Notes:

In order

Penetrating our very possession and order
The pandemic is a threshold a passage
From light to darkness
What is changing at the threshold of the mind?

The art of putting our bodies into the space, may it be lost 

The proximity of one another is to be replayed.

On the approach.

Conjunction and conjunction.

What are the unconscious effects?  

Where do the relations go, to be?

The discos have been closed.

We don't know what is waiting for us beyond the threshold.

Markt

Change clanking. 
Bags russel. Plastic exteriors. Fruits placed next to the plastic kin. 
Exchanges occur, back and forth changing hands. 

Swift maneuvers and calls to the crowd.

Money is made, lost, departed with. 

Wasps. Chatter. Thanks.

Packed away for next time.

Into boxes into vans.

Into the pockets next to plans.

Some are making money some are losing it.

The bell rings next to the babies cry.

Yes

Its more crowded in that area. 

Forgotten relics.

Unravelling overlocks.

Unsold clothes are discarded left Sodden when left out.

Once someones in somebodies life now outside of it.

At the moment of tyranicalsanctions.

At the moment of transitio.

At the moment of transitio.

                             insitio

Transaction denied. Defiled. Declined.

The Project as a Sprawl. And as a beginning of a beginning. Inside of the Pocket.

When starting a project it is in a sense a germination. The beginning of something. There are many beginnings. Beginnings are often stunted by the appeal of another beginning. A tab is replaced by another tab, by another beginning. Half-formed. A collaboration is eclipsed by another tactile opportunity. To jump from one project to another, to another. Leapfrogging through constant fluctuations and potentials. Continually turning machines on only to turn them off a few moments later. Pockets are beginnings, they often have the same contents. Keys, wallets, purses, coins, tissues, phones, earphones, paper, receipts, lint, facemasks. The items are then routinely removed. Ordered and replaced if necessary. The start of the day marks a new pocket. A new organisation a permutation of the pocket. Back pocket, front pocket, small pocket, jacket pocket. The backpack is a huge pocket. a compiling of the pocket. A serialisation of pockets attached to handles or straps. Made easy for transport for handling. Can a beginning be a pocket? We have several empty boxes. Fresh boxes. Fresh starts. New days. And perhaps we choose to pull the same boxes from the wall as it is convenient. Each day the boxes can be arranged in front of us with new permutations. Then why do they continually remain in the same order. The same language employed at the same moment. The glass container is a beginning it is refilled. It is fresh. The water is replaced anew. Each time a new beginning. How does it exist without the water? Is it therefore lacking a beginning. What is a beginning with three n's in the middle? It is a beginnning. But what if there are three before the g at the end then it would be a beginnninnng. 

Of Quotes.

 It's a painting of a medusa and its scary

Generational changeover, perhaps

Anti-Subterranean

Standard grids with locked out areas; completely unapproachable

Cups of Xanthine

I'm a Xanthrope

All this dirty furniture

Spilling into the future

On the beams. On the walls.

It was at that Point that it Drifted

A Constant Rhythm Made by Differing Machines

Oscillating Pockets of Hot Wire

Transient Routines

States of Never

On Art School

- You see a tutor every now and then. Who you might have little to no connection with, but they are sometimes incredibly helpful and are sometimes an important part of being at art school? Tutors don’t get given the opportunity to do their job because they are often on a precarious contract and don’t get paid enough to spend the amount of time that is necessary to "mentor" a student. The whole tutor student thing is a bit weird anyway. There should be a scheme where artists do long term residencies in schools so they can get paid and don’t have to also rent a studio.

-The process of leaving the school is so harsh, degree shows albeit good fun don’t function well. Its not even possible to see all the art properly! Effectively destroying a school each year for a third of the students doesn’t work.

-Students should leave school when they want to, some people are done after six months, some need 5 years or more!

-Art schools are inherently racist. They are hostile to people whose first language isn’t English. During critiques speakers whose first language isn’t English often fear to speak and when they do there is a patronizing atmosphere from those listening. Art schools are failing to actively dismantle racism. This is the most important problem at art schools.

-There should be some accommodation on site available to students. Living in my studio works well. It’s helpful if you can just wake up and get started. I understand for some art school Isn’t their whole life, but some might want to make it theirs.

-You are sold "fantastic" workshop facilities. But often the experience can be frustrating. Students are often scared to use the facilities they came there to use! Sometimes the technician is intimidating or over worked/under paid and therefore grumpy. Workshops are often dominated by people who devote all their time there and are accepted into a sort of ‘inner’ circle. Often there is lack of protocol for how to use them or its limited to the constrains of what the technician wants to do. Often the facilities aren’t any good to start with!

-Art schools produce good work. Why is the 'artworld' or art industry so far from it? Musicians start their ‘careers’ young. Why does it take till someone’s in their 30’s or after finishing their masters that they start getting paid for anything? Galleries, museums, project spaces should be more connected to art schools. Art systems move frustratingly slow.

-There should be like an Art Apprenticeship loads of people want to make stuff but aren't allowed to because the "table saw is too dangerous." Loads of people end up going into fabrication after anyway and are sort of half qualified tradespeople. There should be some sort of middle ground for this.

-By the time things get going, the term ends! Studios aren’t open late enough and aren’t cohesive social areas. Why are arts courses squeezed into the same time boundaries as academic studies.

-There should be kitchens. Students should be able to make their own food and not settle for shitty meal deals. I found eating and drinking with other students an essential part of being at art school, you should be able to do it how you want to and cheaply.

- You get given a desk and a wall. The architecture of the studios tends to be alienating, some people are happy to be on their own and just paint but I knew a lot of people who wanted a more co-operative environment, one that feels creative and not like a fucking office! I thought that students could build their studios/move change studios as it doesn’t make sense if someone wants to do some big installations when someone else’s desk is empty because they're off using blender (no offense to people who work using computers it’s just people have different needs.). It could get quite neoliberal/hotdesky which would be shit if done wrong. But maybe just letting students do what they want with the architecture and increasing student communication would work.

-Schools should be more interconnected! It doesn't make sense that you can't go use a forge (for example) that’s in a different school 5 miles away, when no one is using that forge anyway. Art schools are all run completely differently and could learn a lot from each other.

-The option of letting you discover what you want to do, works and doesn't. I know a lot of people freak out when they get to art school because of the freedom, other art schools are too prescriptive and therefore boring for the students due to a lack of creativity. I think the hope that art students ‘find’ their way themselves is a bit lazy on the institutions part. There should be a general structure e.g. an essential reading list. Even if the students choose to disregard this is okay too! The institution should stand for something, instead of being this creepy place where you don’t really know what it wants.

-There is so much waste! Big skips at the end of the year where everyone chucks away all the stuff, they spent hours making, or throwing away all their equipment because their going to a different country only for other students to buy the exact same stuff the next year.

-Why does no one talk about careers and money? Seems quite unrealistic to me to never talk about that. Maybe you can go to a career’s advisor in your uni but that’s not really of any help to an artist. Maybe it’s not good to prescribe a route for artists and inevitably there will be moments where people say that’s bullshit why would you want to sell your art. But if you’re going to have to go get a job after art school anyway why not talk about it instead of leaving it as an elephant in the room?

-I'd like to be on a fine arts course where practices are more mixed. Why doesn’t a fine art course accommodate software engineers, theater people, why not even bankers? (I don’t know).

-Foundation courses seem to work quite well I recall a lot of my friends saying they enjoyed foundation much more than their BA's. Filled with optimism and fun, but also strange spending a lot of time making a portfolio that you end up disregarding when you get to art school.

*I’ll keep working on this list. Please let me know if you share some of the same ideas or have other ideas of how an art school could be. Please let me know if you disagree with any of these points. Noah x*

4 words

I just ran twelve marathons without any water.
My body became the exact substance humanity tried to banish years ago,
I set myself rules and them washed them with water.
I heard you can create real waves without any mechanical alterations.

There is nothing going on inside that persons hat.
I thought there might have been .
But there was not.
They will be ecstatic when the removal of all public monument occurs; I will be too.

They hadn't written down my number they just pretended.
Hard water, cold water.
Black water, brown water.
Crown Water, damp water
Old water, frown water

Check yourself before you check into yourself

Put that back in the bin
Get it out of the bin and then put it back in the bin anew
Crazed fever and globular membranes a-new
Bodies filled the streets

Empowered and heated
Sweating limbs removed their ability to process
They re-engaged and moved forward
And asked to speak directly to the body

Station (unfinished)

There's the question of the train station. It will be decked with trash. The corners will glisten; the off cuts of the night. How should it be filled? How should the rubbish move? Is there a moment where the trash just becomes liquid it starts to move freely once it gets to the land fill its back to its ocean.  Back into the wild. As if to litter is some sort of inhumanity to the rubbish.

Or, falling at the wayside, failing to get to the bin. It wants to return.
The tiles on the floor of the station. They are part of the stations grid. I guess the station is a grid and the tiles are the cells of it. Brick. There should be a lot of brick. But the sort that is hostile, new shiny. A brick in the teeth. A brick in the

The "spare" room

It has been freshly painted a crisp lime colour. Ready for sale or ready for a guest. It’s not for use as much as it is used for show. There is an old Dyson hoover in the corner; a DC04 apparently. Its bruised decal secondary to its replacement that resides in another room. Totems of Tory aid.  There is pine furniture, the worst of the house. Other spare parts mis-align in here. A barrenness circulates around the room underneath the bed and into the idle gloss work. At one point this empty room marked a symbol of achievement. Now maybe just middle-class sterility.

The dross nature of "nice" interiors. I'd rather it be bad than "nice". Stacks of memories filed neatly into albums sit patiently for rituals of recollection to moments of seized happiness.

How many other extra rooms are empty? Layers of hotels are empty. Nocturnal rooms. How many rooms are full? How many cease to be occupied? How many never cease to be occupied? How can such a silent room be so stentorian? And how do some attempt silence and still say nothing at all?

The rectangular window. Serves a slice of home county countryside, within the boundaries of the villages most prolific landowner. A nascent hum of the A24 hangs there. London’s veinal tendrils sprawl out to the meekest of quarters.

The Fish, The Cigarette, The Sofa. (Unfinished)

Maulville Progstein, a small green fish was swimming around a bottle of mineral water minding his business. He had been doing so since waking two hours ago for there is little for a fish inside a bottle to do. Although there was something bugging him. He had this innate desire to smoke a cigarette.

He sat there. Well he didn’t sit there he doesn’t have a behind to sit on. He slumped against the ridges of the plastic formed bottle and laughed at the predicament he was in. “How have I ended up addicted to cigarettes when I’m a water dwelling animal.” He said to nobody.

It turned out that the fish had just woken up from a four-day bachelor party. The memory of this happening had been erased due to extensive alcohol consumption

Their best friend Carter the Carp had intended on getting married.  Unfortunately, Carter had drowned and would be unable to attend the wedding.

Maulvillle, looked out of their bottle and into the dross interior of an unknown living room. There was a lime green sofa with an illustration of camellias on its exterior. Mauville thought about what a great time they would have if they were a sofa. No sofa has ever been addicted to cigarettes. Maulville also had no way of smoking as he couldn’t leave his bottle or he would suffocate and he didn’t have any plausible thumbs to operate a lighter. But gosh did he want a cigarette. He didn’t even know how he had ended up addicted. Perhaps someone had stuck a patch on him or put some sort of tobacco product in his bottle. An E-syrup perhaps.

Maulville swam a few circles and looked at the sofa again.

“I bet you’ve never been stuck inside a bottle”

“I have actually” the sofa replied.

Maulville was stunned.

“Excuse me?”

The sofa was silent. 

Maulville swam an anxious circle “How would you get inside a bottle?”

“The same way those tiny boats get inside bottles.”

“How do they get inside bottles?”

“They’re put into a trance and ushered in. Then the boats wake up and they’re inside these bottles and they have no idea how they got there.”

“Is that so Maulville.” replied suspiciously. “Have you got a cigarette”

“Let me check.” The sofa checked. “Hmm, I do, but… how am I to give it to you? Neither of us have the capability to move a cigarette.”

“Can’t you put me in a trance”

“How did a fish get addicted to cigarettes?”

“I’m not sure.” Mauliville fastidiously replied. “To be honest with you I’ve never had a thought before. And I’ve also never spoken to a sofa.”

The sofa stared back coldly. Maulville anticipated a reply but it never came. A grumbling sound brewed from inside the sofa a soft gurgling with a oaky timbre.

“Are you okay?” Maulville was suddenly concerned for the sofa’s health. It must be grating on one physical health to have people constant slumping on you. Having to hold someone in a position for hours

“Look I didn’t mean to cause offence”

The sofa pursed it cushions together and spat a cigarrette through the air. The perfectedly machined cylinder flew in a sonorous arc. It tapped the exterior of Maulvilles bottle and landed a few centimetres from the plastic bottle.

So they said

The second open call.
Sorry its all in Russian.
Its a student project. There no money.
And they all wanted to play my trash symphony.
I congratulate you in this risk taking moment.
For going through this transformation.
I have this huge environmental ready made.
Self critical. Wheres the problematic.
The plan. Lets come back to the plan.
I'll send you some films.
The week after that you'll come to me with your solution.
You must have a solution.
Maybe we can see what your looking at by the reflection of your glasses.

Back teeth

I just looked at my dog.
Does it even know anything.
I wonder what she is thinking about.
Nothing I suppose.

Dogs don't think.
I wonder if they pray.
I've never seen a dog put there paws together or lean forward onto their knees.
What would they need to pray for anyway.
More walks.
A bigger bowl.
They don't have the capability to have ideas.

I saw a different dog, the other dog, eating from their owners hand.
How degrading.
Or stimulating for some perhaps...
It was a blood hound.
It looked past it like most blood hounds do.
Too much skin.
Too much skin for their little body to carry.

I think if I were to get another pet it would be an eagle.
Maybe they could be vegetarian and they could go pick up garlic for me.
Not wild garlic just from the shop you know.

Devil Baby

She looked down at its squirming face, nose pinched to its lips.
A grimace that she knew would soon erupt into an almighty shriek.

Pushing it around all day.
Its heavy.
Its fat legs kicking the edges of its pram; its oval cocoon.

It screams, it screams.

Spittle forming in the corner of its mouth, gurgling its own unformed profanities.
Slipping into a maniacal cackle, lapsing into a hysterical moment of pleasure, enjoying the slow torture of its creator, only to momentarily return to the screams.

“Why are you shouting?!” The inquisition was futile.

It gargles.
It cannot express itself.
Its plastic pacifier repositioned by the mother only to be spat out again in retaliation.

I bought it shoes, but it screams.
Oh, it screams.
It screams, screams.
Screams that ring through the street painting it purple, green and red.
A passer-by recoils into the fur of their hood.

The child is turning red.
The child is turning red.
It starts arching its back.
Boiling.
The baby’s fury is boiling its own organs.
The baby is churning its own brain into a gory butter.

“What do you want?”

Blending its own emotions.
An unsettled pile of hokum.
Its eyes rolling back into its skull, clenching its tiny fists.
Gurgling.
Struggling, to move past its present state.
Its lost.
Flailing arms exacerbating its body
Burying it deeper in its torment.
Its empty mind filling with heat.

The fat rises to the top, a silky layer of oily grease.
The particles separate.
Where is the glue?
Can it be fixed?
It screams.
It screams.

The kettle has boiled.

"Cambiatic" is for me. Similar to chamber or ischiatic. Not even.

Moving out of the context, first to go underground and next to. Stepping down, into the cambiatic interior. My feet touch forty steps, some wet with rain, drops pooling together and sliding down from the entrance, splitting and filling cracks of the steps that lay injured. The station is the sewer for those who want to be removed from the experience and enter a parallel one, momentarily fresh. Instantaneously, new.

Evacuated from this time space and teleported to another. The elaborate support mechanisms which hold these walls up. A forgotten glove hangs over the end of a handrail, the curved metal loop holding it as it slumps round.

Waiting in the airport/Thinking about Reacher.

They chopped up all the fruit for me put it inside a plastic container it it was perfect for my predicament, I wanted that little sugary hit that I enjoyed so much but also the nutrients I so obviously lack. We're all doing the same stuff. Charging our things and killing time. Murdering it with our tiny fingers against the glass until we can get on that metal bird and sling ourselves to another time space. Hopefully no-one has that dreaded "thing" everyone's talking about. Hasn't everybody already got a virus though. That what I was confused with.

In terms of thresholds I'm having ... with the character known as R who is supposed to be a ... that somewhat disconnected from current events... out of touch with his friends who are further left wing then him despite showing moments of sincere solidarity at times. Despite being physically bolshie; heavy footed, a touch that is heavier than others find sincere, a booming laugh, a wide stern gait. He is actually very sincere and has a sensitivity too him which people overlook. He has a lot of admiration for C and character the same for R but it is reciprocated in a less physical fashion. They are too some extent very different. R is ADHD. Character is more centered, yet they are sort of torn between so many things they are unable to fully pursue anything fully. I suppose you could say scatter-brained. They are both somewhere between the ages of 20-40. The social circles they mix in aren't predicated by age or anything for that matter. He is tall in statue. A large human for that matter. Abnormally large. Seven foot. Always eating. heavily clothed. Almost always wearing a hat. He dons a sort of German work jacket with lots of pockets and zips. The waistband of it is separating from the rest of the jacket. It was a sort of luminescent red color but is so worn its become a sort of navy, there is a sheen to it the way that well worn clothes with polyester in them have. I don't know if that why they have that sort of shine. I just always assumed that the cotton would wear away and that the polyester would shine through i'm not sure.

I have to apply tricks

Undercurrent of puritanical stuff.

Lots of uptight people.

Victorian house was nine and my sister was on the way.

Totally capably.

I think that was the story for a lot of people, well-educated but stifled.

Fact gathering.

Early on your mother tried to teach you piano.

I was a slacker, I just wanted to be a monkey hangout in a tree.

Basic harmony.

My hand postures.

Over and over.

My mother would buy me something if I was sick.

Kind of provincial.

Real success.

A big point of pride for him.

Jumped about in different resort bands.

There was one label. A sort of trivial pursuit.

The covers band in St Petersburg, a covers band would be the intermediary between the iron curtain.

Confused haywire bad decisions.

The capacity for it.

Bigger and better machines. It was like a mirror for me, that’s basically it, why don't we listen to one of the first things you did. Depends when I die, I guess

A big point of pride for him.

Put that to trial.

Feral cats, upstairs it was a happy scene. So informational. The closet was divided.

It was a brutal thing.

Fake.

Imagined in these little studios, phantasmagorical shit.

It doesn't come wherever.

There was like an urgency.

Spirit and intensity.

I wouldn't see only violence here though.

They don’t sing they just screech in pain.

He had enabled my whole thing.

He had put out Russian mine.

The riffs.

Through.

The stuff that your making is not noise, though. By the time that double leopards

It’s physical.

In the balustrades.

Locked in this dungeon, in this focus zone.

There is something to be said, for doing that.

We brought our synthesizers in.

We have some of the same stuff.

This fluffy grey exterior, the slipper that will be changed once it worn through.

A city full of electric tigers just walking around, the ultra-clean surface.

Creating a zoo. I want to create a zoo. Generally, the megalomaniac doesn't survive for long because they end up eating the other producers.

Are there other people involved?

The stead figure, the threshold

The stead old man or the stead figure. Character is walking with his friends Reacher and Abela. They walk up to a square and there's this man who's stood there. As if he's been frozen in time like hes a wax work or something. And he's stairing looking into this square that's full of people trading and interacting and talking in different languages but it's as if the spectacle of the moment has petrified him. There is nothing particularly interesting about what he is looking at. The stall he is looking at is actually empty there's a steel metal frame with a tarpaulin around it there's a few holes in it. Its material is blue. His pockets are full with things. He doesn't have a phone. I'm not sure what he is but I think it could be important maybe there can be totemic people, a mystic quality to a person and the whole room just spins around them without them even knowing. I don't think this old man gives a fuck. He might not even be conscious, he might be dead actually. But he's there and he's still like sturdy. Like a statue sort of. Because he's an old man people might go up to him and ask if he's okay but he doesn't respond as he survives on this other time scale like a tree. More of an entity than a human.