Vampyres I am reading Christopher Frayling’s “Vampyres” it has temporarily replaced the biography of Laurel and Hardy as I felt I was becoming sidetracked. Frayling’s book, though far more erudite and reasoned, follows remarkably closely the work of Basil Copper, whose book now resides in a dark corner of my lavatory. I am particularly taken with the idea of the vampire as ‘other’ and the use of it’s relationship with humanity as a political metaphor by Rousseau and Marx. I must admit to feeling a little foolish at not realising that Zizek’s reference to vampires (in a post entitled “Kill Them All”) was probably meant to recall this. It has made me even more excited about filming Mr Bown “calling” but also more worried about how I might shoot the film. Time marches forward and I must decide soon. We (my companion that is) have firmed up a date with Mr Bown and I have booked rooms for us at the Continental Hotel. We are to film on a quiet afternoon session in March.
It is the third day of my illness. Yesterday my companion also succumbed leaving us to spend the day abed watching DVDs and shuffling to the kitchen for healing poultices. Outside, life continued as normal in St Georges street. Women screamed and swore, men swore and shouted. My immediate neighbour, a young man fresh from a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure, keeps threatening to have people kidnapped. No doubt his lack of discretion is at least partly responsible for his recent incarceration. While listening to this base opera I have been trying to write a proposal for my forthcoming residency at Islington Mill. Messrs Bracey & Griffiths are writing an application for monies from the Henry Moore Foundation. The deadline approaches I must make haste. The following photographs also taken in my sickbed reveal another problem. My sideburns are completely different shapes. I believe they hark from different eras the 1970s and the 1870s.
Last night was not a good one. I felt as if a crushing weight was hovering just above me. My breathing was short and sterterous, many times I had to resort to opening my mouth until it grew so dry I had to close it again. Now after counting down the early hours of the day I find myself lying weak limbed in bed. I have done very little constructive and must book my tickets to travel north to Manchester soon. There I am to meet up with messrs Griffiths and Bracey regarding a residency later in the year. In addition to this I have recieved a lovely letter from Anneka French inviting me to be in an exhibition called “Meleager’s Garland” at Sir Joseph Banks Conservatory, Lincoln. The work she wants (a small collage) is either in amongst the packaging for my show in Bath (which is still in Bath) or at the bottom of any one of the piles of boxes that now constitutes my new studio.
