venue collection, The North

FW/CS (making O's)

1. how we were
2. how we are

found this on the twitter trough

The Mining Institute, Newcastle, UK

nibs crinkle, Edinburgh

text for a performance voiceover; computerized British accent

Public art is a culpable pedantic poo poo pop public rubby rubby rubric honey why don't you wait wait wait wait public art loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public cannot wait public art cannot cope with sweaty cheeks public art is no science lobbing policy codger off Fiji island popster pop star fie sci if dry feces see feces see poop rubby ruse rustic loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public dry feces Tera's tears wearisome loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public art culpable art culpable art culpable cult of bull cult offal offal shot shit snort rolling rollick some handiwork Wanda shape shaping up to look loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public art as a claw footed tubby rubby rubberized rubric hayseed from Arkansas president loam soothe terrible trying to cry loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public Wendy Wendy wens unwed wedding Wendy Wendy Wendy band Wendy. Looking handsome as ever our here and now herein as asshole blitz clump date date date data inhabited infant riot shire Shinkansen and fire chair shrine akaueh anssj dive dhshebjijjj shekel dicier he swooshed aha heist xjshei shekel loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public art are awe art art art art art art art art a art taser served as DVD. As drive Bebe be ebb. Rene DJ beheld. Rjdkdbd. Video. She the. Siren brisket. Bejesus idea. Sheridan. Djembe kid. Bakeries. Disprove. Disbelieve. She broken sjekerbrv sjekerbrv b t t t TNT t t r t t r r TNT TNT TNT tbt tbt t tbt tbt by tbt tbt t tbt t tr tbt t tbt t tbt t tbt r r r r t r tbt r tbt r r r tbt t tbt t tbt t tbt tbt r t tbt r trrttrttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public art sucks. loser candy public poop bottom public art cannot wait cannot hate and public art is a taser to the intellect and a place for seagulls to festoon with cloaca.

last night & this morning, Glasgow

Manpile & Fisch

FW / CS (inside out), Glasgow

installation day one, Glasgow

wedge in glass

wedged in glass go wedged in glass glow go wedge in glass go glass wedging in go glass go wedge go and go so glassy wedge glass wedge we'd all edge a wedge go lass go we'd edge a double you weed gee ads ass

performance portrait of Jan

... particularly proud of this one

Tilburg, night findings in a window

brain flap (two days later)

incubate dude...

panel interrupt panel interrupt panel interrupt panel interrupt panel interrupt

(cue the siren loop)

man poem for squeaks, art error numbrrr 4

sometimes they let me serenade people...sometimes they let me serenade people... sometimes they let me serenade people... sometimes

an apologist's jism rift

Dear Independer,

I am writing to inform you about something I witnessed last night. Some guy, dressed in a dirty office worker's shirt, wearing what appeared to be a giant starfish on his head, was claiming to be from the Tilburg Tourism Board. He accosted the nice people that were going to a concert by noisily hoisting up a large, and I might add, rather scientifically inaccurate brain for all to see, claiming (he) "was giving Tilburg something thoughtful". He then affixed the brain to a string pulley that ran from a lovely Art Deco lamp post to one of Tilburg's finest bronze statues, that of a lady in repose, with her hand pointing to the sky. The pulley system made it appear as though the bronze statue was pointing at the brain.

Now. Independer, I must ask you, as you are the voice of the streets and as such, carry a grave responsibility. Will you work with the proper authorities to have this man dealt with? While I understand that the Netherlands has fairly relaxed laws regarding public and artistic expression, I do not believe this sort of anarchism should be condoned, especially under the umbrella of what I was hoping to be a family friendly concert festival.

I thank you for your attention to this matter.
Yours sincerely,
Frank Virgin

she's giving some thought

someone left a condiment

Someone has left a comment to your voice recording "glitchretch(hominy)" at VR+ Online Service.

This is the comment that was received:
***************
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home office

today it is worse I swear don't mention it but you really ought to take care I know I know but that's the internal dialogue manifesting itself externally in the form of a mess you mean to say no no no in the way you just sit there sipping the worst brand instant coffee expecting this stuff to congeal into ideas and hey that'd be great but I know I know this isn't really the point be it a mess or a studio dude it's a bed that is getting dirtier by the day by your troves of newspapers tape costumes found objects busted synths and wires and shit but hey hey hey calm down calm down I didn't mean to offend your home office

push comes to bubble

(made the paper)

Action One, Incubate

a healthy tug leaves the arms free for flying

sudden noise awareness

fate played faith laid

airport signage: thoughtfully anticipating the upcoming weeks

consensus in dispute

one can op

i hope that we can be primordial neighbors, u & i

not sharing but...

It occurs to me that not everything needs to be shared in a public forum. Of course, there's the online journal blargh, the kind of thing that rambles endlessly and shows you its pancakes and straw-grabbed political joystickery. But then there's the art part, the shit that we're supposed to just poo out and have it look majestic, or at least be quaffable as evidence of artistic method. I guess I'm a little bit cautious with that stuff, or at least have been for the past month whilst steaming away my glands and soldered shoulders, here in the lush huzz of crickets and sultry-dogged New England. I prefer silence these days, silence in the lack of interference or personal wriggling on farce books and other corporate lassoed meme-huts. Okay, a tweet or two, sure. Maybe an instant graham here or there, to let friends know that I still cough like a fish out of water. But shit, when I'm out on my bike later today, do I need to pack an iPhone and burp out the grind of a podcast or some echo chamber of locusts? I could, but I do that every year, and every year I delete these files, because, fuck an A, does the world need to know? Maybe. Maybe there's a worthy echo chamber to pursue when the weather snaps and I'm thinking in terms of less haze and more grazing. Right now though, I'm hopelessly romanticizing the silence, as it's not really silence. My head is busier than ever and I'm bursting with busted duct taped seams, craving and lusting, but not giving a damn about sharing it. But anyway, off to the trail. I'll fill you in with spurious details when the yawn departs and there's an itch to press a button again.

sturgeon facing the dairy air

part one of the Great Acquiescing

Interesting…

Well?

Apparently certain social media outlets are beginning to compel their users to use their "real names" vs say, their home-brewed non-Christian ones, ie., baptized names, state-acknowledged names, aka, the names they use to operate in the faux-called "real world". Hmmph, I say. But in all fairness, one has to wonder: is it the CORPORATION knocking? I know they're doing their darnedest to colorize us bleakly into culpable winces that yell rabbit when they say rabbit and stand up when they want us to and then eat up and prance around like a bunch of drunken pagan fools (minus the pageantry of true drunken pagan foolishness) whenever a new gadget comes out. But really? Now we gotta change over to our former waspish selves in order to get more carbonated beverage ads lobbed at us? Oh, it's a good laugh, I reckon, the day they make me choose between Crank and that other one, that one there, that name, that game, that not-really-one-of-shame-but-one-that-hardly-sparkles-the-same (sorry for the rhyme, my blog, not yours). So, um… well? I suppose I'll continue on as follows, until the machine says otherwise. I'm sure it'll be funny when Crank suddenly has to wear the badge of his former, kinda bland, Protestant-sounding name. Surely Crank will continue, but if this is the way of the world and its lease on Internet freedoms, you, dear reader, will soon see this blog disappear as well. But, fret not, as I fear nothing in this regard. I mean, dang, we should "get real" anyway, right? Let 'em know who we really are. None of this anonymity, hiding-in-the-woods like a guerrilla hermit or some godless middle-fingering artist-type. Privacy? Nah. Pfff. Undeserved and underrated. If the corporation says I have to do this, then let it be so. I'll cherish the reality of a non-evocative namesake; in so doing, I'll gladly drop my greasy pen and acquiesce to the sword; I'll don my non blinking disaffected hat and adopt a second career as a kinda bland folk singer songwriter with the most quotidian name possible: the one I was born with. 

Wait, aren't all folk singer songwriters kinda bland? 
Well? 
Oh rats. This is suddenly no longer interesting.