Education and the Public Sphere/The Nomadic Hive

The Teach-In.
This space is ours. It belongs to us. On the evening of December 9th 2010 we attempted an occupation of this space. Room 43 of the National Gallery overlooked by Manet's "Execution of Maximilian".  We are a multitude of artists, students and lecturers. This space is public, it is ours, it belongs to us. This education is ours, it is public, it is free. We are sitting down aggravating this space because it is public space under the eyes of a political betrayal and abandonment. Look at the situation we are now all witnesses to. It has been creeping for the last 15 years. The state of our education system is changing. We are no longer in the grasp of free further education whose implications are for the greater public good, but capitalist education, education with a price tag that works towards economic gain. In other words, we are not expected to attend university to become educated and to educate, we are to attend university for private economic gain - university is treated as a savings investment. Else it is an elitist commodity. From now on the educated will sell themselves in the marketplace to other individuals who will have to sell themselves in the marketplace in order to feed back into this circle. To earn. To pay off debts. To become trapped in an economic sphere. To feed into a failing democracy that keeps letting the people down. To live, publicly.  To die having taken nothing. We are not commodities, we are human beings. And if they believe that we are truly the future of this country, and if they truly believe that education will bring financial gain to this country, then they would invest in us. And on Thursday 9th December 2010 this sad future is cemented by 323 MPs, twenty more than opposed this bleak future. Education is no longer a social good, it is a private gain - a commodity.

The Occupation of The National Gallery.
This space is brought to you in conjunction with Shell, Hewlett Packard, Santander, and, of course, Sainsbury's (not to mention many others). We sit here in the hope that our institutions will not become Goldsmiths McNuggets of London, or the Royal Wallmart of Art (and so on). We sit and as a multitude discuss, as a consensus decide. We wave our hands in a jazz like fashion to show our enthusiastic agreement, and together, as a solidarity, aim to resolve the doubts of the minority. It's a long process. One in which you question what it is you actually believe. What it is we are all doing occupying this space. This space whose workers also face cuts, redundancies and job losses that will not be replaced. (I bet they're glad they didn't have to invest in their education, or perhaps some of them did).  In here we are blind. What is happening outside? In the streets are violent confrontations as the news of a betrayal hits them. Here we are undeterred, we will remain. Our fight continues. And what a perfect time to form a manifesto. A Nomadic Hive, something to fathom out future actions. I organize my thoughts on paper and speak my case.
"Reaction. Reclamation of public space. Our space seems to be becoming more and more of a commodity, we need to take it back. This whole situation is a complete symptom of capitalism."
Hands wave at me, I have been agreed with on mass. More than this should have been said, these public spaces which are overcome by the public spectacle of consumer items, this is where a our reaction needs to take place. A representation of our beliefs. A public freedom of education. Lectures in the open. Spontaneity is encouraged.

The Spectacle.
This space is our space, this space is a prison. They are kettled in by the enforcing arm of the law. Delegation of power to control the masses - or, do whatever it takes to make these people do as we say. We, the Nomads, are overcome by solidarity. Group mentality. No matter how uncomfortable the minority within the group feel about the increasing numbers of riot police outside the gallery in Trafalgar Square, there is a sort of peer pressure to remain. What was going on outside? Here we have a power in numbers - our number amounts to one. If we leave together we are a force, if we leave alone, there is the possibility of being detained. We have rights, we can refuse to give our names - if you don't wish to become a number...
Our spectacle is something that seems fairly low key. We are asked to text everyone we know to let them know that we are occupying this space and we are not leaving until we have written a manifesto. For what good is an artistic representation if no public gaze meets it? The spectacle needs the spectator. That is what causes a reaction. That is what causes people to move. That is when solitude becomes a unity. That is when the singular wraps its arms around a universality. What is happening outside. Word enters the Hive there are riot police on the balcony.

The Escape.
This space has become hostile. It is still ours but there is external pressure. How have things deteriorated outside? Solicitors pass out advise. Don't give them your name. Power in the buzzing of our hive. We have points on our manifesto. I can assess the seriousness of the police situation based on how many grown ups remain in the room. But my friend is uncomfortable, she has previous with the traffic police and wants out. I'm split then. I want to see this thing through, it seems to be rounding up. We are best to leave as a majority - power in numbers, our number is one. My solidarity with my friend takes priority. I don't wish to force her to stay somewhere she feels uncomfortable. How many police are outside now? It maybe too late either way. At this point a figure head type women steps forward and offers a solution. A way out through a side exit which evades the police. After all, though the workers here seem pissed off and inconvenienced, no one has formally asked us to leave; after all, this is a public gallery, they are workers for this public space, our space, the space in which we occupy. It is the word 'Public' which is at threat. Are we pissing off the wrong people? Should we be somewhere more appropriate. An obnoxious man tells her that she is interrupting our discussion, he is met by heckles. "Shut up, she's trying to help us." And my friend leans in and asks if we can do that? I catch the of gaze of Maximilian who is about to be shot. We leave through the side exit with a few others evading the police and entering into the real spectacle. The one which belittles our tiny operation. Tourists, workers, passers by, spectators gather around the flares, the smoke bombed epicenter, the protesters, the spectacle. The police were never there for the nomads, they were there for the increasing number of protesters retreating to Trafalgar Square. And because of this spectacle, no one knew there was ever an occupation of the National Gallery. More riot police arrive. Shortly after the hive disseminates. We retreat to the pub and consult the guardian news feed, no mention of any angry nomadic hives, no national gallery occupation.

But it did happen. We were there. We have a manifesto.


"This endeavor [of striving for happiness] has two sides... It aims, on the one hand, at an absence of pain and unpleasure, and, on the other, at the experiencing of strong feelings of pleasure... the task of avoiding suffering pushes that of obtaining pleasure into the background"
--- Lacan

"The most painful experiences... can yet be felt... as highly pleasurable"

With that in mind may I present to you the Jouissance of the Cat...

"The Cuckoo" - Tex Avery (1950)

The Cat shows symptoms.
Associates troubles with the Cuckoo.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cuckoo kills the Cat.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cuckoo kills the Cat.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cuckoo kills the Cat.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cuckoo kills the Cat.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cuckoo kills the Cat.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cat gets his hand broken.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cat gets a hole blown through his thumb.
The Cat attacks the Cuckoo.
The Cat achieves momentary satisfaction in believing he has killed the Cuckoo.
The Cuckoo kills the Cat.
This is a cartoon.
Do you get the point?

The Cat is crazy. He has an unhealthy obsession with the cuckoo. The cuckoo is his drive, he desires it, but he can't have it. His desire is something that is never fulfilled. Something he lacks. To have it would mean an end to his obsession. Satisfaction. Orgasm. But then what? The bird will be gone, the Cat is left with a nothing. He had his momentary release and now it is just a matter of time. Within the Cat is something unknown, an intruder who rouses his delusions. From within it erupts, the ringing in his ears, his falling apart. There is an alien within that he is unable to understand that torments him, makes him fearful, which manifests in the form of a cuckoo (in Lacanian terms a fundamental phantasy). The Cuckoo; unto which he desires torture and consumption - an attempt to derive meaning and sense from his internally erupting jouissance. He is repeatedly unsuccessful. His desire grows. His schemes to capture the Cuckoo grow more and more desperate, but he shakes, he trembles, he is so close.

"Who is there who in the name of pleasure doesn't start to weaken when the first half serious is taken step toward jouissance?"

In his bravado, he is weakened, he falters, he falls, he fails. He suffers in his desire, he perpetually chases himself round and round, complete and circular. Pain > Pleasure > Pain > Pleasure. Each time knowing the risks. The Cat is masochistic then. And finally he believes to have caught the Cuckoo. He believes it to rest inside himself. Satisfied, he believes his desire to be fulfilled. Then he falters. He turns back. He mourns. He represses...

The cuckoo has an obsession, though we never really hear his side, we just see it manifest in the torturing of the Cat. He is obsessed with the Cat. He is happy and fulfilled, although he never confronts his own joussaince (that which is internalised, over which he has no control) he enjoys his drives; his drives to torture the Cat. Unlike the Cat the Cuckoo is able to enjoy his drives for after each 'little death' the Cat is revived ready for the next scene, ready for the next temporary satisfaction of desire.

Meanwhile, the Cat mourns the loss of his little Cuckoo. The chase is over. Now what? Unknown to the Cat, the Cuckoo has not so miraculously been revived, just in time to witness yet another death of the Cat. The Cuckoo does not mourn. He lets out a triumphant blast of his horn, for he knows, as do we, that this is ongoing, they will perpetually chase each other, round and round. Death > Revival > Death > Revival.  The Cat, we can only imagine, will be revived for the next scene, in which he will once again suffer a 'little death' at the feathered hands of the Cuckoo.

And this is how it must be. For this is a fantasy. It doesn't matter that one is dead, the Other can always be revived to temporarily fulfill the necessary desire. Pain > Pleasure > Pain > Pleasure >Pain > Pleasure - each one is necessary for the the Other to survive.

Self Made Music...

It is a popular trend at present. Do everything yourself. The internet particularly is saturated by this. Blogs, websites, videos, memes, films, music, photography. It could be because technology is so readily available. Every fifth person has an SLR at a wedding. Every fourth person has a blog. Every other person has a personal space such as facebook. It is easy to get lost in it all yet, surprisingly things are dispersed daily that manage to break through. A small percentage. My blog, for example has a small but steady flow of regular visitors, but it is merely a drop of rain compared to the gushing waters that pass through blogworthy blog Hipster Runoff < The ultimate blog meme that seems to understand how to control it's popularity through usage of 'meme economy' tools... Yes internet popularity is a currency. Not only is it able to maintain it's (tongue in cheek) reputable status as a constant meme it is also able to excel others to a similar status (Best Coast, Wavves). My intention, however, isn't to discuss memes and internet analytics.

When it comes to production it is easier and cheaper to skip the middle man. Technology is so accessible these days. Every Man, Woman, Child and their Cousins have the technology. It is sometimes hidden amongst your computers applications but it IS in there somewhere - the means to self made music. It is possible because it is easy. You can craft something quite special in your own bedroom with surprising results. A lot of the time it'll be listened to be a handful of people. Your friends. Local radio. Your lover. Or even just yourself. Then, sometimes, just sometimes it breaks through. D-I-Y music, Lo-Fi, Chill Wave, I'm talking Ariel Pink (- his haunted graffiti), Toro Y Moi, Best Coast, Wavves. These bands all have critically acclaimed albums but are still pretty low profile. What about the ones who are yet to break through. I found this little lot loitering round my social groups. It's all quite lovely and occasionally visually stimulating. Temple Songs.



Silent Age

Symbolic Retribution for the Disconnected from mandi goodier on Vimeo.

New Website...

It has been down for a while and there are still a few things still to be added, but for now....

Revival of the Mixtape/Playlist #1

21st november

Yesterday I was spooned by a complete stranger, once she was through, I spooned her back. I didn't look at her face. I didn't want to. She lay behind a white net curtain on a mattress dressed with white bedding. Nothing lush. A quilt a couple of pillows. A girl with brown bobbed hair, a big red jumper and blue jeans. I didn't see her face. I didn't need to. She could have been anyone. I could see the bodies piled up behind the curtain. As a spectator I felt no courage. Looking through the netting at a threesome of legs, arms, a jigsaw of human bodies. Does that make it sound sexual? I take off my boots and wait for my turn.

I chose to be spooned. The one adored, the one craved. But this was anonymous. The girl no more saw my face than I saw hers. If I was the one being adored, the one being craved, then that was a projection I placed onto myself. I lay with my eyes closed thinking nothing but 'this could be anyone'. So what do I do? Do I project a person unto her? Is this Andrew? Is this a lover? Is this a friend? Is this a stranger? It really didn't matter who this was.

There were two hands on me. A third person involved, but there was a barrier between me and the third. Except for the extra hand placed upon my waist, I felt the presence of only one other. It could have been anyone. It could have been no one. But it was someone. 'It' was someone because 'it' was breathing. 'It's' breathing was not relaxed. This person was inviting strangers to spoon with 'it', and I don't think 'it' was comfortable. The breathing was too harsh and as soon as I noticed this I did all I could to calm 'it'.

I spooned back. I placed my head into the back of the red jumper and my hand upon the small waist and steadied my own breathing. I wanted the body to mimic mine, to become synchronized. To become, through spooning, one single organism.

There was no connectivity. There was no one true organism created through touch. The mind became as redundant as the identity within the red jumper. I left not feeling comforted by a new relation to a strange fellow being, but comforted for having calmed the breathing of this organism who was damned to spend the rest of the night holding onto strangers. And I have absolutely no idea why she would want to do this to herself.

This playlist will not help us to connect. It holds moments which I can only share with myself. But if I give it to you, if you listen to it properly, maybe you will be able to feel me place my head onto your shoulder and my arm around your waist.

Misogynous/feminist political banner...

I went to the student protest in London today. This was a banner that was given to us for the march. We adapted it then sort of realised it's anti-feminist implications. We probably should have put a comma after the word no. Or a couple of other things could be happening. As well as protesting against the cuts in the arts (and humanities, and social sciences of course) we could be hi-jacking the march for an ulterior feminist motive (as in no cunts yes women). Or we could simply be reclaiming the word so that cunt has positive connotations - however this detracts from the actual purpose of the banner, our original (what we thought was sort of witty) intention of insulting parliament. Will upload more images from the protest once I have gotten my film developed. However, I ran out of film by the time I got to the Tory HQ so no images of the said 'riots' or 'violence'. More on that later when I've had time for my thoughts to gather.

The need to Write.

The need to write is linked to the approach toward this point at which nothing can be done with words. Hence the illusion that if one maintained contact with this point even as one came back from it to the world of possibility, "everything" could be done, "everything" could be said. This need must be suppressed and contained. If not, it becomes so vast that there is no more room or space for its realization. One only begins to write when, momentarily, through a ruse, through a propitious burst of energy, or through life's distractions, one has succeeded in evading this impulse which remote control of the work must constantly awaken and subdue, protect and avert, master and experience in its unmasterable force. This operation is so difficult and dangerous that every writer and every artist is surprised each time he achieves it without disaster. And no one who has looked the risk in the face can doubt that many perished silently. It is not that creative resources are lacking -- although they are in any event insufficient -- but rather that the force of the writing impulse makes the world disappear. Then time loses its power of decision; nothing can really begin.

Extract from The Space of Literature by Maurice Blanchot, pg.52
(University of Nebraska Press, 1989)

My oh My...

I think River Deep Mountain High may be one of the greatest pop songs recorded.
A credit to Phil Spector's legacy, although many believe that this is the song that set him on his decent into self destruction. He thought that the song was his greatest achievement, and had high hopes for it. The song topped billboard charts at #88 (European #3). Ike (who had been paid off so he would have no say in the original production of the song) later re-produced it so that it would work better for the duo.
This is a bit of a wobbly live version, but the vocals are spot on.

The Chisenhale Disaster....

Art Writers take over The Chisenhale gallery in a disastrous residency.
We hope.
Our residency is based upon the theme of disaster, and although we are not too sure how this will manifest itself just yet, we are all excited by the disaster we may or may not be heading for.
There are three workshops over the next few months which should climax with a public event on the 16th June. Everything is still up in the air, but the first workshop takes place on Monday (unfortunately it is not open to the public). I just wanted to take this opportunity to direct you all to the Disaster blog which is where we are gathering a lot of our resource material. There is a lot of fascinating stuff being posted.

Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti @ The Garage

I'm disappointed in you Ariel... (but not really you...)

I don't normally feel compelled to write about gigs. I attend a fair amount, and afterward, often fantasise about the type of things I'm going to write in a review of the event. However, quite often I get home, I'm worn out from pogo-ing, I'm dehydrated, the adrenaline vanishes. Then before I know it, a week has passed and the whole thing is completely irrelevant. Reviews are often too late anyway, and this is no different.

Tonight was Ariel Pinks final show in the European leg of their tour. Final show usually equals great performances and therefore high expectations from the crowd. And the performance was pretty much spot on. There were a few bum notes here and there but I for one feel privileged witnessing such moments. That in a small way this performance has been unique. And quite often bum notes, or a lack of tightness, occur in moments of release. What I mean by that is the band get into it and forget themselves momentarily, snapping back when they realise that there has been a mistake. But you would not attend an Ariel Pink and his Haunted Graffiti set with out expecting hitches. After listening to a few D.I.Y and studio albums you understand the beauty of Ariel Pink quite often comes from it's occasional incomprehensibility and general messyness. Perhaps the latest recording 'Before Today' stands as an exception to that, although the mood changes within often alters the feel of the album quite drastically and very daringly. All in all Before Today is perhaps Ariel Pink's masterpiece. Ariel Pink is the king of lo-fi, and his fans are fully aware if this, therefore NO-ONE would be attending this gig expecting to hear polished re-enactments of past albums. No-one. This shouldn't lower expectations for performance though. And I don't suppose it did. Nor did the band disappoint. Having said that something went wrong somewhere, but where?

It was the crowd. Something has to be utterly wrong if, at the front of the crowd, slightly to the left, Lucy Vann and myself are the only ones dancing. To be fair, to our left, in the epicenter, there were a few moving bodies, but not enough to constitute the usual sort of sweaty mess you would come to expect from such gigs. Alright so maybe Ariel Pink is a little pretty niche, but him and his troupe are the sort to attract (one would have thought) the type of geeky cult "I know all the words" crowd that at least bob their heads in a frantic sort of "AGH I'm at an Ariel Pink gig" way (i.e. Myself and Lucy).

Things were looking up at the beginning. They bashed out their version of The Rockin' Ramrods "Bright Lit Blue Skies", a sure crowd pleaser. Looking around for that usual participation, the thing that unites all music lovers, that turns fans into tribes, that immediately, from the first line of that first song, unites the crowd, makes us all one being, a current, a flow, singing along. To my dismay, not many were. The lighting was excellent. "Bright lit, Blue skies" The stage was a wash with a blue blue so dazzling the band became invisible, "You're full of liiieeees" the strobe lights flickering rapidly, usually igniting a sense of euphoria and unity in the crowd, causing arms to rise freely, and cares to just slide right off your shoulders. On the whole, arms remained firmly pointing downwards. So maybe people do not love bright lit blue skies as much as I. Perhaps people prefer the Rockin' Ramrods version, which is fair enough. Next Ariel dished out some snogs with the ladies on the front row. Naturally Lucy and I pushed forwards to see if we couldn't get a snog ourselves (...rock star kisses don't count...) We were too late, he was already back on stage. That was cool though, we were pretty sure he'd hand out a few more later. A couple of my friends saw him in Paris a few nights before, apparently he had been more than generous then. He didn't. And I don't blame him. This crowd did not deserve rock star kisses. He knew this. This crowd was far too uptight. I was unfamiliar with this terrain. In Manchester I had been amongst a few uptight crowds at The Deaf Institute, but even that 'too cool for music' crowd let go when fellow lo-fi-ers The Black Lips came to town. As I recall there was even a scuffle between crowd and bouncer as he repeatedly threw people off the stage. He got his comeuppance. Here at The Garage in London, there was perhaps only one guy truly free from himself, and the bouncer told him to calm down. What is going on? Ariel questioned us, "What are you all? Nazis?" Then told us to be happy. He shouldn't have had to do that. Dispute our anger, Lucy and I just about managed to curb our urge to 'fuck shit up' and just let go. We attempted to start some kind of current through the crowd but the electricity just wasn't there. We continued. Headbanging our way through the encore of "Butt House Blondies" and raising our arms during the more airy moments of "Little Wig". All in all we were more than a little bemused. This would have been one of the greatest gigs I'd ever attended if the crowd had been a little more loose. What was wrong? Did the snogging of numerous girls up front make people uptight? Surely not in this age, amongst this crowd of (ahem) 'hip' kids. Did people not know the music well enough, were they there simply to look cool? Well maybe but even so, the music is catchy enough to dance to, and Ariel was lively enough to feed off. Were people too concerned with how they look/are going to look once they have a sweat on? Most likely. Or is this just what I should expect from all future gigs in London town? I sincerely hope not.

Ariel Pink, you were awesome tonight. London, you were the biggest disappointment imaginable, I had no idea the audience as a whole could kill so many good vibes - nice one. Future advise to Ariel Pink, next time you come to England, play the north. They'll treat you good there. London, come on, let go. Tomorrow I will attend the more intimate Ariel Pink show - I expect better things from the crowd, and some rock star kisses. (P.S tweets popping up saying he killedit tonight, true, but crowd, you really quite literally did kill it...)

Why Parlour Press? Why Art Writing?

We all still have the naivety to say that money, that a steady job, that a stable home, that procreation, that ownership of land, that bricks and mortar, that wealth, are not (yet) important, are not the meaning of life, are not our destiny, will not define our purpose.

We still have the naivety to say that literature, that beautiful places, that observation, that human frailty, that excessive collections, that new experience, that shared experience, that self expression, that fragile talent, that subversive pages, that sharing, that showing, that embracing everyone and everything will somehow make the world a better place to live in. That love and experience needs to be shared, can be spread over everybody like soft butter.

Because we are young enough to dream, because we are old enough to know that time will not wait, we believe that this moment is all we have - we are going to make the most of it.

We wish to share our thoughts, our views, our obsessions, our eccentricities, our expression, our experience, our aches, our pains, our ecstasy, our minds, our craft, our talent, our skills, our passions with you. We hope that you oblige.

We will not sell out, we are not old enough to sell out. We will encourage beauty and story telling and share our art until it is absolutely necessary, absolutely essential to get a proper job!
I wrote this a little over a year ago when Libby, Lucy, Caitlin, Sophie and I set up book collective, The Parlour Press. It was written as part of the Parlour Press Manifesto. Currently, exhibitions/fairs are currently few and far between (Parlour Press Ladies will be in attendance at MMU this Saturday as part of the Fifth Manchester Artist Book Fair). Re-reading this serves as a reminder not only to invest more time into the press, but also defines my pursuit of Art Writing as a practice as oppose to getting a proper job. It's pretty relevant. It just gave me a little inspirational kick in the shin. Good Work!

Etymology (Repetition/Mysticism/Hysteria/Tension)

The tension is drawn. A rope loops around the chest, once, once again. The body trembles.

Tossing and turning again. How such situations occur I'll never know, but they keep on repeating themselves. When the mind quits, there is always something else. A word.

At each and of the rope there is a slight pull. The naked skin finds momentary pleasure as the rope scratches at it.

You tear a word apart and you find new meanings through Greek, Latin, Roman, French origins. You see their journey, their history unfold. That is a general 'you' that is a 'one'. You break a word into pieces and you find your own interpretation. Now it is you that I am addressing. A history.
A repetition. A pattern. A something on the tip of your tongue that will never pass the lips.

The scratches start to pinch.  The breath that leaves the body has become more difficult to find. 
It is not the rope causing this difficulty. It is panic. Now the body begins to sway.

The word sits on your tongue and you begin to kick out like an addict. The sweat down your back is thick thick thick. Another kick. Turn. Breathe. History and the repetition of it caused a momentary attack. Not everyone is a predator. I am not a predator. Yet the heart beats like it has ran as prey. It is not adrenaline, it is not blood. It beats vomit. And it is hot. And it burns.

The pinch is on fire now. It glows redness. Soreness. The earth beneath the feet is shaking with tension. As the rope tightens the legs become unstable, then they go, unable to balance on the unsteady ground. The body slumps, supported only by the rope. And it hurts.

Why the repetition has occurred is unknown. It slips out occasionally, the guard is down, honesty is up.
There is an explosion, like an emotional time bomb. It releases an anthrax of vocabulary which attacks it's audience and poisons their response. Their infected response then becomes another form of the repetition. That was when it happened again.

Now is when the breath really starts to struggle. The heart pounds irregularly, but that is panic associated with, but not directly caused by, the rope. The body twists but the rope ceases not. The fire breaks the skin.

Anxiety is perhaps to blame for the restlessness. For the forced attempt at sleep.
Once again it seems sleep is a fortress from reality. Then it is the turn of the subconscious to bite. Dreams are nightmares, and nightmares, in one form or another, are of the repetition.

A rib breaks and the body turns blind. A fuzz of warmth caresses the retina. "You don't need to see anymore," it whispers. The warmth travels down the body and tingles at it the arms. 
It is now only the head that aches. All that is heard is a slow, irregular, heart beat. And it kicks.

There is not much more that can be done. Waking up bruised and ill is another repetition. The thoughts will not be leaving you today. It seems in a permanent residency. The world is still shaking. The heart is still swollen with sick. Distraction is necessary and is sought. Though the word still sits on the tip of your tongue, you are distracted, and the biggest challenge is making sure that you do not accidentally spit it out. Then there are those words that help to keep it concealed, the ones that hide it's true meaning, those uttered with delight, as a brief respite, in repetition. But the world still trembles. The heart remains swollen, the legs still kick, and sweat still lines your back.

The hands at either end of the rope rest. Gentlemen stand at either end. One marked lust, one marked desire, another marked despair, and the last marked time. No one has won this tug-a-war, but the still and contorted body in the center proves that something has been lost. 
It remains in a painful stasis, until the rope once again becomes taut.

Reading Crisis

What to do with all this time. How to fill it. How to remain distracted.
There is an impossibility in remaining focused due to the amount to focus on.
All these distractions, but what is there to distract from distraction.
That would be distractions close cousin, procrastination.
How to prioritise:
Earn money so you can survive here
Do not let earning money interfere with studying - the reason for being here
Do not study so hard that you forget to live and experience - inform all you think and work on
Do not experience and live so much that you forget to study/skip earning money
Have fun but don't get too carried away, so that you spend all your money on living, experience and intoxication... you need that money to live here
"This is such a fantastic city," Oh really? I haven't had the chance to look around yet. I only leave the east to go to work or school.
However very complicated everything is somehow fitting together. There is a definite balance starting to occur. This photo illustrates my biggest problem. Between reading what I want to read for fun and what I want to read for work. The lines between fun and work keep blurring, but I can't help feeling sorry for everything that keeps getting placed on the bottom of the pile (books and otherwise) acknowledged, but never quite getting round to. The list is inevitably growing. Adrian Rifkin handed us a reading list and told us not to worry about reading everything on there right away. Told us the pressing matters, a passage from Homer's Iliad, a chpter from Nietzsche's Human All too Human, and Roland Barhte's A Lovers Discourse (utter beauty). Everything else is for us to read between now and 2050. That advise will roll over....

Experience everything, miss no opportunity.

The Most Livingest Disaster

I was drying my hair one day oblivious to the noise outside. Typically the noise outside was not actually noise like here in London, the occasional airplane flying overhead, the odd car engine, some kids walking by, you could sometimes even hear a push bike passing. Attuned to small town noises, you could imagine my shock when I switch off my hair dryer to the sound of an air-raid siren.

Duck and cover was my first thought. I had seen those public information videos once before in the Imperial War Museum. You know the ones, the ones that are so out dated, the ones where you and your family are advised to live under the dining room table for a few months until the whole nuclear thing 'blows' over. Such preperatory videos and procedures generally make me feel pretty excited towards the prospect of danger. I then tend to be quite dissappointed when nothing even vaguely exciting happens. I remember one winter, as a kid, my mum tucked me up in bed extra tight with some fluffy soft toys and told me that tonight was going to be the coldest on record for fifty years and we had to stay super warm.

I closed my eyes in excitement only to open them the next day in complete disappointment. I didn't feel one bit cold. Not at all (good parenting in retrospect). When I got my fire training at the Odeon a few years back, I took the whole thing very seriously and got very excited about the responsability I would have in a fire situation. I was only there five months and the fire alarms went into first stage, once (there were three stages in total). At first stage you get to push a button in the auditoriums so that the noise doesn't distract the customers ('guests') from their film, and the staff ('cast') get themselves prepared for some evacuating. Nothing happened, the alarms remained in first stage for about twenty minutes. It was a bit like being stuck at a traffic light that is red for so long that the car battery dies as it switches to amber. No one got evacuated. I was bitterly disappointed.

The siren is still buzzing (imagine).

As if people were ever so brain washed to believe that a few splinters will stop your world from ending. I look momentarily in complete perplextion at the small gap under the dressing table. Then inhale. This cannot be it. Nuclear war is a complete paradox of defense. Everyone knows that now. Having nuclear weapons is exactly the same as not having nuclear weapons as nobody actually has the balls to fire.

Complete annihilation. Nash equilibrium. Absolute paranoia. Psychological warfare. To quote wikipedia (we all do it) "tense but stable peace". And by now, 2010, we are all much more at ease with this tense but stable peace. We all know that no one is crazy enough to press that button labeled "complete and utter bloody destruction of everything but cockroaches". So why am I still able to hear an air-raid siren? It can't be. I would have heard something on tv, or an ad would have popped up on facebook or gmail proclaiming "nuclear attack imminent" - such is the information rich society we live in. Surely in this day and age we would not have to rely on something so archaic, something that I just about recognise as an air-raid siren. I slowly and thoughtfully place down my hair dryer. Look to myself in the mirror before me. Ok, so what if this is nuclear war?

The quickest war that will ever be fought. What if this is the end? The end of humanity. What a way to go. Hey, I won't do it. I will not duck under the dressing table. I will leave this world head held high. Yes the end of humanity. Finally, a vaccine. Immunisation for the planet against this human disease that has infected it's surface. It will take time but this planet will restore itself. It was here millions of years before us and it WILL remain millions of years beyond our extinction. The siren has stopped. This is it, finality, the end, see ya. I close my eyes, tilt my head backwards, hold my arms wide, ready to embrace the apocylpse. I remain like that for about five minutes before I my left eye opens, my wrist twists, and I am able to peek at the time displayed on my watch. Shit, best leave I'm going to be late for work.

I never discovered what that siren was for.

When your a kid, the greatest feeling in the world is fear. I guess that why public information adverts are so great. These are a bit before my time...

Why? I suppose it's just easier to control a terrified nation than it is to look after a chill nation.

I'll stop posting about this next week...

When usual wordy service will be resumed....
In the meantime....

Coming up...

Quick one whilst stealing wi-fi from my new local...

Official digital release of Symbolic Retribution 4th oct available via bandcamp, tapes hq and a book fair near you soon. 

Review for Silent Age/Symbolic Retribution from The Pigeon Post.

Book Fairs:
Fifth Manchester Artists Book Fair 6th Nov

Very quick update. Expect a return to usual wordy service once my new dwelling is hooked up to the internet in a couple of weeks time. In the meantime, listen to Symbolic Retribution and visit some book fairs would ya!

Watch Your Own Back...

Allow me to briefly introduce you to my latest project, Silent Age.
A lot of the recent silence on this blog is due to most of my spare time being taken up by writing, re-writing, recording, re-recording, mixing, re-writing, re-recording, re-mixing.... this project.

The project will be released as an EP titled SYMBOLIC RETRIBUTION set for release in October on independent D-I-Y label tapes ( It will be available as a limited edition tape cassette (run of 30) and as a digital download (infinite, I think). The cassette will come with both a free poster and a free digital download.

I have no four track and the only microphone I have is built in to my apple macintosh computer. I have no digital interface leads (just yet) so guitar/vocals/hand claps/whistles have to be performed, at my computer screen, standing at various distances depending on dynamics and pitch of instrument. This whole process is figured out by trail and error. The whole thing is then mixed in garage band, then sent to itunes where it sounds nothing like it did in garage band and so sent back and re-mixed again. This whole process is also figured out by trail and error. It's sort of getting there now. All tracks are nearing their finalised state.

I even had time to design the artwork and make a music video which you can watch here

This song is called Old Romantic. It's about bad judgment, misogyny, vindictiveness and the anatomy. Perhaps best heard through ear phones.

Old Romantic (demo) by mandiocious

Gonna Be Big...

This weeks two songs to make you say yeah come from a couple of new(ish) bands.

This first one has already made it to the NME and are on the borders of being over hyped. They used to hold a regular slot at An Outlet Manchester. The last Saturday of every month, we would
be a part of something special, the brotherhood, whilst sipping in a coffee-tail (Old Man and the Sea, espresso, sugar, vodka, amerrtto, ice). I was privileged enough to be there, watching the crowd grow each week. Eventually busting out of this small cafe and performing in the foyer of the office block to which it was attached. And if you were there from the beginning, when the hipsters, A and R men and label representatives crowded round four 17 year olds playing in complete darkness but for a couple of sets of fairy lights; if you were on the front row hoping to god the excitable bassist doesn't knock your teeth out with the head of his bass; if you were there, you couldn't help but think as each week it somehow got bigger, a sort of circus, this was all slightly contrived. There was a bigger brain behind WU LYF and myself and a couple of others had our ears to the ground, knew the right people. We unraveled the mystery pretty quickly, but kept it quiet and began to admire the prowess of their manager. When I was little the idea of being a detective appealed to me, everything became something that needed a magnifying glass and a stealth P.I. It was all thanks to this series of books I was hooked to called The Mystery Kids (I fancied the curtain haired illustration of a boy, and wanted to be the illustration of the older girl.) And the point of this nostalgia? I still love a good enigma. Wrap yourself up in mystery and watch me drool. This is exactly what WU LYF had in the beginning a complete "we don't give a shit" aura of mystery. And now the secret is out, enjoy some Heavy Pop...

You can download free WU LYF tracks via
Un-raveling the WU LYF mystery ... The Pigeon Post

Next is a newly discovered band. Guards I know absolutely nothing about them. I think they are from Brooklyn.

You can download Guards Ep for free via Bandcamp

Me and My Void

(alt title, Not Another Cheap Soul Bearing Post... Really, It's not)

This void on which we stand gets bigger and bigger. It started small, a nothingness, somewhere; we were aware but couldn't see exactly where it was, it was just there. It will close up one day, there is no doubt about that. It was just one of those things. Banging on about time being the greatest poly-filler for unseen but sensed voids, the problem with time is that you have to sit upon its thorned back and ride it until it seizes to penetrate you. A discomforting notion, that fills me with a sort of comfort all the same. I look all gooey eyed to a period of time where recent past becomes a jolly form of nostalgia as opposed to this stagnant mess I now glare at. Time will separate us, eventually. Like it never happened, like it was a film we once saw but never acted in. Time will doubtlessly retract it's current thorns but what will grow in it's place is that which makes me fearful. Will this happen again? And again and again.

The void grew and sort of vortexed and we'd wake up, sometimes our heads would hurt and we'd grow dizzy and remain as weary as when we fell asleep, others... we'd be ok and just take extra care with our footing. And, you know, it's fine, it's going to shrink sooner or later, it's just a momentary void. We dance around it like acrobats, juggling our thoughts and ideas across the plane, across the circus ring. And we'll laugh about it one day. How ungraceful we were. For now though, it is still here. I rearrange furniture every day to avoid slipping. I lost so much already. And still it grows. Now it is so big, I forget what that small something was that caused it. It is so big that I am able to walk through it, sit in it, muse in it. It is quite mesmerising really. People walk past it and admire it's blank plainness. I am able to wave at you sat in yours. We are able to joke about it, shout about it, take the piss out of it.

Then something sinister happened, the void grew legs, it began to follow us around. There was no escaping it. The places we visited seemed empty. It wasn't ours, it lacked faces. I held it's hand as I crossed the road heading to work. I speak to customers, it taps me on the shoulder, gives me digs, I look into the hole, the memories stagnate, it whispers "Is this you? Who are you?" And I laugh internally at my own facade and fear that the void will one day spread and become me.

The easiest thing to do when sitting in a void is to distract yourself. Thankfully we are talented, skilled and perfectly able to make something out of nothing. The blog is an undeniable distraction. Although lately I turn to it and the void has a firm grasp on my fingers. I look at them almost with disgust. If this were a piece of paper it would be a different matter. But it isn't. There are certain things I just can not allow myself to write about publicly at present, everything else becomes a worthless post, the publish button does not get hit. There is another way though, another expression, one the void cannot touch, one whose boundaries are only tested by my ability and clumsiness. Music. Aided with garage band, my Mac's internal mic, a guitar, a key board and my own experience, I have written and recorded my next project (hear an extract). And this expression is no more personal, but it feels better as a form of release. About everything. About the void. So please excuse my silence.

This void is filling now with more and more apprehension as September looms. For those who never left education, it is not spring that brings the new, it is autumn. (How long until they discover that I am a fake? They will rumble me. A familiar anxiety is taking hold, and I can already see their eyes looming downwards.) The unexpected is upon us. We may start to doubt ourselves, our talents, our skills, our thoughts. Remember that no one can invade that part of you, that is personal, that belongs to us. I get the feeling I am a wild card, but there is nothing wrong with that. Have faith in what you know. Hold on to yourself. Hold on very tightly. The void is starting to close, and I cannot remember what lies beyond.

When you step back from it all, when you are not blinded by panic, you can breathe. Things slowly focus. Age gaps, more education, masses of experience, more money, a real profession, being proper. None of this makes one being more valid than another, we all live, we are all alive and we are all experiencing constantly. An ex-tutor, Sue Platt, once said to me "You'll meet many different people, from many different backgrounds, they may be richer, more well spoken, have read more books, known more people, live in grand houses, none of that stuff matters. All that matters is what you know. Be confident in what you know and don't worry about the others." These are those who will be filling the void. Excitement builds and with white knuckles I will hang onto myself... I will move around like a tiger on vaseline....

Symbolic Retribution for the Disconnected.

Symbolic Retribution for the Disconnected from mandi goodier on Vimeo.

Canto V Presents Symbolic Retribution for the Disconnected:
)best seen in full screen mode, best heard through a decent set of earphones(
Deep psyche exploration, none stop free association, synth analysis, complete honesty, a lack of ability to comprehend anyone or anything outside of the self, and above all complete disconnection. 

This will last internally until the end of life when all is relived 
- canto v

An aural and visual experimentation by canto v
If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that this will never be shown on It's Nice That.

Have some music for your time

Symbolic Retribution.

stick it to the mand presents:
(for the disconnected)
only available to view here
The first in a three part visual
and aural experimentation


Ambulance by TV onthe Radio

Oh comely by Neutral Milk Hotel

Know all your enemies

Experience Everything/All of this has happened since:

Amidst the banks crashing and colliding, an event which, at the time, evoked no real emotion in me beyond an "oh", an era was occurring that would carve itself into my memory greater than any other before it. With Mercury in retrograde, as Mars in Libra aligned with Pluto, a darkened shadow fell upon Saturn's moon Titan. This lead to a peculiar kind of gravitation pull, one so great it triggered a plummet within my heart which coincided with a glance into a pair of eyes. It remains to this day beating low. That unusually low beat activated a creative surge, which also continues to this day. I sat often, staring, contemplating a mathematical problem of emotional proportion with ever changing values and infinite possibility. The solitude and staring equates to one thousand five hundred and eighty four hours (and counting) since that plummet, leaving little time for much else.

Russell Brand and Matt Morgan leave my itunes library forever. Ridiculously I feel like I have lost two good friends. I would visit them once a week, we would share in jokes, they did most of the talking. I was gutted that I missed "that" podcast. I felt that the people who never used to join our weekly gatherings should have butted out.

A crash of personalities resulted in a constant grey cloud that hung over our house. It's silver lining was so bleak that it barely enabled us to find the key hole in the front door. A sunken druggy presence, which was completely un-intimidating and non-threatening, eventually turned two outsider souls to antisocialism and depression. Screaming lows and arguments. I closed my door on them. A sallow head reclusing into books and the written word. One harrowing scream caused me to rush from my room, expecting to find serious injury, I found one of those souls screaming at the front door, unable to unlock it. I opened it for her, realising that it was her final straw.

Gunmen. Men with guns. It takes years of psychological harm, then one object, a gun, one moment of madness and one final straw for a backlash of hurt feelings and international headlines. 15 dead at a school in south west Germany. 10 dead at a college in Finland. 7 dead on a bus containing the Sri Lankian Cricket team.

A labyrinth web was woven. A group of us found a comfortable nook and remained there. A set of overlooking eyes caught mine from time to time as they moved across the nook. As they focused in on me, I was struck like a fist to my low beating heart. We stayed in that nook so long that we forgot the route out. When we got out, nothing had changed yet everything was different. We all had to find new ways to settle and move on. It hasn't been easy to shut out.

I stayed awake the night of the US elections. Barrack Obama became President of the USA, a country in which I am not a resident and have only visited once. I loved what Obama represented. I expected an immediate change to the world. But nothing happened. I waited for a few more weeks, still nothing. Eventually I gave up waiting, then something new happened, Barrack Obama became the first president to have his official presidential portrait taken with a digital camera.

I know in the depth of my stomach it's a lie, a trick. You are a fraud. A self harming soul placed one heavy hand onto my self harming soul and there I received and sent pleasure resulting in momentary inflation of the ego and self image. The ability to feel a sudden connection between myself and another rarely happens so I became dazzled by it's appeal. This dizziness and lapse in judgment on my part resulted in disorientation. Fear was constantly pumped from my heart into each one of my organs resulting in the occasional anxiety attack. Once it was over I cried emotional rape, though I cried silently behind my closed bedroom door. Not one tear was wasted. I don't cry anymore. (revision: 3/11 I do)

Jade Goody dies. It seems like the most symbolic life and death of this generation. She became a reality TV star and remained famous for doing nothing. She was loved by us, then we tore her apart, then we loved her again, with the aid of Heat, Closer and Now. She shown a new side to herself, turning from the bullied to the bully and plummeted in our expectations, again on reality TV. Then she became terminally ill. She allowed the cameras to witness her death, she invited us all to her death bed. She died at 27, it is the rock and roll age. Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jean Michel Basquiat, Jade Goody.

My neighbor utilised my self harming soul and good nature to form a self destructive cocktail but only after I had tasted hers. Sat by a pool of her blood, a craft knife (naturally) and a severed wrist. Shaking but clear. In that pool I could see a reflection of my heart. I couldn't go there. I drifted. Who could ask for better friends, really. And who could ask for better enemies. (Know your enemies). Disconnected from the event yet able to find symbolism in what I saw, I created a world of new imagining. A world exactly as this but with no people. Nothing but loneliness, nature and pure pointlessness. This fantasy makes me happy. Interceptions come in like an overheard police radio. Unclear, unknown and striking me as the thoughts of another. Abstracted visuals as if glancing into the landscape of another's memory, beyond comprehension but so completely beautiful. And what beauty I found in that blood. Disconnected from the event.

A car crashes into a Fiat Punto killing a father and son. The driver was drunk and otherwise engaged in performing a sexual act onto himself. He is jailed for 8 years, banned from driving for 15. I doubt he will ever drive or wank again.

She had been wailing all night. In complete honesty I knew what she had done but I didn't want to deal with it so I went back to sleep. April 10th, I ask her to open her door. No, she responds, you'll be mad at me. Upon hearing the no all I wanted to do was walk away and get on with the day, but that is not the right way to behave, that is not how a human being should respond to this kind of situation. Behind her door is an empty bottle of cava and five or so empty boxes of Ibuprofen. Then I shake, but remain totally clear. The ambulance arrives, staring, alone, still contemplating that mathematical problem. The grooves of the floor of the ambulance had collected grime from every accident it had visited, a time line, a biography a complete history of this van. Now I am part of that. Life and death. Four hours wasted in that hospital. The company of Henry Miller made that personality's tedious existence bearable for those tedious hours of my life. What a waste.

Kerry Katona is drunk on national TV. This Morning. God love Warringtonians, or Warringtoners as some prefer to be called.

All those people. All those brilliant people. Full of ideas. I want to reach inside the minds of each and every one. I want to relate to all of them. I want to touch their thoughts. None will fall. We remain solid beings. Beings with depth. Somewhere between intellectuals and creatives. Some neither here nor there. What beauties though. And under those watchful eyes. Inhalation. Laughter. Anxiety attack after anxiety attack. High achievement. Speak up. Slow down. Flight or Fight. Those eyes. Reading erotic material. Throwing up in bars. Being carried outside by the bouncer then laying in the middle of the road. Homing in on solipsism. Me. Only. Who could touch me really? Was it not all illusion created by myself. I connected to that road, that is the only explanation I am able to give. Those eyes linger on! They had me pinned. All I could see, because even though I am familiar with my surroundings, I am unable to see anything at all really. What was I waiting for? That suicidal friend takes me home. It was still early. We caught the second to last bus of the evening. I wake up to find a cigarette burn in my ear.

A mother in West Yorkshire kidnapped and drugged her own child. I was never quite able to comprehend what she hoped to gain from this, some form of monetary reward I think. The child was 10. Parents will continually fuck their kids up, but this one goes beyond.

Inhalation. Loneliness. Solitude. Deflation of ego. I am left with an headache and a bitter taste in my mouth. I think I want vengeance but I am unsure of the injury, whether a wrong has occurred. There are still more roads ahead of me, I may find myself laying in the middle of a few from time to time. There may be more red puddles to catch my own reflection in. The blood spilled that night was never cleaned up. It remained a dried up memoir of idiocy, selfishness of life and death, for all of us. Afterward, the people I told about the event would ask me if I was ok, not her. I responded in a human way, not a honest way.

Michael Jackson died the day that I discovered my final grade. It put a full stop to the days events Despite everything that had happened, I find myself with a first class honors degree. And what will cling to me most about the day Michael Jackson died? Those eyes, holding onto me like a cruel embrace that goes on too long. The usual conspiracy theories ensue, I take great interest in them.

She fell. I caught her twice. They fell, but they're getting better now. I fell. I was lifted momentarily by the actions of others. Those eyes fell, and I have no idea what this means. Intoxication. Disconnection. Vomit. Infatuation. Limerence. Suicide attempts. High Achievement. Lows. Loneliness. Lust Friendship. Dependence. Loss. Highs. Obsession. The influence of everyone. It turned out to be the greatest time of my life. I'm still counting the hours, the events, the landscapes, the experiences, the memories, everything. Experience everything, then create from everything you experience. And that is what I have learned, and that is how I live now.

Katie Price and Peter Andre split up. Well I saw that one coming.

All this happened since I met you. I'm not holding you responsible, but I am not taking the blame either.

Torn Sweater/Little Bastard

These were taken by Roy Schatt in 1954.

I watched Rebel without a cause today and fell a little bit in love with James Dean. I enjoyed the romantic ideals and rebellion against tradition explored by the youth in the film. When I say youth, I really mean twenty somethings posing as teenagers. Ultimately the rebellion turns full circle as we see Jim Stark (Dean) fall in love and settle in a disused mansion, a sort of dystopian dream house. Throughout, Stark (and the picture in general) confronts masculinity, and asks "What does it mean to be a man?" And this question I find relevant to my own thoughts lately as I have been exploring with in myself the idea of femininity and the so called "stronger sex". The following questions are ones that I pose: Have I ever actually met a 'real man', someone completely strong, someone who is a complete protector? Can this type of person ever truly exist? Is it all just false expectation laid down upon us by a bunch of fairy tales. What does it mean to be strong? In the film it turns out that the courage to be sensitive is what fills Stark with masculinity. That and (well for me at least) his strong complex enigmatic persona. Perhaps man is truly a man when he has mystery about him. Perhaps they are only strong when their mouths are shut because when they are open they are like children. I'm not complaining. I would not like to add a "Am I right girls?" to the end of that sentence. I enjoy that men are essentially children at heart. The alpha male is obnoxious at the best of times, but it is particularly repulsive when you can see a small boy in his eyes. So who is the stronger sex? The Male or the Female? Weaker or stronger, what ever your sex, you are mostly just weak until you have that other sex by your side. Unless you are gay, the same sex scenario is essentially the same (there is a huge question mark next to the sexuality of James Dean). The love of a someone creates a new strength, a new sex. Together we become strong. Yet there is always a part of the self in tears, weakening you, wanting you to fall.....

Little Bastard....
And he fell. James Dean died a year after the previous photos were taken.
Interestingly, since his death a legend has formed around the car, Porsche 550 Spyder, and it's supposed curse. Could it be true that several accidents have occurred since Deans death involving the aforementioned automobile? Deaths, injuries, damaged property.The legend is as follows (cited from

Car designer George Barris bought the wreck for $2,500. On delivery, the Porsche slipped off its trailer and broke the legs of a mechanic. A doctor from Beverly Hills, Troy McHenry, bought the engine of the Little Bastard and put it in his own Porsche. The first time he took the car out, the vehicle spun out of control and crashed into a tree. He was killed on the spot.
Another physician, William Eschrid, bought the transmission of Dean’s Porsche. He went racing – some say against McHenry – and, going in a curve, the car rolled over. He was seriously injured.

Barris sold two tires of the wreck, which were unharmed in the accident, to an unnamed New Yorker. The tires blew up simultaneously, causing the car to go off the road. It was not reported what happened with the driver.

Two young thieves were injured while they attempted to steal parts of Little Bastard. Barris decided to store the cursed car safely away, but the bad luck kept coming from the hunk of twisted metal. In 1959, a fire broke out in the Fresno garage where Dean’s Porsche had been stored.

In that year, the Dean mania was still intense and so the California State Highway Patrol thought of transporting the mangled vehicle to local high schools and show teenagers the dangers of high speed driving. Little Bastard was put on exhibit in Sacramento, fell from its display and broke the hip of a teenager. On the way to Salinas, the flatbed truck with the Spyder on it 
lost control and the driver was crushed by the Porsche.

Little Bastard still was very popular and George Barris took the cursed car on a tour to the other states. On the anniversary of James Dean’s death, September 30, a fifteen year old boy was standing about twelve to fifteen feet away from the exhibit. As if broken by spectral hands, three bolts snapped. The car plowed forward and crushed both of the boy’s legs.

In 1960, Barris decided to have Little Bastard shipped back home to California. In Florida, the Porsche was loaded into a boxcar, the door carefully sealed. When the train arrived in Los Angeles, the seal was still intact… but Little Bastard was missing. Private detectives went after the car of James Dean, but they could not find it. The Little Bastard mysteriously vanished and has not been seen since…
Some of these so called 'facts' are not facts at all, for example Barris did not originally purchase the wreck but the mere shell. And Troy McHenry died in a Lotus not a Porche. Beyond this not much else can be verified. (the most reliable urban legend de-bunker) places a little white circle next to the story which means "unclassifiable veracity". So perhaps if you believe in such things as curses this is quite plausible. Otherwise it is just another one of the mysteries surrounding Dean, and another one of those pesky urban legends that I absolutely cannot wait to tell to my nephew Sebastian when he gets a little older. 

Little Bastard, Car With a Curse....