I've recently come to appreciate Ireland's exciting audio/visual arts movement and the way it redefines the language of the screen by engaging with theories of science, architecture and socio-economic cultural artefacta* to rigorously interrogate psychological attachments to space, form and the places found between both space and form re: memory and place as seen from the imagined perspective of mental and physical architectura* of space itself apropos one detail or form extracted and used to mask out and shape details of another space and the way the form actively tries to build itself, stripping the original sites/memory structures of sentimentality, refracted light, space, nostalgia and/or any remote possibility of interest at all.
A great example of this was the piece I saw recently by prodigious audio/visual supremo and man-bag enthusiast Moses Langley-Hayse M.A. It featured several grainy digital shots of a rusty old metal bench that stood upon on an abandoned and windswept promenade in Ostend. These challenging visuals were accompanied by a soundtrack comprising of atonal electronica and 'found sounds' such as indistinct sighs and moans and a crunching noise that may have been caused by the director eating an egg and ham roll from the local Spar. Langley-Hayse described the piece as his latest exploration into the peripheral realm of the aesthetics of deprivation, a realm he first delved into with his Homeless Shelter Urinal Cake series. Rusty Bench in Ostend was incredible viewing. It was like having a mirror held up our world and being asked 'so what?'.
I also enjoy the new ones they are making where people with man-bags interview their dads but without any sync sound and with loads of close-up camera angles pulling focus on their old fella's nostril hair in an intimate and honest way. Lovely stuff. Keep it coming. It's like Punk all over again.
(*made up words but appropriate I feel given the basic free-form approach to coherence encouraged by said audio/visual practitioners and their cognoscenti benefactors).
There is no point going on about human nature because the only thing anyone knows for sure about human nature is that no one knows anything about human nature for sure. Anyway, it's human nature not to care about human nature.
The ultimate conclusion is that there is no conclusion so you may as well sit back and indulge yourself because no one is going to indulge yourself for you, ...unless you pay them that is.
I'm really engrossed in the unravelling tale that has followed the disappearance of Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge from her home in Basingstoke one month ago today. It is a true tragedy but it is also so much more than that. I couldn't say it better than Take A Break magazine when they wrote of events, 'if you wept for young Maddy then you'll bawl for Little Aggie'. TV Quick agreed saying, 'it's devastating, tears are streaming down my face, I can't turn the television off'. But it was The Star that reminded us of the gritty yet equally relevant aspects to the case when they wrote 'Child Cannibal Claims Fifth?' All possibilities must be kept open. This is a sorrow shrouded in mystery.
Sky News featured a lovely piece about a young girl, around Aggie's age, who made an ingenious diorama of the crime scene in the hopes that it would refresh the memories of those who were in the area that day. She won a prize. We can only feel for the British nation as it clutches its commemorative dolls and tea towels to its chest. (Besides the sad image of little Aggie and the words 'bless her little heart', the tea towels are also helpfully emblazoned with the phone number of the confidential police hotline.) Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge truly is this year's Holly and Jessica.
Of course, I'm beginning to slightly resent the mother, Janet Bainbridge. I hate to say it but she doesn't seem that bothered. Where are her tears? Where is the anguish? They say she bought new shoes for the press conference and is selling pictures of her new patio to Hello. Where are her priorities? I would never come right out and say that she had something to do with Aggie vanishing but she has the look of a woman with secrets to hide, a bit like a murderess might.
'You'll come for the sadness but you'll stay for the mystery of Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge', reads the blurb on the back of a new book entitled Missing Angel that has been appropriately prompt in reaching the market. Tony Parson's concurred when he described the events as 'fantastic viewing' on BBC2's Late Night Review. On the same show Ekow Eshun said the coverage was 'tawdry' but 'a guilty pleasure nonetheless' before saying something about the semiotic significance of Aggie's Peppa Pig hair clip that was found two days into the exhaustive search.
Let's hope there is a breakthrough soon. Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge TM will remain in all our hearts for the next good while at least. I better stop typing now because I want to log on to the littleaggie.co.uk forum and see if anyone has replied to the remarks I left about Janet's choice in blouse when she gave today's statement.
I awoke at 4a.m. with a profound feeling of unease. Then I saw these cheeky blighters standing at the end of the bed. They were giggling in a weird way and started moving the furniture about the place just by looking at it. 'Get back to your tenements,' I roared and chased them out of it with a brush.
...before they floated out the window they said something like 'Mummy is coming, Mummy is coming for all of you, like a horrible great shadow, she will creep into your world'. Then they giggled and vanished into the gloom.
I've no idea what that means, probably something to do with young people's rap music. Next time I'm contacting the gardai.
Anyhoo, ...has anyone noticed a sudden chill in the air?
According to specialists, a Play Station 3 that was found amongst ancient ruins in northern Israel may have belonged to JESUS! Some experts argue that the PS3 might not have belonged to JESUS but actually belonged to Jesus' SON, Barry, who was GAY!!! That's not all, some say that the ruin isn't in the Middle East!! It's in BALLINTEER!!! In SOUTH COUNTY DUBLIN!!!! And it's not actually a ruin but a semi-detached two story HOUSE!!! It is also claimed that the PS3 may not have even belonged to Jesus or his GAY SON!!!! Who may not have even been GAY!!!!!! In fact, it is now agreed that Jesus' son was not called BARRY and that Jesus may not have even had a SON!!!!!
'All we know for certain,' said a recent press release 'is that Play Station have a great new range of games coming out well in advance of the Christmas market. Keep an eye out for thrilling first person shoot 'em ups like Killzone 9: Armageddon and Call of Duty: Future War/Mission Apocalypse, not to mention fun new games like SingStar Abba and Ghostbusters 12, Spectral Oblivion.'
I've been reading a moving first hand account of Iraq by one of those award winning journalists. It's called I Am Iraq and has just been published. It's got loads and loads of pages so I know it's good. Here is one of the most powerful passages:
'Day 17: Another forty dead and it's only 3 pm. Debris everywhere. People are weeping and imploring the heavens. Did this have to happen? Is God really so callous? I feel a wave of nausea crash against my heart and guts. I cover my eyes. I groan. My wife has had enough of seeing me suffer. She reaches for the remote. She turns off the television. She places a hand on my shoulder and smiles gently. Oh Mags, without you I'd never get through this. I walk to the computer. I switch it on. I've got a couple of hours to get my copy in so I better start typing. Emotionally drained, I email the piece straight to the office. Thank God for email. I don't think I could hop in the car and drive to work in this state. Besides, if I had to go all the way to the city centre now I'm not sure I'd make it back by 8pm and we have tickets for the new one by Eve Ensler. Needless to say, I'm not really in the mood for Ensler's strident populist shtick but I promised Mags. It's the least I can do. After all, without her Iraq would've destroyed me days ago.'
I'm going to become a film director. I'm going to change my name to Gustav Klankenheimer and make a seven hour meditation on suffering. Either the film will be in black and white or only feature washed out varieties of beige mixed with jaundiced yellows. It will be bleak.
The film will begin with a shot of ominous rolling clouds. We hear a clap of thunder. Cut to drizzle against a window pane. Beyond the glass we see a sparsely decorated room with peeling wallpaper and a garish sacred heart picture upon the wall. A fluorescent light bulb crackles and flickers, as they do. A narrow bed with coarse horsehair blankets contains an emaciated old man. He is wheezing heavily and staring at water dripping through the ceiling and landing on the stiff body of a dead cat. The old man is dying of cancer and he frequently moans in pain because he has no medication. Occasionally he calls out in a Scandinavian accent. He calls out the name 'Elizabet'. We see a woman in late middle age sitting at a kitchen table. She hears the old man's calls but ignores them. She chain smokes and stares into the middle-distance. Her face is a road map to regret. She listens to the sound of weeping children being broadcast over a battered wireless.
A clock hangs above the old man's head. Its face is cracked. It ticks portentously. It tocks with even greater menace. A large bluebottle fly buzzes around the room. It lands on the old man's nose. He attempts to lift his hand and swat it away but he hasn't the strength. He is helpless to do anything about it. 'Elizaaaaaaaaabet', he croaks, 'Elizaaaaaaaabet'. Elizabet ignores him.
In the final moments of this film, the old man's eyes will roll back in his head. He will convulse and choke. As he breathes his last, he will gasp these words: ...'I see a great ugly mouth with jagged teeth, gaping open, miles wide. I smell its stinking carcass breath. This is the mouth of God and he is laughing, ...laughing at us all.'... The old man will then die. We hear his death rattle. Elizabet will then enter the room. She will regard the old man's corpse. She will smirk and then jump out of the window. The end credits will roll to the sound of the clock ticking, the children weeping and the water dripping on the dead cat. I'm going to call the film Transformers 3.
It's fun and the reactions can often be a source of amusement for the troll with too much time to spare. You will elicit gems such as 'you Silver Age faggots, it's 2009, get over it' or 'fail'or 'epic fail' or 'this obscure post is a violation of my civil rights! Where are the mods? Why has God abandoned us? It's like 9-11 all over again' and not forgetting the classic 'thread locked'.
Also, remember when spamming to include the obligatory words to describe your post:African Prince must lodge money in your account, Praise Jesus, filthy teens do anything for cash, I sent you an email but you didn't reply, your account has been suspended, make your lover moan with your rock hard diamond cutting trouser python, etc.
By the way, if anyone spams this blog I will hunt them down like rodents and fumigate them. What's good for the goose is NOT good for the gander. Life is unfair like that. There is no Mod.
Pat Kenny or Marty Whelan, I wonder who'd win in a scrap. RTE should fight them if they want ratings. As a matter of fact, Blue Peter should fight their pets on their programme. The kids could ring in and put money on who they think will come out the winner. It would be educational, ...going forward.