The Unstitute presents: Page 3 – Feminist Discourse Today

The-Sun-is-Sexist

Classic ‘The Sun’ contradictions combine on the front page to confuse readers on purpose [doublethink]

Page 3: A point of departure

In England, the tabloid newspaper ‘The Sun’ maintains a 45-year daily institution of showing soft-core pornographic images of topless women on ‘Page 3’ – often right next to images of death, disaster and horror – a recipe which might account for its status as England’s most popular newspaper. This popularity makes ‘The Sun’, (and therefore media mogul Rupert Murdoch himself,) heavyweights in the English political area, both with the electorate and the political classes themselves, and undoubtedly these tens of thousands of breasts featured over the years have been vital building blocks in the consolidation of this media empire.

The online campaign @NoMorePage3 which has called for an end to this institution has so far been rejected by the newspaper, which prefers to see those manifold breasts as being part of the corporate makeup of the publication, monetised by the top global news stories they are served-up with. Convenient for that expedient feeling of mastery that keeps male ‘readers’ hooked and hungry for more, as well as delivering divisive, offensive and utterly ludicrous gender norms to the rest of the English population, ‘Page 3’ is a sort of acceptable sadism for both home and workplace. And yet, this seemingly banal institution which is fixated upon breasts is only the tip of the English misogyny iceberg.

At The Unstitute we are taking the institutionalised, semi-fascist female body of ‘Page 3’ as the scene of a crime: these breasts, despite how they appear, do not belong to the bodies to which they are attached. They belong to and are disenfranchised by the culture which enriches itself on them, to each subsequent desiring-machine that plugs into them. This body is but a sequence of codes, a social construct in so many ways, a corporate entity or monetising agent in others. Part-fiction, part-biology, post-female, cybernetic, online, disenfranchised, tortured and/or dismembered bodies: each new variant or sequence of varieties acts as a multiplier of the plurality of bodies which we call ‘female’.

The Unstitute invites you to come and chew on some of the most exciting discourses on female bodies today…

Featuring works by Blanca Rego, Dawn Woolley, K.E.Wallwork, Banfield-Rees, Laura Plana Gracia, as well as guest practitioners from the Department of Fictions at The Unstitute.

VISIT ONLINE EXHIBITION

Special Rendition

rendition_house

“What’s going on up there? Huh, that’s a good question…up there’s where they’re taking them. The prisoners. That’s what’s known as a ‘Special Rendition Unit’, see. I know it looks like a ordinary flat, but that’s, err, that’s ‘cause it is a ordinary flat, innit? I should know. It’s my bleedin’ flat. Yeah, an official came ‘round the other day to explain it all and to, err, ‘take possession’, as the saying goes. I mean yeah, he had the piece of paper to prove it and everything. Signed by the Home Office, no less. Yeah, group of lads it was – in a people carrier. Yeah, this one bloke had on like a uniform – bit like a police uniform, only sort of home-made – he explained it all to me very nicely, took me through all the small print, whilst the other blokes chucked my stuff out on the pavement. But you can’t just think about yourself, can you; I mean, it must be a terrible inconvenience for them too. But they’re keeping us safe, 24 hours a day, you know what I mean?

“Well, he said that they had to seize all these extra buildings like, just to cope with those ‘political arrests’ they’re doing at the moment. See, he told me that I was lucky enough to have had my house picked out at random to become a ‘Special Rendition Unit’. And he gave me a receipt and told me I was a patriot. Looks a bit small for holding prisoners though, don’t you think? Well, yeah – of course I told the bloke that, but he explained it all to me, see. He said, right, that these prisoners, right – ‘cause they’ve had all their human rights taken away from ‘em, these prisoners will fit into a much smaller space than a normal prisoner would. So there you go.

“Anyway, these prisoners, they only get locked up in my flat until they can be transportated out of London. And that shouldn’t be too long now. The bloke said it wouldn’t be too long, ‘cause  none of these prisoners will be needing a trial, see. Yeah, it’s a special streamlined system. So there you go. Brilliant, what they can do nowadays, don’t you think?”

Taken from “…drifting towards (x)” – come and explore the whole environment over at The Unstitute

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.

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“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.

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“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

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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

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“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:

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

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Chief Curator Prof. Bettany Unction

“In conversation with CADE”

Copyright © 2014 The Unstitute, All rights reserved.

Prometheus, or Concentrated Boredom

I am walking through Mary Datchelor Close; a rather featureless and barren-looking 1970s housing block, in colour, annexed between Church Street and Camberwell Green Youth Court. To what purpose as yet unknown. A hunch, maybe. I am aware that, encapsulated within the almost deathly stillness of this afternoon, there is a feint droning sound seeping out from somewhere within the heart of the estate. It is a nauseating tone; more like some sub-larynxial movement of the estate itself, leaking out from where the buildings join the pavement, almost inaudible. I decide to investigate further, my curiosity having been piqued by the intense monotony of the drone, practically uncertain of whether it originates from inside or outside.

I swiftly go ‘incognito’ by putting on the appearance of someone who is just going up the shops for a pack of fags or doughnuts or something. So as not to draw any hostile attention. I move furtively from wall to wall around the estate, pausing now and then to press my ear to a surface, tracing my way back to the source of this monotony. Sooner or later my ears, hands, feet and other apparatus draw me to an unmarked white Ford Transit van parked up in front of a house. Attached to it is a curious-looking industrial trailer with lots of warning stickers all over it and all these dirty plastic hoses leading from the underside of the trailer unit and in through the kitchen window of the house. Judging by the droning sound, the trailer is either pumping something into the house or sucking something out. It is impossible to tell which.

There is a lot of congestion in each of the fist-thick pipes which probably accounts for the noise itself – the vibrations of an engine working way beyond its capacity, over-strained. As it coughs and splutters under its difficult burden, a viscous tar-like liquid – like some kind of filthy amber – is seeping out from a tear in one of the pipes and is coagulating in a puddle around one of the tires. I watch this process for some time. The dripping motion of the fluid is so inexorably slow, I almost cannot see it , but I keep watching all the same. It’s almost as though there were no movement at all, and I cannot understand how that can be. Perhaps if I slow down to the same speed, synchronize with the drip…? Danger. I could get stuck here forever; it’s happened before. It happens all the time. This fluid could be some sort of highly concentrated boredom, and therefore one ought to proceed with a high degree of caution.

Just as I’m thinking this thought, I suddenly become aware of three pairs of eyes watching me through the dirty lace curtain in the kitchen window of the house.  The front door unlocks and out of it emerges a trio of workmen. The eyes must have been theirs, I conclude. As they walk towards me I notice the protective white plastic garments they are wearing – a bit like how you might imagine a team of engineers to look in one of those sci-fiction movies; engineers who’ve been charged with digging up the remains of some ancient alien object buried deep beneath London streets and sewers, deeper even than the Tube, deeper than the unconscious.

I decide to respond cautiously to this unfolding situation, and to that end I make a gesture towards the puddle 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 engineers to suddenly become animated, and they start bickering to each another in whispers and hushed whelps. The two of them, in their Laurel and Hardy-ish way, try to hide behind the back of the third man who is – I now notice – somewhat taller and more impressive-looking than the others. Having removed their protective masks and outer gear, I find it almost impossible to imagine how I could ever have thought all three men were the same size just a moment ago. The two animated engineers are considerably more scrawny, undernourished and pathetic than the foreman. He just looks straight through me, as though my presence was, to him, little more than a detail in the landscape of his work day.

Without my noticing, one of the two thin men has placed a vase 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, vibrating.

I must escape before this situation achieves some kind of zenith that I would rather not be a party to.

Gesturing again to the puddle, (and stamping my foot so as to underline the gesture,) I remind the foreman how instrumental I was in the recovery of this [apparently] precious fluid; had I not been passing, a great deal of it might have been wasted – and he knows it, too. Thinking about it a second time however, I then wonder if he wasn’t just ignoring the gross misconduct of his colleagues in their wastage of the fluid, so as to spare me – an outsider – from the spectacle of their punishment. But, having indicated the leak for a second time, their mistake could no longer be overlooked by the foreman. They alternately throw hostile glances at me for having betrayed their incompetence, clawing at my conscience for a life line, pleading for me to toss even the smallest thread of hope to which they can cling for even the weakest of assurances. 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 picks up the vase in slow-motion and slugs its 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 dark patch spreading out around his crotch, a Rorschach image clinging to the inside of his thighs, steaming in the cold air.

As I slip away from the narrative lurking in the housing estate, I see in my minds eye the faces of those thin men which seemed 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 lurk 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

Long Lane: Beyond the Pleasure Principle

Introduction:

Long Lane, Southwark. The people here are in a desperate state, although it’s difficult to tell what exactly they are desperate for. Usually there is some ostensible reason why a young man might cry his heart out in a doorway – or why a woman might lead her partner about on a leash. There are too many whys and wherefores these days which are little more than vague gestures than real questions seeking out an answer. There are too many unsolved mysteries that double, treble, quadruple every day. One doesn’t wonder if people don’t unconsciously desire to be perplexed, acting in the strange ways they do. But there’s literally no good reason for being in Long Lane; this is the place people go to get beyond the pleasure principle. People’s behaviour doesn’t mean anything here. Not even a scream has meaning.
People only ever cry out for something. You cry out for help. You cry out in pain and you cry for joy. You cry in both orgasm and mourning. In Long Lane however, something highly unusual has happened to the normal sequence of the cry inasmuch as here, people cry for nothing. This ‘cry-for-nothing’, harmless as it sounds, signifies nothing. You cannot hope to find out what it means, and if you catch yourself doing it, you’re done for.

 

Cries-for-nothing

1) Man in doorway

This first recording is of the aforementioned young man in the doorway of a closed charity shop on Long Lane. You might think he was drunk or something, the way he lollygags on the pavement staining his trousers in phlegm, but you would be wrong. There is no reason for this behaviour. This man is in an abyss. From a distance, the sounds he makes are indistinguishable from those of a person in deep misery – indeed, all the sounds are correct, but the content is entirely missing. I listen several times to the recording of his ‘voice’ and find the sounds I interpreted initially as abject misery are in fact nothing of the kind – there are no words, ideas, concepts – and therefore no meaning to his cries. It is a cry-for-nothing.

2) Male voice from above

The second recording came out of a first-floor window further down by the junction with Wild’s Rents – a nondescript cobbled street with a gourmet food shop on its corner. This batch of noises are far more terrible than the first but alas, just as meaningless. I try to picture the person up there in that room above the shop, grunting and snorting until he practically vomits. It can only just be described correctly as a human voice.
Looking at the deli-style menu outside the shop, I am puzzled as to the fare on offer here.


I speculate momentarily on the possible connection between the sounds and the menu, but think better of it and move on. In this instance, I am glad for the cry to be meaningless. I rush back to the complex delta-like junction spews its nonsense all over Borough High Street like an ill mouth.

3) Man on leash

This whimpering and grunting animal has been clumsily dressed in a suit by his wife who, in a crude effort to provide him with a familiar identity, has revealed her denial about her husband’s metamorphosis. It may be that this man-thing can only get around anywhere on a leash, perhaps due to laziness, idiocy or lack of motivation, but whatever it is he has become entirely dependent upon his wife for survival. Were she to abandon him he would no doubt turn feral and run wild all over the area, posing a threat to husbands and other dogs in the neighbourhood.

Empties

 

Well…that was the last thing he ever said to me. Packed-up and left the next morning he did, and that was the last I saw of him. Poor old Mr. Johnson. But I suppose you can’t blame him for wanting to leave this place – I mean, it’s going to the dogs, innit? Not that he had a choice, mind. About leaving. Well, there weren’t nothing left for him to do, so naturally he lost his job. Housing Association’s hardly likely to pay for a caretaker to take care of a building that they don’t care about any more, are they? Think about it. Housing Association treats this whole estate like it doesn’t exist. I suppose that’s why everybody’s gone, cause…well…I mean, people don’t want to live somewhere that doesn’t exist, do they? Course not. Except for me of course. I suppose you could say the Housing Association should have done more to keep the building in good repair, you know. They could have painted the walls for a start, or occasionally cut that overgrown lawn out front and changed them old fittings in the lobby that never work but, I dunno – they’ve got their own agenda, haven’t they?

Of course, they don’t want me here. Course not. They say I’m ‘standing in the way of progress’. Yeah. That’s what they said in their letter. Hang on a minute…I got it here somewhere…ok, I got it…here we go:

Dear Mister Whatever-your-name-is,

Our Enforcement Division has recently discovered that you are standing in the way of progress. I should like to take this opportunity to draw your attention to clause number 5,142a in your tenancy agreement that states the following:

‘All persons residing at the property agree not to stand in the way of progress. Any person or persons at the property found to be standing in the way of progress are recommended to think twice about it before they get their mouth filled in with concrete.’

If it is therefore your intention to continue standing in the way of progress, the Housing Association will take no responsibility, financially or otherwise, for the condition of your internal organs after we visit. 

Yours, with heartfelt regards, etc. etc.,

Mister Housing Association

It’s funny, but I don’t feel like leaving. Don’t ask me why. I just, you know, I just feel like somebody should stay, you know what I mean? See, if I leave, this place just won’t exist anymore, so I’ve got to stay. I know I shouldn’t, ‘cause of the risk and everything, what with them ‘patrols’ the Housing Association keeps sending round in the middle of the night, making that dreadful racket with their crowbars as they tear the place apart, night after night, breaking things and with their jack boots. But that’s nothing compared to the dog patrols. You don’t wanna be anywhere near one of them when it comes past. I saw them get a squatter last night. Poor woman. Talk about savage. It’s terrible it is. So you have to sit and cower somewhere almost impossible to get at, hardly daring to breathe…or you keep moving from one flat to another, hiding as best you can, keeping upwind from those dog-things. But, I suppose you gotta hand it to them; at least they’re thorough. The Housing Association, I mean. At least it gives you a bit of confidence in your local authority, you know what I mean? And it’s good to have confidence in the authorities. So, well…I just sit here in the dark most of the time. But I know they’ll find me in the end. They find everyone in the end…

Tar Pit

The road engineers are at it again. For weeks they’ve stood at the junction across the way, resurfacing that same bit of road, over and over. We had a letter about it. It said they can’t keep up with the rate of decay around these parts, you see, so they’re trying to repair the repairs as fast as they can, but of course, it’s impossible for them to get anywhere doing a task like that. Well, its so futile, isn’t it? But still, they carry on. No sooner have they laid one bit of tarmac than it needs to be taken off, ground away by the little machine and then replaced with fresh, rich tar, and they work continually in this way to ensure the integrity of the road surface.
But I don’t believe they actually work for any of the agencies licensed to perform such repairs. That used to be taken care of by one of the big contractors before they all went into liquidation. They do look the part however – they have the right uniforms, the right PPE (personal protective equipment), the right materials for repairing roads, the right vehicles, the right mannerisms etc., but despite all that there’s just something about them that doesn’t sit right. Do you know what I mean?

Like for instance this morning, at about eleven o’clock, Gertrude from downstairs went out to the shop to see if she couldn’t bribe the owner to sell her some food. We’ve been running pretty much on empty you see, and we already ate everything we could find when we ransacked the other apartments in the building, so we drew lots to see who would go. Our last run to the shop was a disaster. Brian from downstairs never came back. God knows what happened to him out there. Anyway, Gertrude goes out and just saunters down the street just like normal, so as not to attract any attention, when she walks past those engineers, doesn’t she? Well, she’s walking along, right, and it all seems to be going alright, (she was already past the half-way mark to the shop,) when she suddenly veers off course, straight towards them engineers. Well, I thought maybe she was going to ask them a question or something, but she just marches straight past them, straight into that hot bitumen and gets stuck, doesn’t she? She tries to free her legs, pulling at the corduroy fabric but then she totally loses her balance and goes down on all fours into the black, sticky surface.

And I’m up here, watching through my binoculars, waiting for the engineers to help her get out, but they just stand there, watching. And that’s when I saw it. Right in the middle of the tarmac, right where all the vapours are thickest, there’s this crate. And inside this crate…well…you’ll never guess what was in the crate. A smoked ham. There’s this bloody hock of smoked ham in the crate, just a bit too far away to reach from the safety of the pavement.

And then I understood.

hole in the wall

Gang spend weeks digging tunnel under Tescos store to steal customers from cashpoint in daring raid

  • Gang dug beneath a Tescos in Bermondsey in carefully-planned heist
  • Dozens of people stolen from supermarket in raid
  • Police suspect the gang may have sold victims as meat
  • The raid has been linked to the so-called ‘mole-in-the-wall’ gang
  • Police Officers are appealing, says Superintendent

By TIPPI SKILLET
PUBLISHED: 20 March 2013


Out of order: The cashpoint, situated on an external wall of the shop, was not working today after thieves stole people from it

Thieves dug a 500ft tunnel under a building to steal dozens of shoppers from Tescos.
The gang spent weeks digging the ‘complex structure’ from nearby wasteland to get at the people at the Tescos store on Jamaica Road last Friday. The elaborate heist has been linked to the so-called ‘mole-in-the-wall’ gang notorious for bringing ‘meat’ to the black market in an illicit economy which is thriving due to city-wide food shortages which have sent the price of meat soaring.

A substantial amount of people were stolen from the supermarket after the gang tunnelled their way in from a nearby wasteland

The Metropolitan Polis Detective Superintendent Felicity Polygon said: ‘You may have seen people acting suspiciously on Friday night, possibly covered in soil, dragging people kicking and screaming down the tunnel. They may have transported victims in a police-style van and may even have been dressed like policemen and women.’
‘I would ask anyone with information about the robbery, or with any information of any kind, to keep it to themselves or they could find their mouths filled in with cement.’
A spokesman at the police barbeque later in the day confirmed that the amount of people taken was probably a new record.

People were taken from the Tesco Express store on Jamaica Road in the tunnel heist, which police are not investigating

It is thought to be the fourth time in the last few months the same ‘tunnel’ method has been used to steal people from cash machines across the Bermondsey area which police have failed to investigate. ATM machines are scarce in this area and draw poorer people from all over the borough, acting as a honey trap to hungry shoppers.
At the scene today, there was no police tape to mark the spot where the gang began their dig – only a sign to say that the cash machine was not in use.

The scene of the crime: Tescos which thieves TUNNELED into

The wasteland where the tunnel was started is an overgrown former coach and lorry park, left fallow for several years according to locals. Nobody ever goes there, and the place is known to local children as ‘the wilderness’. The six-foot entrance gate to the yard is locked – but there are numerous holes under the fence allowing easy access to the wilderness next to the supermarket.

A local councillor who arrived at the scene in a butcher’s van said: ‘Your local council is gravely concerned about this spate of subterranean abductions, and I assure you that I, as well as my fellow councillors, are doing everything in our power to get in on it.’

Anyone with information about the latest raid is asked to come to Bermondsey police station alone.

Golden Lane: a discontiguous topography

golden_lane2

Note to reader:

There is no ‘Golden Lane’. Yes, it’s marked in all the maps, wedged between the fortress of the Barbican Estate on the south side and Old Street along its northernmost perimeter. Likewise, it is marked on street signs and addresses, just as if it was really there – mail is delivered, taxes are paid. People go in and out of buildings as though they were really real. But that is during the day. During the day it is always easy enough to misconstrue everything and, to the casual onlooker, the conceit is successful enough; this place, this substitute, functions just as well as the real Golden Lane would have done – if not better in some respects. But all this is literally neither here nor there; ‘Golden Lane’ is now merely a subterfuge – an empty signifier of the thing itself.

[My decision to explore Golden Lane in detail was first prompted by a series of rumours I had heard around town, all of which were hostile, denigrating the area as ‘separatist’ – as though Golden Lane was in the process of being annexed by some form of rogue political movement unique to the estate. Rumour is an indispensable indicator of popular opinion and carries its own pragmatic importance during a crisis of this kind, and thus I have made every effort to accurately record the conjectures of people even when they are fantastical indeed.]

golden_lane1

Derive #1

I begin my first study in Paul Street at the northeast edge of the subject area in an attempt to access Golden Lane directly. This area does seem to be more heavily fortified in contrast to the south London locations I have been charting recently, and my approach was immediately hindered by a cordon – constructed in an amateurish fashion – from Herras fencing panels which block each of the four exits to the adjacent roads. It is inaccessible from any direction, save for climbing over the fences – which is easier said than done – and I am forced to re-think my strategy for getting to Golden Lane. Under normal circumstances you would assume that this is a sign that gentrification is about to take place here, some exclusive new enclave of gated apartments to be constructed and sold to the eager and upwardly mobile. But in this instance, no works are to be carried out; this area has been blocked-off just to keep it from being useful – as it is in its present state – its final state. There is no sequel to these building works. It is simply wasteland. I shall call it terrain vague; a waste of space, a disused space, an inaccessible space, an ignored space – and the corresponding mental absences produced by these spaces in the mind.

golden_lane9

More and more terrain vague is appearing in this area, linked as it is to the attitude of non-productivity which has become so prevalent in these neighbourhoods, (which is an uncanny fact, inasmuch as it spreads from under the shadow of the neighbouring towers of the Financial City just a stone’s throw away.) This territorial degradation, this terrain vague, has created what people are now referring to as ‘blisters’ or ‘buboes’ – eruptions on the surface areas of the City which are manifest sometimes as islands of uselessness, sometimes as blockages or impediments to movement, sometimes as pockets of resistance, sometimes as polarised states of inertia and nihilism. Golden Lane is one such island. People quickly become stranded on these islands; houses, parks, roads, even entire postcodes are swallowed up as the islands join together to create much larger flotillas of uselessness, a Wilderness developing right here in the heart if the metropolis

golden_lane10

Having walked about for several futile but beautiful hours without reaching Golden Lane, I can only conclude that I am entirely lost. As night begins to fall the landscape appears to spontaneously modify itself as though it were little more than a series of interchangeable slices arranged on a flat plane. All points of reference are gone. The fabric of the city has evidently decayed to a startling degree, the area having been subject to divisive politics for too long, and the sense of danger, of threat, is so strong I am compelled to find a blind spot in which to hide, an out of the way corner some where I can continue to observe developments.

There is not much to see, however. The area became completely desolate by seven o’clock just as if someone had raised the alarm and everybody had scurried indoors. It concerns me somewhat that I am the only person out of doors on this territory, and so I do my best to conceal myself as well as possible in a thicket at the edge of a small park which I do not recall seeing before. Upon closer inspection, I realise that this is not a park at all, but a barren piece of scrub of the kind which usually develops in the year after a building is demolished; a few withered yellow flowers, green dandelion spurs pushing up all around the edges, rubble and litter confetti. I have become caught in a patch of terrain vague – most likely due to having become so lost – and everything here is foreign to me.

I decide against remaining here much further into the night because of the strange noises, and resolve to continue my investigations tomorrow.

***

Derive #2

golden_lane4

If you were unsuspecting enough to imagine that by following the directions on a standard London A-Z map that you would be able to get to Golden Lane with relative ease, you might then very easily be caught-out and exposed in this place at no little hazard to yourself. Upon further examination of my A-Z, I discovered that the place names were all correct for London, but the picture itself was a map of Stalingrad – and thus navigating by it is worse than useless. I can’t imagine what kind of clerical error can lead to such a gross invasion of London by a former Soviet city, but you wonder if it hadn’t been done on purpose, maliciously. Discarding the A-Z by an overflowing bin I press onwards by using street signs to approximate the location of Golden Lane, but all approach is useless. It seems to have moved. Having been there only yesterday evening, I am perplexed that I cannot now remember where I left it. I wander about up and down roads to see if I haven’t simply missed the turning, but that only succeeds in getting me utterly lost. It still appears to be physically possible to get to Golden Lane, but somehow I am unable to reach it. This worries me to the point where, whilst walking backwards and forwards, I mull over the possibility of some psychological impediment as to why I can’t find Golden Lane; am I subconsciously denying its existence, as though perhaps something terrible happened there yesterday? I doubt it. More than likely I am caught in some kind of malicious loop of conflicting signs which has led me astray over and over again. I make an effort to adjoin Golden indirectly, avoiding all adjoining roads and pathways – but this proves to be no improvement to the situation. The pavements, the roads, the buildings – none of these things seem to have any integrity left, straight lines no longer seem to agree with each other and the boundaries which once seemed static enough now migrate and move about. Growing suddenly concerned at the prospect of becoming permanently lost in this bizarre labyrinth I quickly resolve to mark the street corners with urine, which will help me to remember my own smell, and thus, find my way back out again after exploring.

golden_lane3

This appears to work, inasmuch as I am once again able to govern my own direction, but I am however left with a horrendous nausea or sea-sickness – as though the ground were all still moving. I vomit all over the pavement causing several old ladies to tut at me in quite an intimidating way, and I fight my way to some out-of-the-way place where I can settle my wits for a few minutes, drink some tea from my flask and try again at walking down the street. But my second attempt is still worse than the first, attracting more ire from the locals. It feels as though I am lost not only here but in life in general, and it contents me to sit against the kerb where children drain the silence of the street and bleed the evening dry. Pressing my ear to the ground I hear the movement of concrete blocks as they shift and slide about, creating what amounts to an ingenious puzzle or trap, abolishing territories and, furthermore, disorienting people into adopting the nomadology so clearly displayed by the residents here.

golden_lane8

golden_lane5 golden_lane7 golden_lane6

I take photographs where I can, draw diagrams and jot a few notes, though the effort to be bothered to do so is overwhelming. I do not know if this place can even be accurately recorded, but I
comfort myself in staying semi-active. The sky is grey as concrete. We may as well just pretend that this is still Golden Lane, and spare anybody else the knowledge of what has happened here. I fall asleep in the park.

***

Derive #3

no-nothing

What happened here? Perhaps by writing it down, drawing diagrams of it, I can bring things back into line again, or at least shake the memory of this place back from the oblivion in which it lies. I can fix the fragments of Golden Lane in my records, provide coordinates, and once more be able to navigate this reef without running aground, without being taken in again by the fluid consistency of the shifting blocks all around. There are more people around on the street today and everything generally seems to be in better order than during my previous two studies. People are walking all over the place like termites, as though there were some connection between the topographical shifting of the location and the movements of the residents here – a co-dependency. I begin to research this behaviour by following one of the elderly women who cursed at me yesterday to try and find out how things work here.

golden_lane_woman

From a static position, her movements look normal enough. After following her on several circuits around the estate however, it soon becomes apparent that she is following a set path, as though she had explicit instructions how and where to move about – though whether she knows about these instructions is impossible to tell. Whatever it may be, she seems to be charting a stable route through this maze that I cannot see, inasmuch as I experience no further nausea or disorientation when I duplicate her movements. Everybody else seems to be shuffling along in their own way, perhaps following similar invisible paths learned by trial and error, and I am able to switch between paths where they cross one another, all of which form a large network of paths through this Wilderness. Each person has a path to follow over and over, playing on a loop if you will, until seven o’clock comes and everybody disappears inside. By ensuring the stability of their environment by repeating the same actions over and over again, day in, day out, the residents have established a very secure enclave here that only they know how to negotiate safely, like rats in a laboratory maze learn quickly where the traps are. I am of the opinion that this is some kind of a security measure – infinitely more subtle than the physical barricades constructed in other enclaves around the city – a form of architectural encryption applied over the area to keep non-residents out. But as to who has applied these measures or exactly how they were implemented is in no way comprehensible – at least, not to me anyway.

As I pass by an elderly couple I overhear fragments of a hushed conversation in which the word ‘separatists’ is mentioned several times. This strikes me as a trifle odd at first, but by paying careful attention to other fragments of information spoken by other people as they pass I am able to put together a sketch of the situation here in Golden Lane. There is clearly a great fear of ‘nomads’ moving in here, and some concerted effort is being made by the whole community to ensure that this does not happen. Their singular movements during the day and their sudden disappearance at night concurs with this hypothesis, and whether or not there is any real threat of an impending ‘nomad invasion’, or if perhaps a well-oiled machine is at work here churning out xenophobic propaganda for some political end remains to be seen. But whatever it is, ‘Golden Lane’ should be treated as a litmus test for what may soon break-out in other metropolitan areas in the future.

 


 

 

the female body #1: a corpse on a beach

‘a corpse on a beach’ is part of the series ‘the female body’ – a sequence of micro-narratives in which a number of mutilated female cadavers are discovered and then ignored, firstly by the authorities and then by everybody else.

The fears associated with walking the streets alone and at night, abstract as they are, become dangerously abstract, matched only in their horror by a total public apathy towards these grisly objects of the imagination.

 

To watch the whole project, visit “…drifting towards (x)”

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A woman distracted

crime-scene1

 

She did not return immediately home after work that day, even though that’s what she would have done any other day – indeed, that is what she had done every weekday for the previous twelve years. Of course, there had been the occasional social gathering after work, perhaps a leaving party for a member of staff, a few cocktails on her birthday, that sort of thing, but there was no ostensible reason for her hesitation that day. Instead of walking to the bus stop on Waterloo Road, (as was her routine,) she stumbled past the hordes of commuters waiting in the afternoon dust for the number 26 bus to Hackney Wick almost as though she were being sucked down the road towards Lower Marsh – that street behind the station – and, once there, began to pace backwards and forwards until it grew dark. Her to-ing and fro-ing must have appeared to any casual onlooker as the result of some deep distraction, perhaps a lost set of keys, or even some private matter into which her thoughts had been cast so deeply as to have made her all but oblivious to the way in which she now appeared. Or whether she was lured here by some rogue, circuitous thought which confined her into this aberration nobody rightly knows, but that to-ing and fro-ing of hers brought eyes with it. Hungry eyes. And what was left in the morning was a terrible sight to see.

Sometimes after work I too walk up and down this street, backwards and forwards, just to try and remember if I was responsible.

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Hesitation

border

The neat angle of the grass as it joins the pavement in this quiet niche of the municipal gardens is certainly no place to hesitate, when to hesitate is to signal the shady characters who always wait with interminable patience over there behind the trees where the shade is thickest. Even if it were not the case that such characters – though they go about their business in the most ordinary of ways and even a sideways glance may be misconstrued – were any more likely to pose a danger than you do yourself, the suggestiveness of this place, the way the pavement folds along the grass so neatly, is all too much to resist and helplessness becomes the only motive. The cautious eyes of children, women alone, flashing across to the shade of the trees and back again invites the inevitable even if you intend no such thing – you stalk out from the thicket and approach if only because she hesitates for a moment –

The Body Politic: The Waste Problem

waste_problem_curators_notes

Explore ‘The Waste Problem’ at The Unstitute

What sort of ‘waste problem’ are we dealing with here? It is true that the health of the whole body politic rests on the sanitary measures taken to deal with its waste, but to reduce this ‘problem’ to a concern for hygiene in the regular sense would be to somewhat miss the object of CADE’s  enquiry. ‘Hygiene’ could conceivably indicate some form of ‘racial hygiene’, (attested by increasingly frequent outbreaks of fascism, like buboes on the skin of society,) a mendacious attitude towards ‘cultural cleanliness’ even, or a division of the clean and unclean; it may refer to a physical blockage in the waste-disposal system of the city, (as in the sewerage pipes we see stuffed with dog carcasses by operatives from Thames Water,) or it may even point towards a mental attitude towards waste which itself is becoming problematic – things formerly considered ‘useful’ are re-categorised unconsciously into the ‘useless’, provoking widespread nausea and apathy towards the value of things. One thing is certain however; CADE takes no moral stance on this rubbishing of everything – indeed, he seems quite at home, nestled amongst the spreading tendrils of entropy all around, a lotus-eater. His writings indicate no critique of post-industrial capitalism and its excesses; no Camorra-style syndicate is holding politicians to ransom with garbage; no general strike amongst sanitation contractors is prostrating the system. There is in fact no good reason why it should be so, but there it is: CADE presents a compromised system in which everything is in a process of ‘being-wasted’ – including its people.

On several occasions CADE himself displays the tendency towards purposeless drifting – swept along, object-like, mysterious to himself – to everything. His records are begrimed with apathy:

 “A machine for the production of rubbish.”

This phrase, written out several times in his journal, must make us reconsider what is meant by rubbish and by what is not meant by rubbish; are things becoming rubbish even before they are used? There is doubtless more, (or perhaps even less,) than meets the eye. After touching this material, watching it, hearing it, reading it, one gets a stale odour on one’s fingers, so to speak – used, spent, empty. This system, as it is perceived, is in the process of losing its useful energy at a highly accelerated pace, decay is encrusting every corner and every object in ambiguity, and the cohesion between the sensible and the impossible is becoming meaningless – is becoming rubbish, in fact. The apparently systematic methods employed by CADE in gathering this material is not one of retrieving something meaningful or useful out of the rubbish-heap; rather, in his method is a peculiar desire to join with this rubbish, to become part of a system which is in the process of becoming useless as we speak. And perhaps CADE’s ‘machine for the production of rubbish’ is some kind of entropic engine, devaluing the usefulness of anything, a Heraclitean cosmic-accelerator in which the cohesion of the meaningful tends ultimately towards dissolution and chaos. Another quote from his journal seems conclusive:

“The universe is a great pile of rubbish, heaped up at random.”

Bettany Unction

Chief Curator

View the entire project here: “drifting towards (x)”

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Non-conductor

no-nothing

There’s a lot to be said about inertia. I myself have been inert for…seven years now, ever since the old Routemaster buses were taken out of service. Yeah, I was a conductor, see. Oh, It was a merry old life we had back in the old days. Great times, they were…yeah…nah, hold on a minute…that’s a lie. A complete lie. I just told you a complete…listen; I had an awful time back in the old days. Working every day for sod all money, having horrible people shout at you for no reason on that filthy old bus that stank of vomit half the time…thirty-eight years of it. Even then I used to nag about how things were better in the old days! And now here I am, saying that even those old days I used to hate were better than these days are now. How do people go on like that, always complaining about the present, in the present? If anyone sours the taste of the present, it’s me – let’s face facts here! It’s not as though its got something to do with all this progress that’s…what do you call it…decadent, is it? You know, like how even though we’re progressing into ‘a better world’ and all that guff, somehow life was always better in the past. I mean, it must be me who’s wrong…it can’t be ‘our age’ that’s up the spout, can it?

Sorry…rambling away there…completely lost my thread. Don’t get much chance to speak to anyone these days. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I used to work on the Routemaster number 38 bus that ran from Clapton Pond to Victoria Station ‘til it was decommissioned seven years ago. There was a big hoo-ha about cutting down on expenditures, and how my job was seen as expendable, you know, unnecessary…so I got made redundant, didn’t I? Well, it had quite some effect on me, that did. You see, it all happened when I was reading through the redundancy notice the bus company sent me. Hold on a minute…I’ve got it somewhere…here it is. I’ll read it to you, shall I?

Dated April the 9th, 2005

Dear Mr Bus-Conductor Man,
(that’s me, see,)
Dear Mr Bus-Conductor Man,

This bus company don’t need you no more, right, so you better get yourself gone real quick. If you don’t, I’ll eat your children, though you probably don’t have any ‘cause you’re such a massive tosser.’

Yours with deep affection, etc, etc,

Sir Frederic Cunthole, CEO

Well, apart from this personal letter I received, (which I thought was lovely, you know, that ‘personal touch’ helps soften the blow in these instances, dunnit?) I also got an information pack about why they was making blokes redundant, and I was reading about how ‘by cutting down on unnecessary labour the company could save money and deliver a better service, ready to face the challenges of an uncertain economic future’, etc, etc, etc, etc. Well…I was struck – suddenly – by an idea. I mean, what if it was true? Perhaps I ought to treat this redundancy note as a word of warning, you know, sent by providence? Perhaps I should cut down on excess labour – that might help me progress into an uncertain economic future, ready to face the challenges I might find there? I mean, blimey! What’s this future going to look like, eh?…I got…well, I got bleedin’ worried about the future, didn’t I, and I thought…well, I’d better get my arse in gear and start cutting down on unnecessary labour.

Well, I started out small; you know, by sitting at rest and not bumbling about all day. I don’t know if you ever been put out of work, but you tend to bumble about all day, worrying about bumbling about all day. So I just sat in my chair. I thought it’d be best to meet this uncertain future by expressing the minimum amount of effort physically possible. It was weird though, ‘cause I’d been travelling along that same route every day now for the past thirty-eight years, and all of a sudden, I has this sudden great change in velocity thrust upon me, like a lifetime’s movement suddenly stopped, and now there’s, there’s nothing but this…inertia! But I tried to keep calm and carry on, you know, being inert. Well, since then, I haven’t moved from my armchair. No kidding…I’ve resisted every impulse to get up and move about, and taken my redundancy completely literally.

You know, things really spiralled out of control after that, cause, you know, my wife tried everything she could think of to get me out of my inertial state, (which she took to be some kind of melancholy, albeit a lot less psychological, ‘cause, err, ‘cause I got less psychology than the average man, according to my doctor,) and there were doctors and social workers here all the time, prodding me about and asking questions. But I just sat here, and after a bit, they buggered off. Well, after my wife left me, strange thing happened…I had these people round from the TV company, see, and they wanted to do a story on me. I didn’t mind, ‘cause, err, I just sat here. You know, it didn’t affect my inertia one bit, ‘cause, you know, I’d taken remedial measures against the uncertain future, like. But then, right, weird thing is, is after this programme goes out on daytime TV right, all these young people started coming round. Yeah, they would just…sit…you know, all over the place. I could have as many as two hundred people round here at any one time, just sitting about. On the landing, the stairs, the cooker, all over the place. It was like…I started some kind of movement or something…except it weren’t moving nowhere! Or, or, like I’d become the conductor of some kind of force…some kind of resistance or something. It was like being back on the bus again, with these people coming in and sitting about before moving on. Except we didn’t go nowhere.

Well, then they stopped comin’ round all of a sudden, didn’t they. The youths. And then some geezer from the Department of Health comes round, and he prods me about and asks me a load of ‘questions’. I mean, ‘questions’! The bleedin’ cheek of it! And he tells me it’s a ‘Risk Assessment’ or something. I mean, what’s going to happen to me! I took all these measures against the uncertain future, didn’t I, and now me future’s all bleedin’ uncertain again, isn’t it!

Bleedin’ council!

 

View the entire project over at The Unstitute: “…drifting towards (x)”

 

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