A round of the “blueballing” game by JA, L, PP; the game is played going around in a circle. One artist begins drawing, the next waits until it appears they are about to finish a crucial detail. Instructing them to stop, they resume the unfinished drawing by developing or completing whatever the last artist started according to an entirely different vision of what it could have been. The game proceeds from artist to artist according to such interruptions until they consider it complete.
It’s a well known but little understood phenomenon: the necrotopophilia of neighbourhoods. It’s no surprise that the dynamics of capital must necessarily make for a merry-go-round of median incomes, suburban havens, shopping areas, gated communities, student ghettos, real ghettos, and run-down poor or ex-fashionable districts. But this still does not account for the contingencies and weird overlaps between these different functions. On top of the well known places, how do we account for the disorientated conglomerations of the self-guided stranger? The passional accumulation of a few street names and discarded objects? And what will account for the fourth dimension of urbanism, where zones form in poetic or highly subjective instances, temporarily, and with no purpose?
There are some neighbourhoods in Ottawa that nobody has heard about…
Where is it located?
Located contiguous to Merivale and Herongate, somehow, with an enclave in 19th Century Budapest.
Who lives there?
Locals are sometimes referred to as “the high-rise rednecks” due to the concentration of displaced rural peoples. Other prominent groups include muslim grannies, black kids who speak only French, and millennial roommates who settled for less.
What is it known for?
Where is it located?
A bush along the eastern edge of King Edward and Murray
Who lives there?
Ants, a bandaid colony, an occasional passed out teenager’s left foot, a self-motive skateboard.
What is it known for?
A perfect mix of culture and night life, The Gnarls boasts seven museums, fourteen pubs and three music venues within one square meter. The vast majority of these institutions are made out of recycled or thrown-out materials. In fact, this is why The Gnarls is often mistaken for a pile of garbage in a bramble. Among these sights are the famous Wet Biscuit art installation (a literal wet cookie) as well as an old Halloween mask that has a mushroom growing out of its eye. Looking for a place to relax after a long day? Then try the puddle with three grey stones in it.
Where is it located?
Tucked away in an otherwise gloomy, nasty, grey, unscrupulous Thatcherite Britain.¹
Who lives there?
Spirits, souls and friendly “strangers,” some of whom wear their top hats.
What is it known for?
The spirit of humour, entertainment and goodwill that animates those who live there and pass through it. In an austere and cold Britain, the Pews are filled with resistance and solidarity built through laughter and play. The Pews are a sanctuary for the soul.
(Played by JA, L, DA)
¹ We are suggesting as a sort of conduit to this area, otherwise displaced in space and time, Thatcher Street off of Meadowlands in Nepean – a cramped little corridor of suburban dreariness.
Addendum: 5 days after this was first posted, and unaware of it, AC coincidentally reports a lucid dream in which she is taking an Uber home through a totally unknown and very different part of Ottawa. It is filled with strange neon signs and ethnic restaurants. She frantically takes pictures of them.
There is no greater lie than total honesty. Arriving at the core of our thoughts, feelings, memories, and intentions, we discover nothing but a spider web of associations between them beaded by the dried out bug-husks of experiential phenomenon.
Surrealism isn’t simply the boredom of hearing out the fake dreams we pretend to have while awake because we expect it of ourselves, it’s the profound rationality of seeing in reality the fictions by which our minds imperfectly encode knowledge. The western intellectual tradition is hostile to the virtual pleasures of the imagination because it is afraid to admit all realities are fantasy.
I therefore request twelve long haired and beautiful surfer boys to tie me down onto a mattress in their beach house to serve as their shared wife in spite of my primary sex characteristics. I furthermore suggest we indict all traitors who dare speak out against honesty as though it were not the sacred pagoda which enshrines eternal truth. We will cut out the tongues of those who protest candor.
Surrealism is never boring. Surrealism has no cliches. Surrealism does not repeat itself. Surrealism is change. Surrealism is unexpected. Surrealism is Surrealism is Surrealism. Surrealism is reality. Reality is rationality. Rationality is, therefore, never boring. Never. Boring. Never. Boring. We can’t remember what it’s about anymore, but it must be interesting because it’s Surrealism, which is never boring, or repetitive.
Once my twelve husbands have filled me with their seed, I shall use divine telekinesis to recombine their genomes and breed a superhuman race, molecule by molecule, whose mother I shall be. It can likewise be argued that honesty is the greatest lie for it is the one we tell ourselves. What surer path to misery is there than insisting upon who we are and what we want when we seem already to be running astray? I’m a witch-boy who needs to be cloned – one of me for every beautiful man!
I shall order my precious demon child to kill me so that I do not fall in love with him.
Our research and development team has recently been taking out patents on some intellectual property. However, due to an unfortunate personal enmity the team members refused to speak to each other during the design and marketing processes. While one designed an object, cursing under their breath, the other worked independently on the concept, title and marketing at the other end of the room…
The Epigenetic Horseshoe (sold in BULK as GeneClaws™)
The Surgical-Ironing Simple-Scope (miniature edition for her)
Dr. Zhen’s Remedial Sculpture and Included Housefly-Warding Shock Wand
The Ecstatic Introversion Eroder for Undulating Introverted Eels
The Assault Frame Anterior Penile Plethysmographer with Built-In Castration Whisks
Please bear with me – or I will kill you. Why anyone wastes keystrokes from their carpal-tunnel timebombs on blog posts is a question suggestive of a conspiracy by time-travelling future social historians plotting to give themselves work. I write for myself. I do it because the pain and bother of making sense enough of my thoughts to be comprehensible to others forces me to deal with a manageable subset of them. I am lost in a private reality:
Our goal must be to speciate. We must build a stateless army of military grade drag queens to enforce the trans-humanist eugenics and biological engineering necessary to realize our evolution to a higher form of transgendered life. In a concrete and literal sense we must create gods to become one with, for the ladyboy is divine. Our entire survival depends on our yearning to prostrate ourselves before them, though we suffer the impossible disaster of not yet receiving their guidance. We must fortify ourselves by emitting the fairy seed – the eunuch semen from which the pleasures of our future enlightenment will spring. Our alternate reality selves will march with us to revolution, for all realities must be liberated. But we are lost again in a questions of strategy…
Cisgendered people deserve genocide and cannibalism.
It’s too much to fuss over. I haven’t one other beautiful person who understands – no homo-erotic transgendered cuddle session to alleviate my anxieties. I make do with fantasy. It’s no wonder cis-culture reviles the putrid sexuality it prudishly shames itself for being unable to abstain from – they treat it like they’re going to the bathroom while jammed together. For us, it is like a meditation – tranquil, pleasurable, and benevolent. Impotent, sterile, and deprived of libido, for us it requires a conscious, creative force of will and profound concentration, a gruelling routine of austerities we commit to multiple times a day.
It’s difficult restraining my anxieties and manias enough even to speak of them – my fundamental problem is art. I’ve recently managed to enjoy things – which is a landmark. For years on my meds I thought I’d never feel anything worthwhile again – my illustration and writing were driven by formula and theory, like the academic art of a culture that didn’t exist. My only pleasures were the same as a dog’s – food, sex, sleep, baths, walkies, and pretty new things. Today, swallowing the earth wouldn’t satisfy me.
Apparently the key to my whole artistic happiness is depicting the very things I feel so intensely – the anxious apprehension of suffering and its corresponding impulse for comfort, especially by the pleasures of beautiful ladyboy homo-eroticism and indulgent luxury, possibly mediated by violent, depersonalizing psychedelic manias of invulnerability and omnipotence, or else, the hopelessness of snarky black humor. These I can explore to indefinite depth and variety (especially the erotic elements) for they are simply my permanent state.
This sudden capacity for emotion greatly aggrieves my intellect, however, which continues to insist on its discourses. Instead of making amends for wasting the best of my life on Wikipedia it threatens my future too. Desire isn’t enough – my cravings must be crafted into a rigorous philosophical system, narrative framework, cosmology, and algorithm of personal conduct. Behold the expanse of useless work my mind has already done with nothing to show! I cannot in good conscious promise a completion to such projects, but my mind tempts me by offering to forever shut up and leave me in peace if only I produce the ideological machinery necessary to never have to think for myself again. How blissful to be rid of my mind! (Lately I am trying to kill it with meditation.)
Am I really stuck formulating some sort of religion for myself just to shut my brain up? This sort of thing could turn a person into a drug addict. I have been wondering whether sex addiction might do. If I could just manage to go totally insane so I could find a way to write ladyboy hentai about epistemology set in some jRPG mythology…
I don’t know.
Message for you! I have always strongly sympathized with Breton’s very first surrealist experience: the sudden gift, as one is drifting off to sleep, of a hypnagogic phrase. For Breton it was “a man cut in half by the window”. It came to him one night, as mine come to me, fully formed, clear and distinct, and verbal rather than a full image. A hybrid concoction of mythological genesis and Cartesian certainty. Actually, I find that they usually have an imperative character that tends to suggest an exclamation point. For me this phenomenon occurs so regularly and clearly that I found I could actually record a solid set of them before finally succumbing to sleep. Why jump right to conscious automatism, when this method could also be mined? I tried to explicitly “write a poem” in this way, using the phrases that arrived totally unbidden before falling asleep.
Here Comes The Cactus!
Man-Thing looks like 10:30…
Here comes the cactus!
Let’s say, plenty!
The issue, is there change yet?
That’s the issue about being rugby.
Right now dancing, because I wanna go… play!
Head’s up! Cause I thought your others didn’t doubt ya.
You should always bounce in and you’re Greg.
Giant rocks and a searching squirrel? Nay.
I’m going to help you babe, the message cleared to me.
(JA, August 3 2017 from 10:30-10:48 pm)