I feel like I am coming to the end of something. I am a becoming chrysalis, not a butterfly but the genetic soup that can still twitch the cocoon on the outside, like the flex of a liquid muscle. Reading Glissant and Delueze and Guattari on a morning and flopping around in the afternoon, writing fragments - six sentences at a time, like getting blood out of a stone. Playing games of online poker with mental excuses running through my mind like the telecast of a news presenter. The weeks are all rolling together, the grass needs cutting, something different needs to happen.
The biggest thoughts of the week-
What it is for something to be opaque,
Why does Deleuze think it so important to prick the life of the world with a pointed drill.
How smooth and striated space function to hold back chaos. ( the thinking of them together and holding this)
How the encounter with art; when it is new (for the academic with plexi glass and colored oils or ink and white paper) is something different to those of us who spend a life submerged in the flow of it, for good or bad.
I thought again of intermediality, Fluxus raises its ugly head working with unfixed forms or forms that are matter out of place in contexts like research or school.
The art world is striated space - culture is capitol and relative there is base and superstructure.
Glissant writes of the opaque and Deleuze and Guattarri write of facialisation. They say to become a body without organs is dangerous and we should move gently into the valley. They tell us the tool needed is a file not a hammer but ask us to stitch up all our holes, our mouths and anuses and cut new ones, the cutting is extreme the Body without Organs is a set of Punctions and ruptures.
Artaud coins the phrase but he is mad - he owns a walking stick that belongs to st Patrick to Jesus and the Devil and goes to Ireland to Galway to return it to all three - this detour was a reminder of the stories that carry us away - I lost my great grandads walking stick because I had two many I was supposed to be looking after it as it connected to his hand as an extension of his body perhaps the lost walking stick of my grandad is a body without organs? I have no nowhere to return it to that is now and here.
I 'm lost in music caught in a trap there is no turning back. Vaguely as I read on and find my organs receding I am wondering if I am less afraid of dieing as I am dismantled in my oneness. I hope this is the point of the effort, to be less frightened of my own death would be a result in terms of the difficulty of the journey.
I'm also working through an idea that the reason I couldn't make any work in my workshop was that it is separate from the world I work in - removed from the actual sites of practice, it is not a bad thing but currently makes no sense or is a (new)sense the term I'm coining along with other words I'm coining.
After word - The idea of performing artist is on my mind Judith Butler says that you perform who you are within the subjectivity of time rather than been an artists you are being been an artist (or not). So I'm performing been an artist by making art and referencing art - I'm turning an inflatable aubergine into a bean. I am referencing a piece of work called the negative meaning wears the trousers - I am been both silly and clever I am bean a bean and performing being been an artist at the same time, it is and is not my masterpiece. It is one of the silliest things I have bothered investing my time in- it is how I feel - the work is too clever for its own good and too silly to be taken seriously. Why is language full of homophones if its intention is to make sense and not a (new)sense of itself.
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