in Nietzsche’s ‘Thus Spoke Zarathustra’.

Read the full essay here: http://theunstitute.org/disCorporate.Bodies.2.html

Dr Luchte is an expatriate American philosopher, author and poet who has lived in the United Kingdom since 1995. He is on the Board of Advisers of the Nietzsche Circle based in New York. This essay, available in English for the first time, was originally published in the Chinese Social Science Quarterly in 2011.

LINK:

http://theunstitute.org/disCorporate.Bodies.2.html

A patch of wasteland

This patch of wasteland, located off the westerly end of Southampton Way, Camberwell, measures roughly one quarter of an acre. It has no direct access-points; no way in and no way out, other than by scaling the fences or going under the ground. It does not appear to have had any use for rather a long time – the time of disuse measurable by the advancement of decay and overgrowth. I am only able to see it from the balcony of an abandoned house which adjoins it at the rear, and as far as I can tell, this is the only vantage-point from which you are able to tell that it even exists. In the westernmost corner is a ruined brick building – too small for a house – propped up by oak beams to prevent its utter collapse. A large quantity of garbage has been tossed over the outer walls, making this a haven for vermin of all kinds. A corpse is barely visible at the far-eastern corner.

I take two photographs of the wasteland, (or more properly, The Wilderness,) to record how it changes – if it changes – at the beginning and the end of one week. If I can study the passing of time in this wasteland which is excluded from direct human contact, this blind-spot to the city, this terrain vague, I hope to see the spatial mechanisms underlying the degradation and nihilism of the populace.

 

1: July 16th

The initial photograph and referent to the final one cannot provide any surprises, inasmuch as it constitutes the first view of a space and its contents; it is a mapping, a topography, a set of references and coordinates. Only when I return next Friday will any change reveal itself. The red arrows point at the derelict building/outhouse on the left, and the foot of the human corpse on the right. Note the window in the warehouse on the upper-left is begrimed with soot and provides no perspective of the wasteland – the balcony I have reached on the south side is the only accessible vantage.

It seems obvious to say, but much of what can be seen in this terrain is due to the lack of human presence. Prime land in the city such as this rarely remains fallow for long before developers move in, but this area appears to have been unused for quite some time. The hastily-erected fences constructed from corrugated iron suggest either an effort to retain the integrity of the borders of this territory, or a defensive measure to contain something hostile – at any rate, the builders of these fences, whether through negligence or on purpose, have not built any way in or out of it. It is land-locked, so to speak. Closed-off. This may have simply been a gross oversight – like building a house without a door – or it might be evidence of a last-ditch struggle to hold something within its confines.

It is possible that there are a large number – perhaps a growing number – of such wildernesses springing up all over the city, only you can’t see them due to perimeter barricading which makes them disappear off the map. Unless a survey was conducted from the air to document the area of useful land that has been left for waste, we would have no way of knowing just how much of London has been eroded in this way, and at this stage of social decline I can hardly imagine any governing body having the necessary energy or time to carry out such a survey. There are always plenty of helicopters in the sky though, (two can be seen at the top of the image,) but these seem to be engaged in some kind of search for something – probably fugitives. Unless they’re searching for themselves. I mean, actually searching for themselves. But that seems improbably to say the least; from my observations it appears that the helicopters tend to hover like flies over the corpses strewn throughout the disused areas further north from here towards the river; those areas that became fallow many weeks ago.

I depart, ready to return in a week to take the next photograph.

***

 

2: July 23rd

As you can see, nothing has changed. You could be forgiven for thinking that this was exactly the same photograph as the previous one, except that it isn’t. Mounting my camera on the tripod I left on the balcony, (so as to get exactly the same angle on the wasteland as I did last week,) I find myself looking into exactly the same scene; nothing has changed – not even the light has changed. The two helicopters are stuck in the sky, unable to get out of the picture. The undergrowth, which is usually fast-growing at this time of the year, has not grown a bit. Nothing has changed at all, rather everything seems to be stuck in a state of suspended animation, frozen-off from the rest of the city. The outhouse is no nearer to collapse, and the corpse has not deteriorated, even under the incredible heat of the noonday sun which seems to be hotter and closer than it ever used to be. If this wasteland were to be a cancerous invasion of sorts and local residents had worked to stem its growth before it infected their homes, the effort seems to have failed, however. The houses in the vicinity are empty, too. A process of de-gentrification is in progress, the area becoming less and less desirable, no longer up-and-coming as it once was, but down and out to the point of zero-value. But the question is, whether this is the result of the patch of wasteland infecting the area, or the area devaluing itself and creating the patch of wasteland. But it is impossible to know such things from only a pair of identical photographs.

 

CADE, Untitled diary fragment #703 [summer 2013]

view entire project here

OCUSONIC ‘A Diamond Forms Under Pressure’ now showing online @ The Unstitute

The
Unstitute
is
an
Evolving
Interactive
Environment

The Projection Room – Video Launch:

OCUSONIC

‘A Diamond Forms Under Pressure’
15th July-15th August

The Unstitute continues to offer monthly screenings of experimental videos online. This month we take pleasure in presenting ‘A Diamond Forms Under Pressure’ by Irish artist and composer OCUSONIC.

A Diamond Forms Under Pressure, is an anomaly existing somewhere between experimental film and music video.
An improvised electronic soundtrack drives proprietary software, which analyses the audio’s frequency content and generates a cogent synchronous image in real-time. Frequencies push and pull against each other stabilising or agitating the central image.

***

About The Projection Room

The Projection Room at The Unstitute was created to show experimental video art online. Works are selected on the basis of their ability to provoke thought, reaction and engagement on the visual, audible and conceptual levels, whether in a positive or negative fashion. Videos are not selected on the basis of technical merit or aspiration to conventional standards.

Successful works will be screened for one month at The Unstitute. Applicants may send as many works as they like – if selected, they will form part of a month-long roster. Your video/s will be promoted via international web channels.

The Unstitute is currently seeking submissions for its 2015-16 season, but there may be also the opportunity to exhibit as part of a group screening in the nearer future.

If you would like to apply, please send a link to your video/s to theunstitute@gmail.com

LINK:

http://theunstitute.org/Projection.Room.html