I am currently sitting in the creative lab space drawing and writing and playing with i phone apps for sound (sampletoy and loopy 2 primarily). I think I’m here to try to expand what it is I do into the realms of the multimedia, at least that’s what I claimed on my application… So far I’ve staged one event, last Friday 11/11/11, where me and my sometime collaborators Jamie McNeil and Una Ravensdaughter made an unholy (and very loud) racket inside beautiful Aye Aye books. We are called WIDOWZZZ and I think we must have made the diners choke on their vegan chocolate cake! People claimed to have enjoyed the experience but I know they were lying.
Other than that I’ve been cribbing furiously for a presentation/talk/performance I am giving tomorrow at the Glasgow Film Theatre (starts at 11 if you fancy it). Basically its an opportunity to bellow filth into cavernous Cinema 1! Yes!
Also I’ve been writing a thing called ‘The inland Castaways or Lord Jim and The Outcast of the Islands enter the Heart of Darkness’ which is a travelogue of sorts describing a friend and I’s recent trip from Glasgow to Paisley by rubber dinghy. We are called ‘The Sunday Conceptualists’ and that is the sort of thing that we do.. I’m going to post a section for your edification, enjoy! Jim x
THE INLAND CASTAWAYS
The Outcast of the Islands
Heart of Darkness
The Atlantic! A vast sheet of water, whose superficial area covers twenty five millions of square miles, the length of which is nine thousand miles, with a mean breadth of two thousand seven hundred, – an ocean whose parallel winding shores embrace an immense circumference, watered by the largest rivers of the world, the St Lawrence, the Mississippi, the Amazon, the Plata, The Orinoco, the Niger, the Senegal, the Elbe, the Loire, the Clydde, the White Carte and the Rhine, which carry waters from the most civilised, as well as from the most savage countries! Magnificent field of water, incessantly ploughed by vessels of every nation, sheltered by the flags of every nation, and which terminates in those two terrible points so dreaded by mariners, The Port of Glescoo on the Clydde, and the Benighted Burgh of Paislay, on the effluvial White Carte Water!
A Terrible Place
On the sudden death of my beloved father – Lord Wharrie Colquhoun, Thrice Noble – I found myself tasked with the onerous and sysiphian undertaking of sorting through the ejecta of a lifetime, consisting of a myriad curios, memento’s, postcards, philately, etchings (pornographic and otherwise), anatomically-correct dolls, mechanical Whippoorwill and so on. After weeks of effort I finally made it up to the attic to begin to deal with what I knew would be the very worst of my late fathers well-documented deviations from what are considered to be the norms. And so it proved to be, on the morning of September the Fifteenth I had already wrestled a number of trunks containing the remains of several ‘friends’ (both human and animal) into a series of shallow graves secreted on a distant part of our estates, when I came across a tightly-wrapped oil-skin packet. I was about to consign it to oblivion when my eye caught sight of an attached ticket bearing a hastily scrawled (in his own inimitable hand) note to – myself – the inscription read: “My dear boy, may I first offer my profuse apologies for involving you in my affairs, re the unfortunate ‘Crotchless Steam Boy’ debacle, and may I say that you handled your holiday at Her Majesty’s Pleasure with commendable stoicism (I had been buggered silly by my ‘cellmates’ every hour on the hour for six months) and that your forbearance will be duly rewarded (indeed it had been: I now owned half of *******shire). Now to business (my father was forever getting ‘down to business’), you hold in your hand an account of a trip, undertaken by myself and a dear friend who shall forever remain nameless, for reasons that will immediately become apparent, into the veritable Heart of Darkness! For at a time of my life where I could truly be described as desperate, I found myself in the environs of the benighted City of Glescoo. A terrible place (as you shall hear), and to be shunned by all right-thinking people, which of course, is how I found myself there in the first place! There is a secret lying at the heart of that terrible place, a secret so awful that I have been unable to speak of my experiences, and even to write them down was an act fraught with dreadful consequences! No my son, I did not die in my bed and was only placed there latterly by those whose names I dare not utter! Read on then, and I leave it up to you to decide whether the world is ready for a tale such as this . . .
The Burning Effigy
“We always knew it was wrong, what we did to the cats. But its not as if we killed them! They liked it!” This – the screaming headline identifying Glescoo’s daily scandal sheet The Burning Effigy – came past us on the barely discernable current, the blurred and photogravured eyes of the pasty-looking protagonists meeting and following ours. Looking up from our leaking dinghy we spied a group of lemurs shitting communally in the remains of a rusting Chinook helicopter. They looked at us with those depthless black orbs, and, as we rowed past one of them muttered “Fannies” in a flat guttural rasp, squirting a stream of liquid manure in emphasis. Luckily The Outcast received the bulk of the stinking ordure, not that he minded a jot as shit in all of its many manifestations held a special fascination for him. The sluggish White Carte Water seemed able to make up its own mind as to which way it was going as earlier that day we had been heading up stream, but now we were most definitely on our way back to its scrofulous mouth. Of course whatever way one was carried on this bloated stream one was destined (cursed?) to end up in the scabbed and lesion-dappled arms of benighted Glescoo!
God’s Cock Ring
The City of Glescoo is surrounded by an impenetrable wall of mountains known locally as God’s Cock Ring, indeed the inhabitants of this awful place are buggered, both by circumstance and by each other. As the Outcast and I made our way carefully along the shit-bespattered pavements of a bustling thoroughfare we watched in horror as various complicated couplings took place all around us! We later learned that it was fashionable in these parts to replicate the polymorphous social niceties of the perverse Bonobo apes of darkest Afrique, which charming specimens greet each other with a rutting penetration or slobber incontinently over the unmentionables. As we watched, an upstanding citizen knelt on all fours to receive a thoroughgoing anal-rimming from a portly dowager, and this but a passing helloo! The Outcast and I were careful not to meet the eye of passers by just in case we were mistaken for a casual aquaintance! (Still though, we looked forward to tipping the barmaid and the potboy enthusiastically…) But first, a short preamble describing the workings of this unsavoury state:
There is a Ministry of War, a Ministry of National Aesthetics and a Palace of Pleasure for the weekly group love-making of all law-abiding citizens. Because their ideal was an egalitarian social state, they suppressed all opposition so that there would be only one opinion. In Glescoo individual welfare is subservient to the welfare of the city. The state decree’s what is agreeable or useful, and everyone must accept this ruling as law. Individuals considered a threat to the National Ideal are sterilised. The State religion is the Religion of Natural Harmony, and in its honour the Ministry of National Aesthetics organises a yearly parade of young and beautiful artists. There is no money, because the State provides everything; however, nothing can be bought, sold or given away anyways. Artists must refrain from expressing personal emotions and must produce works, which reflect the communal ideal. We had spied in passing a square filled with the queer outpourings of this artistic elite, which seemed to consist entirely of cursorily-painted hollow plaster gourds and shoddy theatrical mis en scéne of indeterminate provenance. A group of artisans stood around moodily sipping from fluted golden goblets and counting each other’s patrons. We moved on quickly as we had been warned that potential patrons were routinely tarred and feathered, a form of flattery in those parts.