Morning

Mad Mary

At the hags table: oneiric excerpts and images; a reading:



(Excerpt from an email correspondence march 17^th 2019 on the subject of oneiric hags):
‘This gets me thinking of why the hags may not scare me as much as they could; im the older sister that's job it is to scare the younger siblings. The momo challenge you mention reminds me of games like 'mad mary' from childhood. During sleepovers after binging on tacky 90's horror films the night would usually end with me invoking mad mary. Mad Mary was a witch that apparently would appear if you turned the lights off and in front of the mirror repeated her name three times...Mad Mary...Mad Mary...Mad Mary. I would always do this despite the protests from friends. And so following this maybe those hags dont choke me because i conjured them first? Or better put: i read that you cannot tickle yourself because you anticipate the movements. So maybe i spent too much time in front of mirrors identifying as mad mary that the sensation of being chocked lost some of its chokiness in the same way as tickling can loose its tickliness...oh wait that does not make sense, does it?...’
The Hags Table:

As a question I drop a picture into the watery hag table:

Then the photos, placed on the watery table, float, spread and form a turning- translucent membrane on the surface.

Hag’s hands submerge into a round, black liquid table of infinite darkness. And they are feeling for ripples, or perhaps gauging the temperature. Cold until the hands are dead. Maybe to drop in temperature is to drop in other ways.
I pass her this image:

She then passes me this:

Mad Mary

Mad Mary

Mad Mary

restoration of the moon

Bravado's pickmes

I, Percy Bravado, would like to introduce myself to the reader more personally as a young hysterical man reading from a book without a title. I here attempt to create my own dream interpretation method, coached from the corners by the inscrutability of Freud. In my spare time I practice mindfulness and make impossible bottles, most of which contain miniature ships.
This oneiric expedition is prompted by a found photo of a woman I am sure is my mother, my daughter, my lover; all at once. She surmised by the perplexed look on my face that I needed help turning the pages…

I here determine that the book these two avatars have in common is Sigmund Freuds ‘interpretation of dreams’.
So I will open that book now to instigate and comprehend the relationship between these two images- a conversation or a copulation? Dexterity will decide.

Freud first begins his dream interpretation by dissecting the dream for the patient, then, in connection with each fragment the patient gives him a number of ideas which may be described as the ‘thoughts behind’ that focused part of the dream; the dream here as conceived as a “conglomerate of psychic formations”. On reading this description i pause on the line ‘thoughts behind’. And reverting to the initial avatars that mutually read Freud in a state of suspension, I see  there is no behind. No behind because the contents of the book in the second image are fully disclosed and on display. For me this introduces a limit.
The consequences of which will follow…  

something is coming towards me
the wall is moving

So after that pause I resume reading. Irma’s injection. Studiously I inscribe quotes of his that resonate with me as I try to make sense of him, or enter his text, in black biro. Alongside this, in blue biro, I write any personal associations that come to me, that may or may not be in keeping with Freuds methods.

Freuds position seems very congruous. I have been different people in my dreams. I begin to oscillate between positions described in the dreams content. That is, I am not consistently following Freud as he inhabits the dream space; he does not have my complete attention. In flashes I identify with the shifting women described, and in this is the sneaking impression of ‘what if she is in fact dreaming Freud?’ or ‘does Freud have any idea of what he has gotten himself into?!’
A signature may not be enough to claim space here.
And so I bestow these dream spectacles with potential life. Life beyond their dreamer; activity that I perceive to exceed that permitted by the interpretive methods so far offered.

He continues, “they are wish dreams in that every dream emanates from the first instance, while the second instance behaves towards the dream only in a defensive, not in a constructive, manner”. But given I feel my first instance to be somewhat of a shapeshifter, it is here I stop, problems unsolved. Here I stop with the same seeming limit of the open book with its abstract doodles.
(wtf even is that? And where did it come from?)
All will not return to him, and maybe this is the risk of being misinterpreted, to limit yourself to the ‘second instance’ of the wish.

Tough luck. We are in it.

It is in these moments of flickering locations, which may later be described as hysterical, that I witness (and feel) the intrusions of an alien force that may be more in keeping with supernatural methods of dream interpretation, dreams as divine messengers and so on, but witnessed and experienced from multiple points. From multiple points the significant difference is that my body is not solely fixed in a state of being inhabited nor intruded upon by external forces; distinctions between internal/external perennially shifting. Corporeality is not settled once and of all. I flit in and out of the position of ‘force’, Alien force, or distribute myself within it differently. I put myself in the place of.

And just as Freud, differing from the cipher method of interpretation by holding that ‘the same dream content may conceal a different meaning in the case of different persons’, I here take liberty to say the same ‘interpretation of dreams’ can conceal a different meaning in the case of different persons, aswel; I consider my hysterical experiences as changeling evidence of this.

Of multiple people at once and also multiple places at once, my reading is interrupted by the recollection of a dream I had years ago, February 20^th 2015 to be precise:
“nanas old house, kitchen, which is at the same time an asylum and a care home. There appears a male patient who has made an artwork. It is like a child’s drawing but is luminous in highlighter pens. Then I notice (at first thinking it was flat) that in its centre is a stuck on circular shape that the male patient has infact started from, prompted by this alien sticker. This was not a random drawing at all. He peels it off to show me, or do I peel it off? And it is deeply suspicious, it seems living somehow, like its surface is always changing. Is it his muse? Or the voice in his head? Sticker-device-instigates. He grows hostile so I take him to a chair and make him a cup of tea. He is then calm and becomes a pleasant elderly woman.”

My experimental choice here is this: I am not going to dissect my dream here. I am going to leave it. I am going to leave it there like an alien sticker within this text. How do you like that?

This sloppy choice is appropriated by an angel singing:
“…not reliant on personal unconscious causation but on collective unconscious realization.”
shhhhhh Jung!
Freud is feeling parched.
Very thirsty
Make it rain!

“the fulfilment of a wish; I regret that I no longer possess this vase; it like the glass of water at my wife’s side, is inaccessible to me.”
am I dissociating or astral projecting?

Wild flowers Freud. Wild flowers.

a vagrant dandelion speaks
“I am an experience curator, I hand select the finest pickmes for you to orbit.”

Glass Falcon Cradled

(stream of conciousness daydream written approx. nov 2018 in response to glass from Stockholm visit at that time) 

(Entering the melancholic womb land)

I cannot find her. She doesn’t exist.

The joy is gone. Im living vicariously through a glass prism of shifting women I cannot find, the photo booth, the photo booth. I don’t want to enter the contact zone. Im gonna be sick

This is ridiculous. Somebody please snap me out of it.

I want to swim out to sea with my brother and laugh at the whole world. He is the only one who understands. I love him. Lets swim further out so dad cannot hear us. Ha, his head looks like a tiny little beached pea from here!

Maybe we should let him off?

Sean, lets listen to music and drink, I shouldn’t invite you because I know when to stop, you don’t, you don’t come home.

Im literal to the point of losing all objectivity

I thought once I had found the ‘it’, I would have it forever, that I’d get to keep it. You want to be dead? The ‘it’ is the interval?

I am embarrassed by joy.

I watched the film ‘the others’ last night, and the little brother and sister reminded me of us. I love you to infinity. Im drunk on endearment.

Why?

You said anyone could make collages the way I do, that it was nothing fresh- why did this bring me joy? If im mean to you you’re always the first to cry; You are so sensitive!

One of us had to mutate to save the other. Lets take turns, maybe then we will last longer? Divine balance?

You drink the extra drink for my substance-less alcoholism. Im drunk on the liquid ‘it’. Im intoxicated through drinking the nothing.

you shouldn’t glamorize vertigo, it is dangerous.

I’m an enabler.

I created a good joke. It goes ‘what do you call teeth in love?’
the answer…’enamelled’. I felt like a genius in that I had participated in the ‘BIG joke’. I had really understood things with that joke. I was really in the ‘know’; it was global and moved as the viral moves.

It was so good it almost felt like an object in itself, like a seashell, a gastropod born from my mouth.

we are drifting further out. I am jealous because your scream is louder than mine; they will rescue you first. Who pulled the short straw? I cannot tell as I am busy tapping ice cubes with it.

The rescuers have arrived.
Don’t worry, I will deal with them.

I am going to perform ‘active passion’ now and be very direct. My request is: fetch me a falcon and I will speak. Otherwise how can you speak to the everywhere? You have to look someone in the eyes when you are speaking to them.

And I don’t like what you are making of my ‘head’. You are making of it a terminus and trying to convince me my head is an origin. It is not. Stop with all the dizzy spiralling. You are ludicrous! Fetch the falcon and it will speak on my behalf. I’m gonna prove it to you. There is no X on this map.

No treasure?

to the contrary, I have experiential evidence…

I visited Stockholm and found myself in the cold- I took a photo. I have an ACTUAL photo. How can you argue with that? It is verifiable! See, I told you I saw it. My voice is a camera flash. The falcon will catch you back!

Now don’t ruffle my feathers!

(I am waterproof.)

Am I being self absorbed? Something is absorbing. Imagine if louis wain put his cats back together? That is an example of self-absorbtion. The photo is just an example. Don’t read into it too much. Don’t read at all.  

There is infact an X on the map. It is the venoms host animal. Lets pass through it and neutralize. But Please don’t lose me in the sobering process.

Women just want to drink red wine and make love. but the new Women will want to ingest mushrooms and do yoga I am told.

Can I speak paranoia without the thinking? I’ll tell you. When I lose myself to the world I feel everything in motion, shifting. It is more volant speed than terrestrial solidity.  I feel like I am moved by a common principle. I’m passing through. Don’t get stuck on the information, it will make you sticky. That is important I think.

Do you think I have ‘too much’ personality to the point of appearing ‘fake’, is it convincing?
Cant my name be instead ‘too much’? TooMuchy?
Or…
Not-A-Noughy?
Or…JustRighty?
…Sheer’delighty?
(I like the word ‘just’. It is a totalizing seashell.)

You are evading reality. You are disassociating. Come back. I was never gone?
Wake up????? I don’t know what you are saying, you’ve lost me.

Swooshcrone

A collection of photos taken around Newcastle, layered with found objects and here contextualized.



I am used to finding swooshcrones in my office by way of some heretical lure. However, I was startled to encounter one whilst driving through the urban wastelands on my way to taco bell. Here are my following notes on the encounter:

It is said the swooshcrone swallows its words instead of speaking them. A phenomena which us humans for a long time mistook for mere self-reflection. Recent studies have shown that this is not at all the case due to breakthroughs made in understanding the swooshcrones reproductive processes. So far we have found that swooshcrones reproduce both sexually and asexually. 

In controlled isolation, solitary swooshcrones have been observed to sporadically reproduce from their single organism, though whether this can be conceived of as Asexuality proper (as single-parent-inheritance), we do not know. Morphic resonance has been suggested as a more elucidating angle in which to approach this phenomenon. Or alternatively Freudians have speculated it may relate to a parental view of fate given the striking masochistic behavioural parallels observed.  

In terms of communication, swooshcrones appear to understand human language. However, in conversation with scientists an occurrence of significant frequency has been their sporadic change of focus; who, and what, they are speaking towards and also who, and what, they are speaking as.

Many swooshcrones seem at eloquent ease whilst conversing about broad topics such as the weather and politics, with rate, volume and tone of speech normal. This however can at any moment change and researchers have found the swooshcrone to have gone from talking to them as a whole person, to zoning in on a partial feature of seeming insignificance, for example, a freckle, and elevating it to the status of personhood at the expense of the professional body as a whole. 

A personal anecdote I have is when conversing with what appeared to me to be a female swooshcrone, she abruptly changed the course of the conversation as she began ardently talking to a silver cufflink I was wearing. This initial deviancy lead her to then converse with my neighbouring wrist, and all this preceded by a smirk on her part.

For sake of professionalism I stopped the session for fear she would go on to permeate my whole body with such perverse and non-sensical scrutiny. Many fellow professionals are of the opinion this could possibly be a sexual response, that is the swooshcrones attempt to re-appropriate the professional language for sexual satisfaction and also, we note, for pro-creative purposes. 

Such a perverse conversational and pro-creative style can be observed in the swooshcrones image making that for a large part seems insularly autoerotic. This aforementioned oscillation between who and what is spoken towards, and also multiple points at once, almost orchestral, seems to validate our historical understandings and formulations of perversions, making Freud’s work relevant in so far as trying to trace and comprehend the complexity of swooshcrones and other creatures like them; humans.

‘Re-appropriation’ is a term we professionals feel falls short in ascertaining the swooshcrones experience of their own identity and subsequent territory. That is, they seem capable of performing and engaging in highly intelligent forms of irony, using collective material, however, the sobriety of their consciousness in this social participation we are unsure of.

Eruptions of out-of-context laughter or dramatic crying suggest the swooshcrones self-awareness in these social systems fluctuates. This bears a resemblance to cases of human trauma and mental illness and symptoms, though we are reluctant to draw definitive parallels given swooshcrones are not human but are closer, ancestrally, to rebel-felids. Following this, we can surmise swooshcrones are somewhat unconscious. 

(rare photo of wild rebel-felid, a close ancestor to the swooshcrone)
Swooshcrones territories should be approached cautiously given our limited understandings of their seemingly shifting systems and regularly violent outbursts. However, territory itself is a difficult line to draw as a healthy swooshcrone will be of the perception that it belongs wherever it so happens to find itself.

Using the aforementioned autoerotic strategies, healthy swooshcrones will begin to attentively territorialize their given environments. For this reason I cannot stress enough the necessary caution researchers must take if they are to avoid becoming a pawn (or mere fetish object) in the swooshcrones corporeal, and heartless, universe.

Co-operative contact seems to have been established?

A swooshcrone-rebel-felid hybrid

seahorse & stone

bridal rat

meme-mapping

meditations on sense-making via a layout of meme-cards. found and altered:

at home...

Morning
Awake
"I am you"

making-sense

This image I came across a while ago reminds me of my grandmother. She is exceptional at knitting, reads detective novels, adores cats, and always has vases full of fresh flowers around her in her front room. Lots of magical associations in this image I think:

At the same time, it also reminded me of a dream I had a few years back:

I am afraid of James and I want him out of my house. On the windowsill I am placing a sculpture to dry. It is made from bits of grey parched bone, and stuck together with sticky, syrupy saliva. It is drying, but James is coming in and out of the window to smoke cigarettes. He tells me to move it as it will be knocked over and smash. This seems reasonable so I move it to the side of the windowsill. He sees it and tells me again that it will get smashed if I leave it there. And in this is a threat. That if I do not do as I’m told he will smash it on purpose to punish me. This is simultaneously a fear that he will hurt my cats.

I am focusing here on this image in order to make sense of my own creative process that is often enough threatened by a traumatic glitch (a set-up which the dream alludes to.) Maybe in order to grasp a greater context, to spread myself concentrically outwards from that insular immediacy; a self-referential attentiveness that I hope will inspire dynamical divergence but also something protective or transforming in response to said psychic threat.  

Yesterday i read an essay by Luce Irigaray ‘the gesture in psychoanalysis’, and here are what I take from it for this particular cluster of associations, sense-making. In the essay she differentiates between the game of fort da played by the little boy in mothers absence and the play of little girls. It is a certain creative acknowledgement which I want here to quote and describe the emotional effect it had on me, a creative moment which creates a psychic space for me:

“The sexual movement fundamental to the feminine is much closer to gyration than to the gesture like little Ernst of throwing away and drawing closer. The girl tries to reproduce around her or inside herself a movement whose energy is circular, and which protects her from dereliction, from immediate effraction, from depression, from loss in itself. It is also, although this is in my opinion secondary, a means of seduction. The girl describes a circle, both inviting and refusing, access to the territory thus inscribed.”

This makes perfect sense to me, but I want to specify an absolute psychic necessity in it. It is the acknowledgement of seduction being secondary to this auto-erotic “need to be born to themselves and to gain their autonomy themselves”. Because this is not at all a constant realization in my day to day relationships. In bleak moments I have took my only place to be in the space of seduction if not alienation (the room of her own) or the defensive oscillation between the two, where imagination and language have failed me. But this here, for me, demonstrates a very fruitful turning of the head, turning of attention.

Such a process I can see in my writings (which I only create out of emotional urgency; to make sense, and making sense too involves all the corporeality). The previous post, ‘kill the bitch’ was something written in a café in the morning time. A dialogue in a monologue. I often re-read what I write a few times in order to further make sense of, but not in a purely interpretive, identifying way, more a continuation of the sense-making if sense-making can here be conceived of as an ongoing, almost tactile, relationship to language (knitting). ‘kill the bitch’ I sent to a few people impulsively, there is a definite pleasure in self-consciousness here. In that text was a wish formulated (or multiple wishes) I think if not an out-right cry for help to myself. It was on re-reading the text and the fact that when you share something, a part of you is revealed elsewhere, beyond all your control, but a very nice feeling it can be to see again and again all the moments of yourself that evade you. And on re-reading, the aggressions of the initial writing had calmed, and I saw in the dialogue a certain community of women united in the exaggerated digression of a public pump. I thought 'oh I must tell my friends about this, it is hilarious'. This in a simple but uplifting way brought me into a witches sabbath of sorts and so I did not feel the segregation, the alienation of my ‘last word’ ending on eclipsing fear. The fear that is maybe implicit in my dream, that is, ‘James’s threat’.

post-pump era

or...de mystification of her royalty.
to be done with the judgement of god, you simply 'let rip' in his presence. 

It seems so obvious now.

after this revelation... what is one to do? will the great british agony aunt be rendered obsolete? will the joke get old? the laughter subside? was i ever desirable? these are questions that demand serious poetic investigation if i am to reclaim my sex-appeal, my royal glamour from the cloud of chuckling methane that is the profane.

To be continued...

kill the bitch

A little bitch has been screeching at me for some time. I am quite amazed that this creature can impose on my space with such possessive force, yet silently. Silently loud; a muted explosion.

She can have some airspace today if it will shut her up. But first I have a few choice words for her.

Now here roll the questions, after questions, for the sake of questions that no one can answer, no one but me, she is convinced.

I would fling this repulsive doll out of the nearest window if it wasn’t for this inch of distance between us. Inch of breathing space. One inch. No more. Just one. Is my last nerve.
We are mutual benefactors of this last nerve, it is almost placental. But we cannot recall who it belonged to, firstly. Nor can we decide once and for all.
But I just know id die if it were severed.

The one inch of last nerve is pink minced meat.
go ahead. Eviscerate me bitch.
I hope my entrails scold your red mouth.
spitting acid to spite your face.
I need beauty less than you do. MELT!
MELT!
Melt into pre-conception you bitch!

Diabolical of all is you don’t even care. Sly eyes through a whimper. For being suicidal you seem awfully adamant to live. You’re a freak of nature from a freak experiment from the latest freak anti-depression medication that has gone horribly horribly wrong. Sure, it works, but at what cost?

A snail is crushed; you cry a river.
A whole nation of people obliterated; you shrug?
You.are.seriously.mentally.disturbed.
You’d prefer the devasting blaze left by an escapee rat to that of universal equality. Total. Sharing. Complete. World peace. A full stop makes a capital and you could not even give a damn if that rat goes on to plague the world. You just release without no consideration of what you are releasing.
Idiot.

You’ll notice an out of place pebble before you’ll acknowledge your company. Watch out mrs daydreamer, you may get hit by an approaching automobile. Apparently the ecological is lost on the comatose casket they call your body. Would collision wake you up? A good stoning maybe? I know I’d like to kick you. But I wont.

I feel you pushing up under my skirt, threatening all decent company with a convulsion of out-of-context laughter. What exactly is funny about the out of line?
I press my boot heavy on your neck to keep you under the table. Don’t embarrass yourself. I drag you through all my hallways by the hair, kicking and screaming and you are relentlessly laughing.
It seems boys have kek and we have this in-in joke of a smirking glance. And no more than that. It doesn’t seem fair but here we are in the pleasure of a blush.  

I want to know: am I right in keeping you alive?

And now I need you. After all that. Thank heavens I didn’t stomp you to death. Please say something to lift my spirits; I’ve just had a near death experience Afterall. Anything. Just take me elsewhere.

and here she goes…

“a boy kissed me and so I cried until he took it back”

“also…I bit a babies cheek today. Now I feel bad about it”

“Therefor…if it is going to be oedipal, can I atleast choose which men father me?”

“if so, Breton I like. And some more too, just depends really. I’ll play it by ear.”

“if no, then how do I quench my cannibalism?”

A poem about sex or flatulence, or both or no? you decide.

doodles