an attempt to rectify the film essay. Unfortunately, technical elements rendered this quite a difficult video to make, as the screen filming is never properly in time and Bandicam records some visuals quicker than others and quicker than audio.- I should like to try this as a performance, but I feel it would be very complicated to get right!
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I am stuck; totally stuck, I always put this down to having nothing to say, and being told that when I find myself in such a position, I should not speak. Unfortunately, art school dictates that I am a never ending power house of profoundity.
Poor, naive artschool. Anyway, I am totally stuck and whenever I am totally stuck (which does seem to be an alarming percentage of the time), I find it helpful to look to those outside myself for some stimulus to respond to. This time, the marvellously talented but (though almost tragically oblivious) Simon Clowes of May Days in Barcelona fame [ google him, he's ace] has asked me to contribute to an album he is hoping to make. Things are up in the air currently, but I gather this is to involve musicians/writers sending him things loosely tied to the theme of family, home and communicating with them. I sent him this, to fit with a short riff he sent me (apologies for the spelling/punct- I recently gave up on grammar) To you first class November I remember the sheep skin rug and your record player magic discs of vinyl that I mustn't touch and get my sticky mitts all over. I still feel guilty touching records, they're precious such that I don't fancy owning any I was never a stickler for collecting like you but now I mind the sheep skin rug which I would roll in singing notes instead of words too young to understand the wild side and walking on it and songs with the f-word which these days I anchor to the definite article and letting the hifi melt into the air fade away and radiate feeling it like soft heat from the hearth and maybe there's the smell of christmas pine needles and sticky tape and anticipation this is major tom to ground control I won't be back for your birthday this year but I sent you a card with a line in like the package I sent the week before two stamps on the jiffy bag a glass frog and no real message because blood is thicker then water but blood is lax when it comes to truth maybe its the colour water crystal clear blood ambivalent B negative we are turning to dust but dust is all we ever had ancient albums and that photo of the hippie in the pink shirt from your 80s scunthorpe album who you always said got in the way of the shot but it turned out you knew him I forget his name I wonder do you forget yours sometimes- when you took on titles instead? I never want to have a child and you got stuck with 4 I ring home to makesure you're all alive because I think of walkabout and the shotgun and because I think of alcohol and the wardrobe and because I think of coffee cups and the wall and because I think of starsigns and lymph nodes a few of you are lost to me we don't speak you're too cool too balanced you're embarrassed i'm too something or you are hassled and hard to speak to you are all the hardest to speak to we built each others walls but i'll be back soon backsun xxx this was intended to be part of a larger video essay. Unfortunately it currently looks horrible and this is the least horrible moment. I had this idea of making a video that skipped through itself. Really, it was a faff with little pay off and this is quite a poor example probably due to the painfully banal source material and very little planning of when it should skip. Ah well. Maybe I'll use this some time. |