Sometimes I Have Something To Say...

Performed at the Whitechapel as part of the ongoing MFA Art Writing Residency:

Sometimes I Have Something To Say by mandiocious

This is an extract from an ongoing piece which was rewritten for a voice. That is all that I will say.

I'm a victim of this song.

Pipolotti Rist perhaps my favourite artist and maybe has been for the last 5 years.
Fresh from the hayward gallery exhib "Eye Massage" (and then a few drinks and discussions with the superb Lucy Vann) I must urge you to see this, so feminine and wonderful and erotic and grotesque and so incredibly beautiful. Perhaps the master of desire leading perception/anamorphicly wonderous perspective. Not that these two are any sort of hint as to what to expect but actually Pipilottis has great taste in music/is a sweet recording artist...

(click on the image above and go to youtube I urge you!)

I'm not a girl who misses much...
(+ love of the beatles whilst decapitated - YES!)



The Reading Room at The Kenton is now a regular thing. Every 4th Wednesday of the Month (excluding December)

The Reading Room would like to invite the avid readers, the casual readers, the curious minded and the tactile natured to browse our collection. We present a selection of unpublished works, hand made books, zines, manuscripts and texts from writers and artists with a D.I.Y. mentality. Grab a drink, pull up a chair and relax with a book you may not have the opportunity to engage with otherwise.

The Reading Room is always looking to expand its collection, if you have something that you feel we may be interested in - whether you're an artist book maker, a zinester, a writer, whatever - if you have something which you may wish to donate (or loan out if it's a little bit precious) then please email


Language + The Flesh + Artaud (+ Spero)

When the pen pierces the page does it penetrate the skin. When the words cover the face does it become disfigured. When the mark marries with the body, is the trace erased or does it burn deeper. When language and the body are at one, does the father die?

All writing is pigshit, because it bares the mark of something else, because it becomes an object outside of the body - a partial object that survives its start point - at the authors throat. That lingers and becomes autonomous, that seems to "out grow the natural limitations of the organism affected by it". What of autonomy and the written word?

Where is the body that escapes me. Where is the body that is alien within me. Where words become the signal for the anamorphic real, where signs are permitted with enjoyment, with jouissance, which is replayed but never touched.


Wish I could be in this band

"No one knows who the Beattle-ettes were. They were one more answer record knocked off responding to the maelstrom of the Beatles’ invasion of New York in 1964. (It was rushed out so fast, in fact, that they got the spelling of the boys’ name wrong, with an extra ‘T’!) But it is sure that they were produced by “Shadow” Morton just before his breakout success with the fabulous Shangri-La’s. Because of this, and the definite New York moxie of the singers, many believe it might actually be the Shangs! This would be cool as all hell, of course, but no one knows for sure.

What we do know is this is a rockin’ two minutes of punky Beat music that sticks in your head all day."

Then I wish I was this band

.... Which turns out to be suzi quatro and sister patti and arlene...

I also wish I would have wrote A Lovers Discourse, but I didn't, Roland Barthes did.

And I wish I could have wrote The Unbearable Lightness of Being. But I didn't

These both written by men but I consider to be feminine in a lot of respects.

And the reason I didn't was because I wasn't born yet. Everyone got there first. I may be too old to be in a teenage girl band, but I'm making moves on all the other things. Now the main dilemma is plagiarism, iteration, or envy? "Let's start over," is a mode of Art Writing according to Adrian Rifkin. He could be very very right.


The hilariously insightful philosopher and (Lacanian :) psychoanalyst Slavoj Zizek guides us through the real (super ego) symobolic (ego ideal) and imagined (ego) in cinema.

Possibly my favorite ever movie scene, Charlie Chaplin you beautiful man:

Out of practice/Return to practice/Lacanian Paradigms...

A good strong woman, as if anyone needs to be convinced of that, has mirrors fixed to a wall in every room of her house. They are positioned unusually, awkward to stand before, easy to walk past and catch a glimpse at another potential being, present, absent, unknown, a glimpse. Her head rests upon good strong posture in a fixed forwards position, it is only the eyes that betray good strong posture and head held high tautness. They stretch themselves to the furthest corners, painfully but briefly, springing back to forward facing, correct positioning in order to aid with navigation and general observation. When out in the street she maintains correct postulation, sure footed strides, flowing sweeps of her arms through the air, masterful composition. But a smile forms in those disobedient eyes at passer-bys and reflective window displays close circuit TV and distorted images upon vehicle bodies. They turn and glance from left to right, but head strong strolls on.

A good strong woman, no proof required, shows signs of weakness, where perhaps her strength is not tested but highlighted. Upon darkness's descent the surfaces which held the figure of her constant companion depicts a new shadowed creature haloed by the glow of street lights, moon light, head lights, stop lights. Go, go, go. Her pace is quickened her posture flails and she fights against the invisible hands stiffening her legs. Her chest is tight, her head turns slight - determination prevails and curiosity does not get the better of her. She is not alone. As she progresses between street lamp after street lamp a shadowy figure looms ever closer, only to fall behind when absolutely beneath their glare. And cars which pass cause the shadowy creature to gain ferocity, increasing velocity and to pounce upon the next shaded area - allowing her to catch up. She is a strong woman who feels terrified by the figure that creeps her, that won't leave her within the lightness of night. Upon returning home all lights are turned on and she races to her sanctuary. She sits at an empty desk. Hands pressed together between her thighs. She raises her head. Corrects her posture. Before her is a sheath of mirrored glass. The remnant of one once shattered.

One once shattered then walked over in bare feet, sharpened edges digging into her penetrating her souls, her spine jolting backwards then stiffening as if a pole were shunted along side it, straightening her out, displacing the weight of her body, opening up her lungs, widening her mouth for the cries of pain they were expected to carry. Not a sound was heard that night nor any other. Good posture = self sedation. Primitive war tactics passed down unknowingly from generation to generation, when human recognised itself, an animal, and instinct determined everything else. The glass remained in her feet until scabs formed embracing them, welcome to the family. At this point she stood up reenforcing her good posture, pressing the shards into nerve endings and reopening the scabs of good intent. She lifted herself so as not to further the injury to her feet, a strong woman can carry her own weight, metaphysically heavy. She placed her body into a hot bath and watched the sweat drip from her forehead, sometimes joining the bath water, sometimes evaporating into the surrounding steam. She took hold of her submerged foot caressed each protrusion of glass before sharply removing each and every piece. Never once did she tear her eyes from the surface of the water; did the back of her head leave the nook it rested upon. Once the last shard was removed she rested in red waters.

At her desk she looks into the remaining sheath positioned at eye level. Too thin to see a full image of her face, wide enough to gaze into her companions eyes. And in those eyes she is fixated, she stares desperately into them, flicking from left to right rapidly, before settling on one or the other. Dead eyes with no soul attached beyond the reflection she sees inside them, a figure, darkened, silhouetted. She sees herself.

(video nasty Boogeyman 2)

Les Grande Mains...

Warrington secretly harbors A LOT of musical talent. This is particularly great!

The Reading Room II

Things that are happening. In non-chronological order...

Another reading room in the Kenton.

Yes I've bagged me a regular home in the back room of The Kenton (Kenton Road, Hackney) on Wednesday 28th Sept. The Reading Room provides a valuable service, enabling you to indulge in some lovingly hand crafted artist books, zines, manuscripts and writerly objects that are not available in waterstones or your local library. Come along, relax, engage, don't be shy.

Manchester Print Fair. Three fifths of Parlour Press will be representing with a cozy reading room just like granny used to make.

Manchester Print Fair is a happening thanks to the wonderful Mill Press ladies at the Night and Day Cafe (Northern Quarter, Manchester). Parlour Press will be occupying the stage (naturally) from 11-5 on Sunday 25th September. More information here.

And this thing...
Myself and Rebecca LaMarre will be in residence in the locker room of the Old Police Station for the Open Studio Day on Friday 30th September. We will set up yet another reading room... But slightly huger. Many publications - self published, Artist and otherwise. Also we will be experimenting with format and attempting to keep you entertained with some projections and impromptu readings.

The Old Police Station (OPS) is situated on Amersham Vale, New Cross. More info here.

Sorry for the last minuteness.

Deconstruct this anomaly...

I look unrecognisingly, at my emancipated reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe, lean forward, pull a face and 'ha' on the glass. I put my fingers in the condensation as if ro stroke my neck, staring into the unknown eyes of this stranger. I kiss the cold flat glass, open mouthed, my tongue snaking about on the ice, feeling for warmth.
'What do you want?' I enquire of myself, looking into the reflection of my tired eyes. But I refuse to allow myself to be led by this silly question to which I have no answer.
I shout at myself and stare into my yellowing teeth. I grimace and snort, purposely fogging up the mirror with my hot breath, then pull a silly face and answer myself in an idiotic little voice that I scarcely recognise.
'Meeeee,' I squeak.
'talking to yourself is stupid,' I say, subtly trying to change the subject, but I carry on bullying myself regardless.
'Who is "meeeee"?' I cross-question myself, intent on tripping myself up and making myself a laughing stock....
The wardrobe door swings open and once more reveals a twisted hideous body that I don't recognise as mine; the paleness of my limbs; my hollow cheeks and purple rings under my eyes; my teeth already tobacco stained and broken. I see myself as ugly and despise myself...
It's funny how mirrors hold an interesting dynamic in relation (and reflection) to ourselves. We are so desperate to catch a glimpse of ourselves through the eyes of others but, being unable to take up the position of the other, with each attempt we fail fail fail. We then rely on mirrors, photographs, a passing glance in reflective shop windows (hoping if I can turn my head fast enough I may catch myself off guard). The mirror as deeply flawed as skin, smudged and imperfect, the eyes we stare into, a cold dead reflection. The camera grains, pixelates, we are not made up of tiny little squares, we chose to ignore that which we are made up of, further still, out of sight out of mind... Perhaps we may faint upon opening up - this is just an avoidance of truth. So we rely on others for a true image... Another false image. It is easy to feel alone inside your own body, sometimes the company of others only serves to exemplify this lonelness, then again it they may be only opportunity to truthfully gaze upon ourselves. It is true that I have fallen in love with people off the back of the reflection I caught of myself in the glistening curve of their eyes.

Just yes billy childish, yes.

I try to stand but fall twisted to the bed, my calves and knees locked in cramps. I straighten my legs, screaming in pain, cursing and rubbing my calves vigorously until at last the cramps subside and I can stand on my numb and tingling feet. On reflection, it might have been wiser for me to have sat in my brother's blue nylon sleeping bag. But comfort is not what makes great literature.

Reading room tonight. Come, come. It'd be good to see you there.
It's at the Kenton up in Hackney.

another extract...

Time to catch up with the past which has somehow found itself far beyond our present. General chitter chatter and gesting and then a name is mentioned that doesn't quite sit right. Something bodily crosses the eyes of the other, blatant, dramatic - perhaps, but completely unrehearsed. Perception, on both parts, becomes interesting here. What the body conveys is not necessarily what the conscious mind picks up on. So what we had there was possibly a squirm or a look of dismay, a flash of hatred, or a reaction through discomfort. Once it is picked up on by all there-by present, the word "hate," in some form or another, is placed in the mouth of others and spat out carelessly, but you know that is not true. Not at all. It has happened twice on two separate occasions, with two separate parties. Hate was the last thing encasing the mind, uncertainty was the major - an unwillingness to settle on any type of extreme emotion, an incapability even, the only thing that was committing itself was the body and it's reaction. When asked to reflect on such obvious distractions, extreme contemplation comes to mind, not hatred. Just uncertainty. Any negative response merely turns a mirror onto oneself. It could only be perception and experience (or lack there of...), the failure to assimilate the actions of another, although bothersome, are not necessarily the fault of that particular other. Hate is a reflection or perhaps a deflection of the self. You can not answer with hatred, "Yeh, something happened there. I don't quite know what." or "it'll be a long story" are better deflections than the uttering of irrational words such as 'hate'.
"Besides that's not true. I hate my bodies reaction to 'the name'." The name is signification, the body is electricity, the signified is a short circuit, the reaction is a signal failure. And you realise that you quite like that other, or the way the name arouses the body, the attention it draws towards yourself, "It blushes and squirms, and it reveals something inside. Like it is caught out. You see hatred. Or anger. Maybe possibly even love. But all of those things are incredibly wrong. And all of them are absolutely right. But all of them are not true and require a deeper contemplation." Nothing here can be explained. Silence is a sign of contemplation but the mind doesn't think on the same frequency as the body, which is a shame. Complete understanding only occurs when she leaves consciousness behind and attempts to read her body without the mediation of language, then her body gives up, it will not work to order, you cannot force these things. An image serves as stimulant. But there is a whole universe between the self and the printed/projected/imagined image and the body refuses to act. Something is missing. The manifestation. The real. The symbolic betrays. The imaginary nurtures. The real never occurs. So as a temporary solution she will settle on this sentence as the only truth she can muster up, that she can coerce both mind and body to unite upon, through the silence: "I think I miss him."

Killing (In the Name Of) the Father... Extract

The following are extracts from a much longer piece. It's a work in progress...

“I killed him.” This is a confession. He is dead and it wasn’t easy. The pressure of my V7 Pilot Pen (favored to the 0.5 Uni-ball for its keen nib, thick stokes, ease and comfort) firm against the skin,over and over, back and forth, repetitive strokes. When the skin finally broke, blood was met with black ink and tears of relief. It took months, through severed veins and arteries, through bone and marrow, through the rigor-mortis of repetition and sedative euphoria. Then there was a dead man with a stigmata-esque injury through each wrist. I contemplated mourning over him. I contemplated worshiping him. I did love him. I loved him more in his death than was ever permissible in life. I do mourn, not because of the space left empty by him, but for myself and the earth. I died too. It wasn’t easy, no it was not. Liberation is like new skin, sensitive and vulnerable to surroundings; the atmosphere more easily absorbed through painful oscillations of needle like air altering my typically jaded state to a dizzying new suprasensual. The earth softened with every step and I pulsated with the breath of the wind, totally aware of every single cell, every single molecule that amounted to universal being: myself. Every step fully combined, my mind, my body at one, all that it touched and it was as beautiful as that. But it wasn’t easy. Everything shook as I collided continuously with the ground, with the eyes of passer-bys. The tyranny of such devices. They looked and judged, how limp and 'unaware', oh how wrong their impressions. I killed him and transgressed the tyranny of the eye. I killed him and entered into constant orgasm with the Earth as phallus. I killed him. I killed him: he is earth. I took a life. I took control.
The eye. That initial pusher granted me this downer, that gave me access to this language, to the pen, to the earth. My muscles once kiln blasted clay now soft and indiscernible from earth. It’s brave of me to admit all that isn’t it, that sort of sensitivity leaves me vulnerable and you know where my weakness lies, but you must be edged by fear to know that I could take a life under my hand; under the pressure of my V7 pen. Quite a weapon.
It wasn’t easy and now everything is out of focus, and everything trembles when I touch it but nothing touches me. “I confess to you, it wasn’t easy, but now it is all over. Now we are dead, now we are earth.”

“You and I are earth,” There is an old man in the corner, he is stood on a soap box where girls once gathered around, held onto his words and collected them, wrote them in journals, savored them, revisited them, resisted them, repeated them, ruined them, lost them. He now preaches to the air. He thinks he is a wise man, he glares into his own future and reckons that this justifies his position, but his future is littered with aged memories and we have chosen to forget our memories as they deceive us, as they cause us to ignore inherent dangers whilst irrationally fearing the appearance of butterflies and moths. He directs himself at the naive, like they are idiots but a there is a new word on the street counteracting his stale air. He cannot access this word as it is uttered behind his back, outside of his generation, it breaks in the new kids who deceive their next of kin. So there is a rebellion and his words wreak of otherness and decay. He is channeling, disseminating the dead. We kill the dead. There is talk of killing the old man but we all feel so sorry for him and he happens to be someone's father (and he dares to speak of liberating ourselves from patriarchal constraints). This is the only thing that saves him, that assures his presence. We can’t bare to see her eyes stream on the news of his death as we stand in front of one long mirror, we look at ourselves. We spare him. His remains loiter ghost like in our minds, full of resentful respect, and sexual angst, ashamed at our own defiance to both him and ourselves. Regret all our actions. What must he think.

What about...?
What about what?
Well, you know...
You know, her
What? What about her?
You know...
Well I haven't really given her a second thought.
Wrong her, it's a different one.

There is a silence, the kind of silence that fills the air with small needles which ferociously stab at the neck and chest; which inject small flushes of heat and emulate suffocation. It is usually indistinguishable from regular air to the person/s in the surrounding proximity. They have been twiddling with old bits of paper, flicking at lighters, finding small talk in the strangest of places. The talk is quashed. One twiddler is suspecting that the silence indicates an inappropriate use of small talk, that twiddler suspects that they have unintentionally broached on big talk. There is a sudden calmness now, the needles have finished and although she is still slightly flushed there is an urge to remain - keep the focus with the her....

I have only just began fantasising about her. A flirtation really. To be like that. Is that who I wish to be today? To emit charm and confidence and warmth and intelligence. That's who I was yesterday and the day before. But now, stifled. I fell from her shoes and when I got back to my feet... I'm a little shaky and the persona is slipping. And I'm unsure as to who it is I am fooling. But it's just a fantasy anyway. It isn't hurting anyone.

Oh. I didn't mean, her, actually I meant... Well that doesn't matter. I suppose the main thing is, well what about, him.

Him? You mean him...?

And make no mistake, this did not require contemplation. For as long as she could remember there had only been one him. That ‘him’ is a shape shifter. It does change but beyond the shell is a recurrent theme, or persona, or fiction, or thing. Him is fixed. He becomes a mark of all predecessors and stands before and remains after all, after all.

Well. I haven't thought of him for months now. Well that's a lie, since his death I mean I hadn't. Yet last night I began to fantasise about him. It seems less dangerous now. I severed several electrical wires and pulsating arteries... and yet I cannot fully heal the wounds where they had hooked themselves into my infrastructure. There was something there before. A mark of something or someone. I don't remember quite fully enough to tell it. I suppose that is why people are repulsed by this, it simultaneously reveals and conceals. Always something underneath determined by a... something else. Still at least this one isn't an open gushing wound a direct window into...

The scar itches then and there is a hypnotic glare adopted by those present. They begin to think of their fathers, but whenever anyone tried to speak they could only talk of their mothers. They all knew: the mother implicates the father too, mother is merely a concealing device as everyone fears directly the consequence of naming him. He bred them, he fed them, he allowed them to stay over on Wednesdays and every other weekend. His presence was inescapably bound to their existence. They gave up on language then and sat in silence for some time until one of them finally piped up...


2.35 - 2.54
Merry Clayton.

Prosthesis: Written Jouissance

or how to find the self in text.

Theory as prosthesis
The fallible phallus
Written Jouissance
Reader as parasite
Author as Frankenstein
Book as a coffin
Identity Theft
Paraphiliac tendancies
Écriture féminine
Subjective subjectile
Revival of the mark
Survival of the mark
Symbolic substitution
signified signification
Binary oppositions
I only exist because you exist
I stink therefore I am
Sex is Death
Autoerotocism as alienation
Suggestive Tautology
Mystic preservation
The cuckoo kills the cat
Missing links

Marquis De Sade
The Count Censored
The White Album
Paul McCartney
Stefan Sagmeister
Charles Manson

yes it's nearly hand in time!

Deteriorating quality of blog...

It's that time of year again. I am completely chained to my work at present, editing and rewriting and folding and making and chopping significant chunks of flesh from my fingers (it would seem!) When I return expect snippets of prose, images of new lush books, critical writings of the latest internet memes, details of forth coming exhibitions (that ones a little bit 'out there'...) and many more exciting things relating to..... me! In the meantime you will just have to settle for the occasional youtube video. Or if you really love me (and I know you do!) please participate in this project:
It maybe the only way for your love to be reciprocated.
Lots of love

(p.s. I have removed all images of penises from my blog so you are now in the drastically reduced company of people that have landed here not wanting to look at a penis. Seriously there has been a huge reduction of hits! But it's all about quality, not quantity.)

He hit me....

Adam Curtis. Sound track to match!


You should buy (or submit to) snap zine because of Andrew Moss' cute floppy hair:

SNAP ZINE issue one advert from Matt Sidebottom on Vimeo.

Oh David.

I still love you David.
Here's a fix...

Earl Slick on guitar there. nice.

I'll sleep well tonight.


Firstly thanks to all the responses I've recieved so far.
If you are still intending on participating or still haven't posted the response then it may please you to know that I am pushing back the deadline until end of June early July (probably 6th at the latest).

The Appropriation project aims to find a collective author through the reading and reworking of piece of text. Once all texts have been collected I will set about collating and re-telling the piece through the responses, hopefully drawing on the experiences of others and the text itself. So the more responses the better really.

If you are yet to participate and are intrigued then please email for details or check this site:

The text:

All kinds of diverse responses so far, texts/images/mark making... Keep 'em coming!

We Never Felt Joy...

We never felt joy the day that Osama Bin Laden died. An immediate grin crept across our faces but it wasn't a grin of elation, nor relief, it was of anxiety and anticipation. A prikly sweat attempted to push through my skin but didn't break. I could have jumped, but remained static. We looked at each other and our grins turned to confusion. It meant nothing, something was still up and desperately desperately wrong. When I think back to the circumstances everything was off. An unusual double bank holiday, a royal wedding, a pagan celebration, bewildering fun, exploration and copulation, and an absinthe fuelled hangover (more real than the usual). The death of notoriety. I realised that I had barely even reacted, I asked around and found everyone else was the same. Unable to feel sad, unable to feel joyous we were all just stumped. We wanted to be angry, or sad, or controversial, or ecstatic but all those emotions were so far out of reach that we remained. We just carried on.

We never could affiliate ourselves to a side, we stayed strictly down the center, in the light. So centeral that we realised everybody else was to the left or to the right. We owned that space. Even then we could find no joy, only ignorance.

Chisenhale Residency...

Goldsmiths MFA Art Writing colleagues present an evening of performances, readings, projections, objects and contemplation. And there it is will chart the outcome of a sustained collective engagement with the decisive enigma of disaster and its many possible presences.

What if the word and its manifestations are perceived as events? The word might be a thing in the world, said, written or performed, the word might mark both a place of effort and a failure of presence. If the word is an event, a rupture, each rupture is a call to thought. Would presence, if achieved, mean epistemic failure? Does who writes matter? Does who speaks matter? Does which word we choose matter? Is our alphabet dead? Are we resigned to ringing variations of clichés or might we happen upon invention? Must our gesture succeed?

It could be Chisenhale, a screen, the internet, a wall, a piece of paper, a mask, a body, a voice, a void, or a word. We could find it. We could fail it.

Keep in a cool place...

Did you ever get the impression that you had been crafted? It was the result of an uncomfortable stretch, pivoting joints seemingly fractured. All these twists and turns began to separate themselves from the body. I began looking a little like a piece by Hans Bellemer. Disjuncture; Displaced; Disappropriated; Disjointed.

It looks like an act, there is a gesture towards eternal desire. This how you might look if you were to place your insides outside. Too much revealed, unnatural, not normal. Revelation, elation, liberation. Submission. The skin disappears and you are revealed as a mechanism. Let him turn his hand unto you and mould them around the artificiality of your limbs.

That is a falsehood as he is a falsehood, artificial mechanisms of otherness. Reduce each other to mannequins and find there an uncanny likening for something you once thought that you knew. The body curls in on itself then around itself - the surreality of it all. Life has been unveiled to you as nothing more than you had already found inside and there is a dissatisfaction to that. It was never the outside that oppressed you, it was always the inside.

Inside you found his hand and you were doing all you could to escape it before it's thick fingers clasped tightly shut around you. On running you had tied yourself in knots then questioned how it could possibly occur that the hand you were running from has now become a surface which you rest your tangled hide upon. This is how we represent each other.

Grotesque rippling of skin and flesh is tied into itself, it was never a part of me, it was just some additive. Something to dig at. Something to protect my core. How this did occur. How I have become so falsely represented. How you are, were and always will be the wire, distorting and manipulating my reality and my phantasy, intercepting thought processes and projecting yourself unto my limbs. I remain unmarked. Pull your wire once more and a little more tightly please, I am beginning to rise again.

OWT #5 Atmosphere...

Buy OWT zine for the following reasons:
It is
Beautifully put together
Hand/screen printed sections
Talented northern youths

I'm in it!

The I that lies...

For me to say I is problematic as I can only know as I have come to understand. I will not and cannot presuppose your knowledge. So where can another fit into I? It is single, alone, all-one. To force another to say I through that which I scribe causes a displacement. It passes into the realm of the other, the unknown. It is claimed by someone else and it is no longer mine. It requires the unknown other to draw from their own experiences and take the ownership of the I from me. Perhaps then, this is where we can become a collective, a we or an us. Although the letters w and e do not touch they stand together to form a comprehensible concept of togetherness. The unknown I find within myself and consequently others may become united through the use of the word I. Stood together because of subjectivity and singularity.
If I did have anything to say it perhaps should merely have been this: What can I say? And maybe the depth of différance within the response, the antecedence of the personal pronoun, the implications of the shifter, could have given us all some fat to chew on for a while.

***aside. A deconstruction of self. A presupposition of the speaking being.
As I entered into your language my mind was washed with nothingness. I had forgotten the thing that I was searching for and so I began to look for clues to help me remember. The clues that I found were ambiguous; they were surfaces for me to rub myself against in order to test whether I existed; they enabled a space for me to contort myself into. Although it is quite possible that one of these spaces had been made for me, I felt uncertain and thought perhaps that it was best not to claim any of them until I am sure that they aren't already inhabited by others (possibly out to lunch, visiting a family member in hospital, or holidaying in Spain). I suppose I could ask you about these spaces, but I am struggling to think of an example. The only thing I can recall is that I misread girth as girl. Upon reading it again I smiled. I didn't know whether to wrap my arms around your waist or to sit on you, neither is possible as you are supine when it comes to irrational outbursts of lust and/or desire. This is a bad example, but the fact that it is an example means that it cannot serve in it's particularity, it is in a paradoxical position of 'it is but it isn't(ness)', for which I am quite grateful as this renders me golden. I go out of my way to build spaces, it is an inevitable construct of language, yet I am uncertain who I may find loitering in these words. Every time I look, it is a concept of you, but when my back is turned I am unknown as is you.

(Possessing the I of a song)

What's in a Name (Revision of previous post)

Antagonism will only rouse animosity.

Not everything you say will be taken on board.
Not everything you are interested in will I find interesting.

This is another point.

We are united based on difference not pinpoint understandings.
Understanding the other is the least productive activity.


- to stir my insides and tear it into pieces, being far more excited by the unanswerable than the satisfaction and comfort produced by the...


- how is one expected to produce and write if not continuously foiled by what one thought to be right and what one thought to be truthful. Really it is the deception of perception that rendered this disposition. Blame the skin. Blame the concealment of interior with it's sense of touch and it's responsibility to protect.

Tell me then, how is it that a name can hold anything more than the key to authenticity? How can it unlock a piece of writing? How can a piece of writing create more of an impact due to the addition of a name so anonymous as my own? Who is it that wants to know me? And in addition how might they know the purpose of what I have told without sitting with them, and allowing them to take a scalpel to my protective layer and remove my innards with a fish knife. All of which, may I add, would have to take place whilst I continue to breathe.

Read my previous work and sure enough you find clues, similarities, structures, and characters, you find the same thing over and over, my word is truthful, my stories are riddled with holes. There is after all a 'hole' in 'whole'. For you, the loss of authors name is infuriating, but if Banksy were to reveal his face, would we be anymore wiser as to his identity? And here I am (or due to the temporality of this post, there I was) sitting opposite you, who I do not know, listening to your words, taking them on board despite the fact that I do not know you. Are you then any less valid. Is a name not only a point of reference? Or is it something that identifies us as beings? Does a name give us identity? Am I in trouble with my 'self', because by granting me with a name in 1986 my parents placed onto me something to which I identify my 'self'......

Imagine it in reverse. How frustrating it is to have people read your work but to never know them. Or worse to talk to people, to live with someone and never know them. To make love to someone and never. truly. know them. Why should I offer any other sort of courtesy? As it happens, (the work discussed - this is me venting by the way) it is a one off piece of work intended to gather a completeness (or deterioration) through a series of unknown authors. Unity in difference. Commonality through the individual. But it stands. The addition of my name, the removal of my name, whether it antagonises, as you have me, becomes completely arbitrary. You take it, or you leave it. My name means nothing around these, or any parts. I hold no value to it at this moment in time where I am building a body. I'll decide the name once I have given birth to the beast. (Frankenstein never named his monster, to do so may have helped people anthropomorphisise him, accept him, maybe then that is why people struggle at Halloween. Or perhaps it was the collapse of the two personalities - who was the real monster?)

As an a-side what then lies in a pseudonym? How does that effect the reader? I once had a male tutor who told me he had published poetry under various female names. Would this then effect the trace of the author, a complete disembodiment of author, which is then displaced onto an empty shell. A male with a female voice, or perhaps a female with a male voice. Or a complete lie, an untruth with no trace for anyone to follow. Would this be washing the blood from the page, so to speak. Your hands are clean, it is removed from your conscious, there is no DNA to be traced.

Sylvia Plath worked under the name Victoria Lucas when publishing the Bell Jar. Does the book mean more now that we know it was her? I would say yes. The active 'suicide' of the author within this piece some how lessens it. Although a fictive piece we need to draw parallels to Plath's own life before we can see it as anything more than just a piece of fiction. Without her, there are access points that elevate it to a worth while read if you are of 'that' nature. The attachment of Plath to this work suddenly seemed to make it comprehensible, it was somehow the revelation of the true author and the association with her own struggles and actual suicide which granted it resonance. Did it need the name to achieve acclaim? If so then when does an author's work become the 'work' of an author? Can 'work' become defined as any old shit found lying around once present to the respective author. Foucault mentions this in essay "What is an Author?" Should we have burnt Kafka's unfinished novels rather than re-assemble them - does the re-assembly of a piece then somehow displace authorship. If an author dies should his possessions be looted in order to find newness. Shopping lists, marginalia, abandoned pieces, notes. It is a doodle that a child has left in a white cube gallery having a pointed finger shook at it declaring, "LOOK, it is in this building, then it is art." How much should we rely on the institution of author for authenticity and credibility? Vladimir Nabokov died over and over again. After his real death, he published his final (unfinished) novel The Original of Laura subtitled 'dying is fun'. An aging novelist attempting to erase himself with the end of his pencil, unfinished, echoed in his death and his remains. To erase the name of the author is not possible, as it remains, a living institution beyond death, - fitting then that the novel was never finished. What I was left with from Kafka's 'The Trial' became paranoia and self incarceration through the waiting and unknowing of Josef K's verdict, reflected in it's state, we will never know and we will never finish. Who/what is absence? What needs to remain for a piece of writing to become present. The simple answer then is a voice. Who is speaking? Who cares? The death of the Author has been discussed to death since Barthes published his essay "The Death of the Author" in 1967. Unfortunately I wasn't around. It just goes without saying now. It's down to the reader, you either know the author or you don't, if you don't then you look for access points and gaps which you polyfill with your own experience. If you do the gaps are filled with some light research. But all the same, I want to keep control in order to lose control. I want readers to connect with me and each other by scarring my work with their own experiences. I want them to publicly execute the author - or at least assist in my suicide.

(After note:
This all started because I bad tutorial I had with a visiting tutor. She was deliberately undermining, and antagonistic towards my choices and work. We had completely opposing fundamental research interests, mine otherness and hers character which cast very argumentative/defensive/condescending cloud over the conversation. Although I held my own I believe these type of tutorials to hold no value beyond intensive reflection on why I believe myself to be right and absolutely no aid at all towards improved production... etc... anything she did say that I could have taken from the situation was overshadowed and forgotten or rebelled against.)

I think I can write again now.