Core Temple

I’ve been wandering around for years in a state of shock, not doing very much, trying to make myself feel better.

I think I might feel better if I could develop a programme to guide me.

Everything is grounded in the immediate experience of now. We are here and not elsewhere, and we act from where we are. The immediate experience of now reasserts itself as reality no matter how often it is denied.

That feels a bit better. That’s something to hang onto, something to guide me. Can I add anything to it – something that allows me to feel less foolish, something to elevate myself above my degradation, something that appears to possess the weight (or is it the lightness?) of truth, something to make me feel special?

There is no secret wisdom. Everything is provisional. Nothing is certain. There are no reliable authorities. All systems are arbitrary and only acquire meaning if their constituent elements are accepted as if they were true. All supposedly valid systems can be invalidated by the simple expedient of refusing their premises.

How can I assert my identity, or something that might develop into a coherent identity? How can I go beyond space and time without losing myself completely? How can I say, “Fuck you” to the Masters?

What people tell me I am is a fiction. I am beyond any definition given by the other. I am beyond any definition given by myself. I am beyond what I’m told I am. I begin nowhere. I end nowhere. I occupy a space between beginning and end, which is constant but seems to change. The mortal and corruptible body is absolutely linked to any notion of super sensible being with which it is associated. We have the necessary resources within us and we do not need instruction from elsewhere.

Things seem to be looking up. I’m happy. I’m breathing clean air. I’m a hero in the cause of truth. I’ve ascended and made a stab at revenge. I’m prepared. How can I move on from here?

Form is a treatment of unfettered imagination. The limited is a manifestation of the limitless. Limitless being exists in the context of finite being; the endless is known by that which knows a beginning and end. The end is in the beginning and the beginning is in the end. The beginning and the end differ by virtue of that which has passed between them.

That’s a beginning. How will it end?

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I.C. Water: Ian Curtis Remembered

Ian Curtis 1

I phoned someone in Manchester and told them that I thought Ian was really going to try and kill himself and that they should get to him immediately at home or even call the local police or it might be too late. When I was challenged and asked how I knew, I said I just knew. It was a scary but overwhelming certainty that I was feeling. They basically ridiculed me telling me that Ian was always depressed and suicidal and miserable, that that’s just how he is. I felt helpless. They promised they’d do something anyway, even though they thought he’d just been winding me up…

Download:  IC Water

I WAS NOT THERE…WHO TOUCHED ME?

“And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.”

Life is best conceived of as a chaotic dynamic process without any stability or direction…

Behind all logic and its autocratic posturings stand valuations or, stated more clearly, physiological requirements for the preservation of a particular type of life. For example, that the determinate is worth more than the indeterminate, appearance worth less than the ‘truth’…

The human being is a diverse, hypocritical, artificial, and opaque animal, uncanny to other animals more because of his cunning and cleverness than his strength.

Download: I WAS NOT THERE…WHO TOUCHED ME

Selected Trash from the Ruins of Society

Why produce images? What guides the process of presentation? One can say it’s the eye moving with detached coolness through the environments it traverses, but that would be to place too great an emphasis on the idea of the eye as an instrument of will. What determines the environment that this heroic eye engages with? Duty, whim, boredom, the fiction of a mission grounded in a half-baked idea… Clear eye, calm mind, the desire to transform passive acceptance through the exercise of choice… The imposition of a programme.

We move away from reality the moment we attempt to describe what we’re doing. We blunder around until we arrive at the idea of a therapeutic foundation underlying our gestures in the world. We don’t limit ourselves to the in the moment clarity of what’s going on. It’s predetermined intention encountering those elements of the moment that seem right and fitting for all manner of reasons invented after the fact.

Yeah, mate, I just go out and do it, and I do it so often that I seem to know what I’m doing, and this supposition eventually takes on the properties of certainty, so that I know I’m on the right track. It’s a form of experimental engagement with myself that grants me possession of the world. It’s my world, and I show it to you, and your reaction lets me know that it exists.

Download: Selected Trash from the Ruins of Society 2018

Wyndham Court, Southampton, 19 April 2018

Processed with Blackie

There’s something about visiting a place for the first time that makes the elements that comprise the environment more noticeable than they seem to be when a locale becomes familiar. There’s something about being out in the world after an extended period of retirement that amplifies this mode of perception.

I’d never been to Southampton before (and I haven’t returned since this photo was taken) and I arrived in the city following a time of great tribulation that had confined me to my home, then my neighbourhood, then my city in a state of trembling and fear for almost a year.

Going to Southampton represented a key milestone in my reintegration into wider society. The sense of alertness grounded in the shock of the new and my consciousness that a lot was at stake merely by undertaking the journey was further heightened by the fact that I had travelled there for an appointment that had the potential to bring about great changes in my life and way of being.

Personally, the picturesque qualities of a council estate modelled to resemble an ocean liner in concrete were far less significant than the fact that I was there to see it, or to see anything. But these personal considerations are not visible, neither do they endure. I think about them when I see the picture but all anyone else sees is the image.

Who Wins if You Win? Carver Street, 24 July 2018

Who Wins If You Win Carver Street 24.07.18

This is the work of an unknown graffiti artist who operates in the region of Carver Street and Rockingham Lane in Sheffield. The work of this individual is invariably primitive, consisting mainly of one word slogans (as illustrated here) or short phrases. There’s no real underlying theme to the collection, but contempt for authority and an indictment of commercialism is indicated, alongside a sense of alienation from restrictive societal norms.

As well as this comment on the Lotto, the artist has expressed opinions on the council (meaning Local Authority), Donald Trump and the toilet practices of Justin Bieber.

There’s something about the nature of the interventions that suggests a male hand is at work and my knowledge of the locality leads me to believe I could make a good guess about where he lives and even what time he commits his slogans to the walls and billboards that comprise his gallery.

West Street, 29 March 2018

Processed with Blackie

Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born,

Or of th‘ Eternal Coeternal beam      

May I express thee unblam’d? since God is light,      

And never but in unapproachèd light

Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,             

Bright effluence of bright essence increate.    

Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,  

Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,        

Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice        

Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest  

The rising world of waters dark and deep,     

Won from the void and formless infinite.      

Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing …

David Village Lighting maintained a showroom on West Street for 20 years. I passed the place hundreds of times and I never once saw a customer in there. Come to think of it, I never saw the slightest trace of a human presence in what seemed to be a luxury commercial outlet.

The shop never made sense to me. For a time, I speculated that the tawdry luxury apartments across the road might have generated a viable customer base but ultimately the development failed to make any appreciable difference.

Something unseen must have been going on to sustain the place for so long without any visible signs of support. I assume it had something to do with council sponsored neighbourhood action plans and vainglorious chancers exploiting transient funding streams.

David Village Lighting embodies a certain type of future, a self-interested form of success: something that appears to exist, offering something for sale, without anyone to sell it, because nobody wants to buy.