Chapter 9 An Ad Break

Words to heaven.
Let hearts love. Let sex turn. Let words burn.
‘May you live interesting times.’ Chinese proverb considered a curse.
In a time of saturation, we must be our most creative. Our most imagi/native. Primal textural. Speech to knowledge spent, bent. Time lent. Sexual real. Intent. Reveal the real; it’s not lies, as the clouds reveal the sun nude. Unlike words this time. Re-used spoken, token. Promotion, promotion.
Dent.
Talk is cheap.
I heap. A choreographic sleep. Make love seep.
Actionist taint. Act-ivist fist up skirt, mutinied bounty. Perform this move me(a)nt like a gesture, political expression, towards love reaccepted; we cannot be saved. It’s never too late.
I tread it in a book.

I hold you in my arms. My art. It’s no false start, untelevised love.

To love.
Radar over rainbow under trench and river gun climb, we reached through dreams time clean. Its morph unseen but pristine. Mountain lion.
The page is sly, manipulates you when you know the truth of your confusion. See through lines.
Tell all, intimate friends, spread the word. I feel lost inside inspiration suspended through crossfire, my radiation tokens laughing. We relate. Marry ourselves, a narcissistic hell. Self-help relational aesthetic tent. What was said? Was it felt. Yoko Ono's YES. Repetition is not change; what's leftover is change, for us beggars, to take stew, transform words, connect this help to invisible wall. Bridge. Cable, cord help. We are so close. A love a more. Read it before, so take heater. To door. Cross-section rip and slip. A little love more.
Unexpected implore. You tore my clothes off my machine to see yourself naked. I hear you.
I haven't found my audience yet (btw atm)
Words of no weight through time/weighted by time/overused/impossible:
Revolution Utopia Idealism Innovation Sacred

Powerful Beautiful Saviour Juxtaposition Special Interface Karma
Words that will always be of impact:
Love
Help Violence Live Notice Give Money Powerful Transform Animal Special Terror Light Colour Passion Change

Wind Dark
Music was my one true love
until you
noticed
me
flee
Words that I like:
Transgression Tension Beauty Brilliance
You Bliss Taken Open Visceral Nourish Exist

Rose Blood Sexy
1.
Notes to self: be sure to live. Allow sand to stick and gulls to cry. Nothing gets past the caretaker. Colours written in shades hidden. Regeneration eats and recycles itself, brighter, thicker. The dance in, light out.
8.
Milk has several strains of blood. And several other stories, compiled by divine puppeteers. We shed concrete as drips drop upward. Then we know how to really talk, eyes torched, frames broken; I have lightning on my side. As the moon pulls the tide, so I slide. Decoy arrows choreographing thought.
(hmm, try again)
-20
Is it art when I touch myself, or only when I touch others? Time bent around my hand like music composed, then when questions in sun arose. A message tent in star-tied tide. Hope was lent. Lies lost in snow a monster try, squeezed through space reinvent. This glint-like flame elevated sky pride. We loved all words shed. Time had no weight, just layers of feeling slid inside sheets of tax. Hence. Desiring to fit into bags beyond, the

dream deserted violent intent. Therefore. Help held dog in hand this fault line of promise then beauty sliced through on repeat. This honoured sleep. Revolution keep. Said with feeling, thoughtless. I like, just for you. Implicitly it meant. Held close.
A conversation is most generative. Written on the body, political love.
We search, light out. We hide, we seek, playfully intense. It’s the wounded inner child faking performance art-speak. Let it speak. I am free. Hahaha. Jargon erupts through cracks of invisible unsayable sooth, like psychic operations, cyclones moving in. We frozen by lava, time capsules awakening mathematical universe, we got it wrong. Calculatedly.
Love.
That overused word. Trite, media-saturated universal Murphy's Law shamanistic Hellenistic rerouted chauvinistic rent.
Will prevail. Like numbers.
Rising.
Quietly, behind the scenes
while we watch the drama of death unfold. Counting backwards.
Really all we have is choice.
Not explosives, not corrosives, not community.

Not abundance.
It’s time to use it now.
Choice liberates.
'Expressions' :
.....
blank
... name
... label
...
language..
gender...
makeup...
ethnically cleansed...

hybridised, globalised, colonised, synchronised, synthesised, realised, lised...
...the time is now.
Diseased in fertile decay. Boundless...
I love you...
.sign the dotted line...
a kiss is not a contract...
all things are made equal...
love like you've never been hurt...
...may you live in interesting times
...don't squeeze too tight...
Rules:
Squeeze tighter...
Did I let you go?

Don't don't don't don't don't don't don't...
Do... do... do... do...
I do.
I do.
I do.
Let me fix it.
When will we get to the bottom of this?
I can do better than this.
Stop suffering.
Stop hurting.
Stop.
Going.
Enter the void.

Breath.
Something sacred is about to be born.
I uncalculate.
I kiss you.
The cord created the connection.
Listen to the loud silence.
Hiss at the bullies.
Laugh at the power play.
Play the power button. Der der der implosion. We've seen it explode a million times.
Rerun.
You are an untamable horse, whose dreams are big, thoughts are psychic.
YOU missed the hurricane.
But you said we could huddle together in your studio.

People want a piece of you. Don't let them have it.
I can protect your naval chakra for $700.
The monster this time felt like a Muppet. It wrapped itself around me hot and furry, breathing. I woke coughing.
My head split but didn't break that time in snow.
He said the scar was interfering with the reading.
Let hearts love. Let sex turn. Let words burn.
Let creeps learn.
I teach creeps.
I am a creep.
I creep.
Tonight I sleep.
It is just words.

Play with me.

We can all be all be all be. What we want.
Be something else.
Do unexpected things.
Open your eyes.
Open your heart.
Open your wallet.
Be a frog, a fly, a pixel, another family member, your twin, be me, be you, be him in the street, be dirt.
Be.
A letter in a book. A better look.
Talking we bask, walking past.
Giving that dirty look. Don't calculate. It’s not too late.
Come to me.

I'll take care of you.
This is not a quote. I lie, its a a a a a a a—
Sing.
Sting.
Walk with me. Lie with me. Split cells with me. What's the password. Will you lick my nude wounds?
Email is a serial killer.
If I disturb you I'm joking. It’s a play.
I am a charming child, really, in awe of your subtlety like a mountain to climb.
Words to hell.
I just need my open mind. A pen, a studio. An open window. My body. Open whispers. Let me run screaming into the wild. Nothing can stop me. I face the world with words burning, arms open turning, blood churning. You don't know me. I will hear you. Laugh with you. Revolt theatre of skies, throwback lies. Compassionate byes. reBirthing tries: love unravels dreams.

Fuck Coca-Cola. Fuck.

No pain, no game.
No game.
No GAME.
I am not GAME.
Women hunt, too, you know.
They smile, run wild.
Avoid institutions as a woman. They will suck your blood. Kiss your nude wounds and make jokes at your expense.
Serial killer.
Woman
Woman
Woman
Woman

on the run.
The next live piece I make will use as its blurb: 'It doesn't have a wank-off description. Just come. You will 'like' it. Promise. Money-back guaranteed.'
Laugh!
I surrender.
It will be called!
White flag.
Keep the love flowing, the blood going.
Fuck for love. For innocence, for knowledge.
Fuck up.
Rock
the
boat.

Rock

the
baby.
I just received an email addressed to 'Extraordinary Aliens'.
Application to Art in Odd Places. I am so cynical. These pieces that speak to ‘NUMBERS’ as the theme (random?) consist of a series of interviews with the public yes annoying them in the street about 'how many times' (numbers) um um um... let me think. They have 'felt out of place and, and why?' Why do you feel like an alien? It is an implicit way of addressing outsiderness, being a migrant, being different, being yourself, not fitting in, so to speak.
DON'T FIT IN. DON'T
Let the magic ponies loose!
Do you want to say on the dotted line, ‘My life was a straightjacket’?
Dreams:
I am a filmmaker. I am a vision creator. I am creating visual imagery out of my imagination at the time of the dream, dreaming out of my brain, images for a film. I can almost hear myself thinking. It is set in the Middle East. A big white wall comes into my

vision; there is a girl and graffiti on the wall, all white.

All white.
It is epic.
I am epic.
'You are the absurdity', said the gingerbread man in New York City.
'You create discussion. This is your art.’
'Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes', stuck on repeat.
Ideas for New Performance: The performance of life, the gesture of life.
Ever-moving. This political gesture towards 'a movement' looming, however isolated, through the thick snow—which I pretty much know I find pretty magical, not being used to it at all, more used to wind and change of weather every 20 minutes—rain to shine and back. I carve out an ephemerality that is not just transitory but accumulating, gaining momentum like the excitement for just being situated in more wide open spaces.
Words.
Pre-words.

‘Instead of letting the Turkish youths continue to throw snowballs aggressively at the 100 Grad Festival party at Hau2 in Berlin last night, someone invited them inside; this was a moment of inclusion and diffusion of potentially explosive marginalised energies. It seemed like better peacekeeping work, [better] cultural bridging than the UN and [it was] inspiring to see that work can be done informally like this rather than structurally because systems by nature exclude—always have and always will. But then by Zizek's terms, even this inclusion allows a hierarchical system to prevail, like charity work—superficial plasters on a gaping wound. Still systemically violent, inherently...
‘For me this is where experience and theory meet in an interesting way. Now, what do I do with this creatively?
‘I wish I could have filmed this moment. It’s like I want to keep my camera with me at all times in Berlin because I have already seen so many things like this—so many tensions interspersed with a much more controlled, pre-emptive, filmic, and performative vision, continuously interrupted by 'reality' (although we know there are several realities—each individual a world unto themselves alone). I am also asking: what are the politics of me with my camera in this environment? Because we are never removed from the context— entirely subjective. I am interested in the performativity of a camera presence, the identity behind the camera, questions of objectivity amidst such inherent and unconscious cultural panic, generation, and fluidity...’
He said keep talking.
Just keep talking. You know he's stalking.

Secretly, inside his bones. His bones are his home.

I am obsessed.
Words from heaven.
I am undisciplined and in love.
It is the wildest fire escape imaginable.
Like a wolf, it knows its hierarchy. It knows its own discipline; then it can live free.
Wild in the night. Wild in the light. It doesn't matter. I laugh. I can laugh.
Even if it dies tomorrow, I know I am a maniac who it found. Love me even if you can't understand me or hear me express myself. Resurrection, painful peace, and protest bombed and sunken this rainbow warrior. Love is inexpressible. Notes to self: Be sure to live. Nothing gets past the caretaker. Colours written in shades hidden. Regeneration eats and recycles itself, brighter, thicker. The dance in light out. Love me even if I'm wrecked. Laugh at me. New human. How many languages does it take? Inexpressible love is political.