On the Merits of Brevity
After briefly showing my face at work I ran away into town to hunt out some standard lamps for my forthcoming show :
I was continuing to shrink, to become… what? The infinitesimal? What was I? Still a human being? Or was I the man of the future? If there were other bursts of radiation, other clouds drifting across seas and continents, would other beings follow me into this vast new world? So close – the infinitesimal and the infinite. But suddenly, I knew they were really the two ends of the same concept. The unbelievably small and the unbelievably vast eventually meet – like the closing of a gigantic circle. I looked up, as if somehow I would grasp the heavens. The universe, worlds beyond number, God’s silver tapestry spread across the night. And in that moment, I knew the answer to the riddle of the infinite. I had thought in terms of man’s own limited dimension. I had presumed upon nature. That existence begins and ends in man’s conception, not nature’s. And I felt my body dwindling, melting, becoming nothing. My fears melted away. And in their place came acceptance. All this vast majesty of creation, it had to mean something. And then I meant something, too. Yes, smaller than the smallest, I meant something, too. To God, there is no zero. I still exist!
I have begun to realise that such a title brings with it certain difficulties. If people ask me what my show will be called I will have to pull out a card (and not a small one). I caused the Axis “events” form to melt down when I pasted it in to the title box and only a strangely truncated version appears now. Nevertheless I have waded this far and might as well carry on. I found two perfect lamps rather quickly in the Heart Foundation charity shop a place where the foundation kindly gives it’s most physical jobs to those in most danger of a sudden myocardial infarction. Unwilling to carry both across town myself I called upon Miss Dover to assist. The sight of two people carrying a large lamp each along the main street caused such a stir and feelings of public unity as to make me think the people of Ipswich would benefit from a return to a religion with a degree of pomp and ceremony.
I have started the process of naming the 17 films that make up Pearlville. Through a process of suggestion, automatic reading, and desperation I have carefully matched each film with a title. The titles won’t be on the films themselves and no doubt due to inevitable feelings fear and regret they will change many times. I am still not sure about 6, 11, 17 & 18. The images here are from Bonny and Clyde
Film 1 – Underling
Film 2 – Workhouse
Film 3 – Aquaduct
Film 4 – The Man from Lieksa
Film 5 – The Undertaker’s Handbook
Film 6 – Billboard Caesar, Salford Syrup & Bang-tail Shuffle
Film 7 – The Dropper and the Dip
Film 8 – The Treasure House of Bloody Morgan
Film 9 – Glass Tower
Film 10 – Embankment
Film 11 – The Last Man on James Street
Film 12 – Pellicule
Film 14 – Marlene’s Butler
Film 16 – Flight Time
Film 17 – Bonny and Clyde
Film 18 – Adelphi Circus
I am very very tired. The reason for my lack of sleep last night was a precipitous return to work. The annual recall to the office always seems too early after an adventurous summer and this year has been no exception. Many of my colleagues (more eloquent than I) have taken to referring to the office as “The Shitter” a name that seems to have stuck. One of my first tasks this morning, after the usual welcome back meeting, was to arrange some time off to return to Manchester for the install of “Unspooling”. This is not usually too difficult a task as those in the Shitter are always keen to give each other a leg up. Unfortunately the week I need to escape coincides with the first real teaching of the year and I face leaving my eager neophytes with a note saying “back next week”. The fear in these situations is not that they will be missing out but rather that they might have a better time without me. Otherwise things are progressing well. I am half way though burning the DVDs and have begun the arduous task of thinking up titles. I don’t intend to put them on the films but like amnesiac foundlings I think they should have a name of some sort. Miss Dover (after a Bloody Mary) has been a great help although some of her suggestions have been a little wild. “Coconut Corkscrew” especially so.
Packages
It is astounding the number of spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, formatting gaffes and just plain bad writing one can squeeze into a document of 40,000+ words. On Friday I spent a full day in a London café marking up such errors in my so called novel. I have no doubt I have missed many more but quite frankly I’ve had enough. The final draft has been despatched to the printers, everything is now beyond my control.
Miss Dover and I have had a number of other deliveries at our Ipswich flat. These have included a number of books and DVDs, a gold falcon, a number of pendants with kittens on them, boards and oil paint, a garden shed, garage and telephone box. The hairdressers below who receive most of these parcels for us are beginning to look harrassed.
Miss Dover, who will also be exhibiting at TAP has chosen a far more concise title for her show “Whistlejacket”. Yesterday she sent me a photograph of how she wishes to be represented in a forthcoming Hollywood Biopic.
(she has a cat called Pig)
