maybe this is what it is all about. slowly getting madder and madder and then it all cracks open. maybe this is what the process actually wants to make available and vincent van gogh was doing it right; looking into the nature of things and then slowly (or violently) breaking through it all into a reality consisting of Nothing. suicide. art is just a process of looking into the nature of reality; poetry, painting, sculpting, music. there is actually no point in doing any of it apart from process. it makes no difference if it is great art or not. it is the state the artist must move into. observation (real or imagined).

i am thinking that i do not want to think any more. and to observe. to see things in the world as they are. to create as if i can forget about being a past or future. an exercise in presence. in dissection. i’ll be okay because i won’t be okay. i will disappear. getting madder and madder. all this.

should art be known as ‘evidence of observation’? but say we have pure observation with no physical evidence – maybe this could be defined as the highest form of Art? art as a tool. as excavation towards the heart of consciousness. that is all. using it as a way to disappear. to move closer to god. the artwork is no longer about getting a message across. about making the audience react in a certain way. that became irrelevant a long time ago. probably around 27 July 1890, the date when vincent shot himself in the hayfield where he was painting. he died 30 hours later.

is art an awakened dreaming state or is art just a thing that has been touched by someone? duchamps’ urinal was placed in a gallery and called art. albeit a modern concept of art. did it need a critical audience to label it as such? that world has become madder and madder. a light bulb turning on and off. art destroys itself. the perfect awakening. the perfect dream.

is art a personal expression of experience? the intangible is made tangible. a thought. an idea. an experiment. a sensation. a feeling. a mood; non-reality fixed to reality as vibration. movement. intention.

can art be made by a machine without involving a single element of human experience? can art be mindless? emotionless? dependent on the artist. the viewer. does there need to be an interaction between the two? can/must the artist be the viewer? in reality, is there neither? deus. ex. machina. if art is an expression of consciousness, can a cactus create art in the desert solely by blooming? does a fox make art every time she walks across a snowy field? deus. ex. anima.

auldous huxley. the doors of perception. what i am struggling to achieve is what LSD can give me easily or i’ll go mad or something first. people got into these kinds of states long before synthates. they used to go into the jungle and find plant compounds. they yearned for spiritual realisation. union. transcendence. all i am doing is trying to find a way to get into that state. experience. expression. experimentation. emergency.

if i can’t find a field there is always the revolver.

is art spiritual experience or just madness appearing as Truth? when you get busy with your life and pick up where you left off, the seeking stops. the awakening stops. you become yourself again. you forget about Nothing. you forget that you are involved in an act of forgetting. instead you remember to be someone and then you start making art for art’s sake. it manifests but it is struggle. depression. it turns madder and madder. you are not sure of a way forward. again you come to a standstill. towards crisis point. you become anonymous. experimented upon by nobody. made into no thing. there is absolutely no possibility that anything can be made out of any of it. it is a path one must stay off/no one must stay on. you take solace in the fact that nobody need find out about your death in order for it to be real. for you. you experience the shock of unrealness. the Truth. Truth. Truth.

this is all so stupid. i am writing this in order to validate nothing. no one writing this writing. wanting to diminish my self after believing i was everything that ever mattered. like an idiot. i’m going to lose it all. no one cares this way or that. it makes no difference which way it continues. there is this emergency i know. it is neither right nor wrong. that my head is filling with so many thoughts. that the observation experience is disappearing. i see i have done myself a disservice. exchanging myself for nothing. exchanging nothing for art. 

“I feel like I’m getting more anonymous,” ~ Alice Oswald

Been slinking away from world again slinking back to bushes undergrowth trying to imagine life without electronics without screens without invisible connections imagine myself Virginia Woolf Keats Alice Oswald sitting next to flower borders at Kew underneath a tree a quill listening to a nightingale in a cold shed ink pen in hand screwed up papers thrown in corners I often suffer from information overload when caught in the net too many things rolling around electronic overdose it’s all too much I turn off the machine go outside you can write better poetry when you are disconnected from electronic stuff people make money from offering retreats in far-flung isolated places no internet they’ve got the right idea people want it the work of MacGillivray her performance pieces listen to her music read her poetry a woman totally rooted in real-worlds totally connected to surroundings to myths stories to music of witch-crafting to memory to history not part of mechanical publishing industries not got caught up in not connected to but howling slinking away to some bush create a métier all her own too easy to get embroiled in flashy outwardmoving to be retracting inwards become anonymous

leaf litter

How strange and exciting it is to invent a new language; to play with snippets of existing words in order to create new words that (may go some way to) describe things you see in nature but struggle to articulate. This is where I feel poetry can move towards painting – by utilising palettes of infinite letter combinations to create a world no longer hampered so much by the limits of language. In fact, I actually went a step further and leant upon painterly vocabulary to write about the leaf litter I came across on my walk last week. I felt like I was mixing a Pre-Raphaelite palette of golds and greens, auburns and ochres, russets and browns; spreading them out here and there over the page and adding some brushstrokes of burnished gold leaf, sunlight-tinted ink.

All for the latest task on the Against English poetry school course.


Su Hui a poet and textile maker, lived in the kingdom of Former Qin (351-394 b.c.e.) in China. She invented a form of poetry called huiwen, a type of text that can be read in thousands of different ways. The poem in which this technique was first seen was produced as a textile piece. This was described in contemporary sources as shuttle-woven on brocade, meant to be read in a circle and consisting of 112 or else 840 characters. By the Tang period, the following story about the poem was current:

Dou Tao of Qinzhou was exiled to the desert, away from his wife Su Hui. Upon departure from Su Hui, Dou swore that he would not marry another person. However, as soon as he arrived in the desert region, he married someone. Su Hui composed a circular poem, wove it into a piece of brocade, and sent it to him.

In the Ming Dynasty the poem became popular and scholars discovered 7,940 ways to read it. The poem is in the form of a twenty-nine by twenty-nine character grid, and can be read forward or backwards, horizontally, vertically, or diagonally, as well as within its color-coded grids. Another source, naming the poem as Xuanji Tu (Star Gauge or Picture of the Turning Sphere), claims that the grid as a whole was a palindromic poem comprehensible only to Dou (which would explain why none of the Tang sources reprinted it), and that when he read it, he left his desert wife and returned to Su Hui.

from here.

some interesting spider names

Acanthepeira stellata
Spermophora senoculata
Uloborus glomosus
Maevia inclemens
Micrathena sagittata
Neoscona arabesca
Neriene radiata
Oxyopes scalaris
Cicurina vespera

like a whale or fish or constellations
or within the curve of the earth like birds
or nymphs or clouds or rain
or snakes that eat themselves or a change
in scale or distance or a dance across the sky
like a high–wire satellite

Hey is weather title goes

Hello well as you know this is all a bit difficult but it will be better soon yes that’s better well hello hello machine. I’m talking into a machine and the machine is writing the words for me! It even recognises an exclamation mark hah if you say it quickly then you get an ! If you say it slowly then you get an exclamation mark woo hoo. It’s strange to talk and have machine type the words out for you, it seems as if I have become one step closer to be coming Samantha in the film Her. Italic her no that doesn’t work. I like it that there are some mistakes just like a machine should do just like humans should do. I make more mistakes then this computer apparently, huh yes I make more mistakes for sure. I think I have to sit down and memorise the words for the punctuation the codewords that is–/:;,”” parentheses brackets closed Open:-) winking face some things work some things don’t, but that’s okay. Look forward to my first machine made delete written poems soon!:-)

PS Reading this back to myself I realise that’s it really isn’t acceptable for machines to make mistakes nowadays I mean they run really important things like at traffic control and finances and heart rate monitors another stuff so let it be just me who makes the mistakes from now on. I feel better with that.