Friday, 17 April 2009

Narky sarky continuation explication enough

Well, no I'm not. No I'm not well. I blame the damned Inspectorate of Fiscal Bastarditudinous Cockfields.

Anyway, I'm up and posting, and make of that what you will, maybe I'm coherent, maybe I have six grains of sense, maybe the may blossom and the may tree and may please may I stop repeating the word may - oh happy day - don't go there boyo.

T Y P I N G V E R Y S L O W L Y to try to calm down.



I'm ok. No I'm not. But I'm ok on the record. And off the record I'm awful. But heck I can still type shite. Does that mean I'm ok? Or just ok? Or not ok? What does ok mean? I can't bear to look up the mundane explanation.

The picture is just another from the series of "Why are men scared of nude portraits?"* Don't worry about it.

Bare forked animals etc. We are what we are. That's me. Pretty pathetic to publish it on the internet but I'm cold so don't want to go out and get caught, and there seems to be the morning traffic on the roads, and heck, who knows, someone might raise a chuckle at the sight of that horrid carcass. (Thirty second exposure (tho felt like longer (everything always feels like longer (and brackets (and brackets)))) so that's why it's blurry - I thought I held quite still tbh.)

Finally finished all the tax returns today. Money is a different matter, but I have friends. As soon as finishing, I wanted to fight the bastards physically and for every penny. I like to pay taxes. They pay for people like me for a start, and the fucked-up and disadvantaged all over the shop. But the way the taxman treats you... I want to make a complaint. Go to the press. Make it hurt. But then he'll probably investigate me to get his own back. I have nowt to hide. (Obviously.) But I can't stand the thought of the extra stress. It'll take me a month to get back to anything if I know myself. "Know thyself" said Socrates, the old hemlocky suicidal bugger. But what I mean is I want to hurt the taxman and make a noise a fuss a big shitty stink, but I don't have the resources at the moment, and probably never will, but want to.

Oh enough. I disgust myself.

p.s. Thanks to Loopy for the kind remarks on the last.

p.p.s. What is it about modern life that makes taking your clothes off feel like a cleansing?

* They're far more scared of nude portraits when women are in control of the camera, naturally. There is a lot of catching up to do in western art. (And I was referencing a typical female nude pose when I posed for that a few days back. [edit - it was a picture I saw in the Musee d'Orsay (sp?) back in 88... they had a lot from the Louvre on loan due to the renovations... but I had a bad head that day, and was disgusted at all the pink flesh and gilt frames... ho hum] Perhaps I should start calling myself a performance or piss artist?)

4 comments:

Hannah said...

Funny how one of the first things man did was to cover himself up, and we've been ashamed of our identities ever since. Lies and more lies. Take away the lies and what is left?

Nice pic - restful

Hann x

Abysmal Musings said...

Thanks Hann - a modicum of sense struck me just now though... I'll save it for my first exhibition. But tripe is a fine substitute no? D x

lettersfromexile said...

What happened to your Balzac?

Abysmal Musings said...

They got shy and wandered off to reread Old Goriot.