CosmiKnot

  Fiction and expressivity "Something within me or is it outside of me?" wrote James "compels me to put these words inside the haven of my morning pages notebook rather than into a laptop computer. To let my thoughts become themselves here on the paper where they are not attached to the Empire of the like. I am reminded time and time again of Winston Smith sitting round the corner from the TV screen in 1984. It is not paranoia of being observed that compels me to write on paper but a desire for the visceral truth of haptic resistance. Something like that anyway. It’s the pleasure of the feel of writing that helps my thoughts to become. Perhaps this is dangerous to ideas which demand a more direct route and digression, a consequence of writing on paper, will always favour expression. This is why we seek simplicity, as I do, but do not trust it. Throwing cake at the Mona Lisa was a seismic event but what did it mean what did it express? And so to the idea," James tri...

  Be more Organismed   Whilst walking with my two sons to ward off depression, anxiety and in my case fibromyalgia, the eldest turned to me and asked, do you think you could build a nest with your mouth? I thought for a bit and was understandably taken aback. How do they know how to make the structure in triangles he went on? I’m not sure they know how we consider knowing to be. They don’t have an instruction manual to follow. It’s more a case of the knowledge being part of their body. My son started to say something about them being programmed. But who is controlling them he asked? At this point I felt that this idea of control is perhaps the greatest stumbling block to expanded empathetic thought that there is. God used to be the controller so who or what is in control now that he is dead?    After being thrown in at the deep end with affect theory during my doctorate in fine art I have become more and more interested in the idea of embodied understanding and the a...

Blood and brambles Bloody Shambles Cameron gambles On Hardline angles "its criminality undiluted" Nations youths have been poluted And while economy takes a tumble I'm at home making blackberry crumble Filled with fruits harvested in scrubland Behind Sainsbury's full of thorns and Smelt of decaying vegetation Seemed emblematic of the nation Made my young son feel ill at ease Paths ill defined,shapes in the trees Such physical pursuits to him Seem unnecessary and alien I tell myself it does him good As any self-respecting father would Hands made for grasping a controler Each bramble scratch will make him wholer But now its my hands that are stained With crimson juices - fear I've refrained From doing this when he was younger And somehow bred one more war-monger But thorny pricks upon my skin Convince me I should not give in. Who needs another liberal deserter In face of national inertia? Instead of always asking why? Perhaps we should ...