A waking dream

When the fluidity, the flexibility of thought – fluid flexible thought – calcifies into belief, it dies. That shimmering white figure flitting between the trees falls to the ground and turns solid and leaden grey, to be dragged away to the city and placed in yet another edifice looming over the benighted hordes scurrying on their pointless pursuits below.

That abstract edifice made of elusive illusions, that blank featureless face relieved only by the odd grimacing gargoyle, spattered with the blood of the bodies hurled from the roof, who fall into the crowds of hunched brown and black figures thronging the narrow streets with a faint wet splat.

In a forgotten and neglected district of that city there sits, crammed between a uniform outfitters and a propaganda outlet, a small cafe. It only ever has a couple of people sitting at its cracked formica tables with their wonky legs, never less, never more, no matter the time of day or night you push through the door to take your place at the counter and nurse your drink for hours, your overcoat on the stool beside you, forlorn.

Your phone rings, earning you a sharp recriminatory glare from the man in a scarf in the corner.

'Where are you?'

'Nowhere.'

'Are you coming home soon?'

'No.'

The Cafe Nowhere, in a forgotten and neglected district of the city, crammed between a uniform outfitters and a propaganda outlet. The Cafe Nowhere. Where the music sounds like the grinding of gears.

Where the music sounds like the grinding of gears.

Albert Gleizes did not like dada

The impossibility of constructing, of organising anything whatsoever, not even having the foggiest notion of it, led [the dada] to decree that nothing existed and that he could do anything under the guise of instinct...

What they call instinct is anything which passes through their heads [and] from time to time something very good passes through them...

But very soon we become aware of ... the 'leitmotives' which recur in their paintings and literary work. And the pathological case becomes brutally evident. Their minds are forever haunted by a sexual delirium and a scatalogical frenzy ... Their frolics abandon themselves freely around the genital apparatuses of either sex ... Moreover, by lingering in these realms, they have found ... another source of instinctive inspiration. They have discovered the anus and the intestinal by-products ... They confuse excrement with products of the mind. They use the same word to designate two different things.

Well, there's my next artist statement, should I need one. I might have to apply for something just so I can use it.

'Intestinal by-products'! 'Genital apparatuses'!

I think the former'd make the better title.