Bind [videoplay]

Bind from Junkgarden on Vimeo.

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(ks n-l, n-, n-)

I have not written here in a long while. As if the act of putting words on to an exposed screen blind them (and myself) with a fucked up kind of white light of cynicism that chars. But that’d just be an analogy and a side-effect of of my temporal/spatial location. And I know, anyway, that no one looks at this mess unless I link it. Save the occasional passerby, what care I anyway? I can only thank them from my beating core for sparing the time. I have been busy though… with life and all that other kind of ritzy jazz.

I sit here in this lovely decrepit house – this weathered framework stationary as the wind blows around its walls – and the sun burns it further as if it were instead my pasty skin stretched over me, as I pace anxious and quick beneath that seemingly monstrous form. I am apparently on it they say, on this tiny little sphere that spins around that great ball of fire. And there is a HOLE in the shield directly above (or below) me.

I am the only person here but there are an abundance of presences all around, from the bugs crawling in the heated crevices to the baby dove that I rescued from death (from that moment in time where I chose to interrupt the course of nature purely because, I, was situated there and because my eyes -and my mortal form – fell upon the scene thus giving me reason to believe it was a warranted action). I have no money, rent is due along with a myriad of inconsequential bills… there are split yellow peas and a makeshift curry mixture on a temperate stove that is in need of CLEAN…like everything else. Not long ago was I above the clouds looking at the minute little fragments of urban life slotted together in stillness like a little geometric puzzle of sorts. But along with the thump of the landing so too, did I invisibly crash somehow. Yet the effects are so subtle I can’t quite make them out through the dust haze.

A washing machine do we no longer have and one unmentionable patronizing dick makes a point of my dirty black jeans (akin to the genealogy of my own lineage it would seem – or at least feel to seem). I never much got into that Sonic Youth record anyway. Why the fuck do we even have clothes? Or pillows? Or jobs? What significance are youth, beauty and intelligence if you’re just a grubby child grown?

It would be no giant step beyond reach to wander off into the distance of whatever-the-fuck-is-out-there on this red dusty plane. But that… nihilistic/idealistic thought on repeat.

“In the jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight” (enter crazy squealing soprano) original credits go to Solomon Linda. Thought on repeat.

I’m not sure how much asbestos I inhaled traversing this #abandonedhospital on Staten Island. It was chalky and it was cold. Full of the stench of stagnation, that is, nothing at all. And I freaked the fuck out of myself by the end of it. But I also got inspired somehow, so very much so. I fucking love this #clusterfuck of abandoned buildings despite the eerie veil of its drenched history of despair.

My curry is da bomb.

That is all

…for now.