I am unable to connect the machine under my fingers to the external network of other machines, and for now am truncated. Continually clicking on the icon that draws symbols to actions, after a moment of action designed in a room, some where in Europe, the icon reverts to a declaration of error.

There is no hope for linking. Isolated, the machine seems flawed, broken a time cancer.

Waiting for a companion to arrive, all that can be done is record. The surroundings are too banal to note, but I will out of anger for the lack of imagination and pleasure at these details and the frustration at being denied a connection. Heavy glue and sawdust compounds laminated with picture of wood grain in an orange colour that does not resemble any local wood panel the walls. Glass, tempered and rounded rise from concrete with a pebbled sandstone surface. Air exchange systems perpetually humming air through their vessels. The people in dull colours and black, quietly stare, cough and murmur. The floors are united by great empty spaces and a cough can travel from the corner of one floor to the other side of another. A bag of books are dropped onto a desk, the percussionist sighs. Exasperated voice walks by (Cantonese?), the phone of derision pressed against the annoyed ear.

The lights vibrate imperceptible green.

The network scanning icon is compelled to spin once again.

A womans eyes are scanning as she walks, her head sweeping on the X axis.

Steve waves. I am startled.

I met with a binder for what really feels like my last art-book, and the conversation went very well. Look out for a brown book, "sometime in December". I think that the remaining projects I have been ruminating on will find themselves as articles in the Joy Sporadic Periodical. The prints from MagCloud were so top notch, I was unaware that notches when that high. I am very happy with this venture. I have a new magazine available to people in the United States, residents of other lands can place their order through me, as I have a pal in the USA who has agreed to forward me magazines. This magazine was concocted while I listened to a repetitive dance song called Texas. it is called "This is Terrace". It is.

Some underwear I ordered in the post went missing, so it is up to me to contact all of the parties involved and try to track down this important little pants in the new day forthcoming. The letter-carrier let a note in my mailbox as is their custom, telling me to visit a post office down the road, and when i got there, the underpants were not there on either the first, second or third days.

These are but a few of my quests.

I have printed a number of magazines, through MagCloud and had them shipped to me. I will have them trimmed to size and assembled should resemble a book. For which I will ask a local binder to wrap in a nice durable cover of book cloth. I will see how all this works. For now, orders from MagClould can only be shipped to the United States. Operation Delication takes care of this. I have yet to see the printed matter. My hope is that it is sort of registered.

Last year I was involved with the production of a nice book called CopyWork. Left over from the printing process was a box of paper, it was turned away from the funding body and for months I have had it in storage. I brought it up stairs to contemplate. It weight around 31KG and is 3 bundles of 15x91cm. I want to make something out of it, but am stymied. Oh, what to do?

I could not let this stand in the way of my vague mission. To visit a new computer store, somewhere over there. I knew the name of the shop and got on a bus that I suspected would take me there. This bus was selected after consulting a helpful man working at a busy shop. He suggested the bus in an arbitrary way, I was probably heading in the right direction. A young woman and her two friends disembarked our common chariot before me, and vomited an peach coloured spray. As her friends patted her back, I changed my course and instead acquired socks.

Later while eating friend chicken on the side of the road, 3 wasps circled me, I threw down an offering and satisfied with this gesture, they let me be. The one who was interested in the iced tea got smacked and stood on a near by rail, considering my actions.

I recognized my bus driver as a fellow who while I was reading about biology at a cafe wanted to talk about physics. He permitted my egress with the 5 minute expired transfer.

View Larger Map

On my way home to the island, I saw many uncanny things, a mixture of over-the-counter, drowsy medication with alcohol had the affect of producing wondrous waking dreams and dreamy wakes while sitting in the front of a rolling, rounded, square peg filled with chairs. Between Cache Creek and Hope at about 6ish in the morning, the landscape was for once, bereft of trees, an expanse of cool grey terrain with a two finger mark of a glossy black river and a dark, matte grey road. The soothing lack of contrast and our speed drove me back to sleep. I opened my eyes again, the brightness of the sun was brilliant, it illuminated the back of my skull, surprised my brian into working on seeing. I was amazed by the town of Hope. It seems to be a polished memory of a town made new in the past for today. The signage must have been constructed with a photomechanical technique no longer in vogue. Everything seemed to be the same height. The driver warned us not to leave the bus, or else we may move into this town and ruin it by our lack of time machines and good thoughts.

The morning light was generous to this place and the mountains seemed to not mind the town very much at all. Even later when we arrived in Chilliwack, that town looked good too, but alas it smelled of cow shit.

I have turned my keys in to a flower, on my desk, by moving the end of each key as far away from the adjacent key as possible. Still smells like worn metal and pocket shadows. Flowers must hate the plants they are stuck to. Their clamouring to leave and plaintively denying being compared to those hideous roots is so conspicuous.

The city, like a magnification of the mould that grows on its houses, is parasitically present via neglect and the lack of attention, activity and awareness. Many of the locals, not stuck to the ground, has rolled away under the tiny influence of a missing paternal, leaving their homes to the corrosive conversation of the soil and the water. Glass etched grey and fogged with condensation, punctured by the imagination starved, rock throwing youth, remaining.

They more than anything have grown in this place, unable to imagine other places, different that those before, these ones have sunk their all of their possible thoughts deep into this ground.

www.flickr.com

celebrate!]]> Tue, 12 Aug 2008 15:43:55 -0700 some-place http://www.joywebsight.com/2008-3/thesedays.html Vancouver is bright today, bright like a thousand screaming suns and I will escape its reflective, glossy, burning hot surfaces by rolling east. Then once in this place I will attend a wedding and be merry.]]> Fri, 08 Aug 2008 15:43:55 -0700 hot http://www.joywebsight.com/2008-3/thesedays.html ]]> Thu, 31 Jul 2008 16:52:55 -0700 there-is http://www.joywebsight.com/2008-3/thesedays.html

On the second page, a tiny articleette with the headline "Photos replace murals". Four murals painted in the 1930s have been covered by plaster walls and photos. The subject matter of the paintings have offended some people and MLA's voted overwhelmingly of have them covered. It reminded them of slavery, and native people being treated poorly. At first I was only perturbed, but then the final line was combustion, regarding the new historical photographs "The participants are all white males".

I was struck, by how much hate and shame lives in this place and the people who frequent its streets and shops and building's. I will not argue that the painting were great or grand or wonderful. I must have seen them at some point on a tour, and they left no impression. I will not say that their painter is to be celebrated, maybe he is listened too much to the people around him, maybe he did what it took to get a job doing painting in the 1930's Victoria, Canada. Maybe his compromises and visual language that worked for the committee or individual that oversaw him are tawdry, but the work was done, accepted and existed as a record in our history.

I am certain we are not responding to complaints of native people, because if we had such a sensitivity to their words and feelings, so much more would have been done and actively changing. No we are ashamed of who we used to be, how we used to think and how we used to congregate. I though quickly to that book forced on us in school, "1984" in which a forceful patriarch rewrites the past. I wondered, what is the difference of the past being rewritten without Big Brother? What do artists hope for when they work? A bit of time, some eyes, brains behind the eyes, some sort of emotion in those brains, a sliver of unlikely sympathy. I hope the guy on the front page gets some of this too. I hear the Picasso at the United Nations building in New York was draped for a while. Maybe we are, once again small fragments in a greater story of hiding from ourselves, but we should not find the obvious shame of that, but comfort in self knowledge and the coexistence of contradiction.

I spent 4 hours in a refrigerated room sipping sugared water while cell division continued to induce mucus production. iSniffle. In the cold room I compiled a number of lists. One list is how many internet accounts accumulated, another, possible places where my money is spent.

Today is a fine summer day, the first of a long weekend. There are a few local events happening that require attention and ice cream.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

I wish to wear these shoes and walk on the recovered victim. This ritual will protect me from cars while I am listening to music on the streets and highways of this land.

In the city, the abstraction of emotion rules, and relationships dominate and are enforced by the structures which surround the food. The city rats, safe in their separate lifestyle.

This document lets you know that the current social engagement of the audience, with the world is probably inadequate, resulting in this production (re. you suck), but don't worry, I never think poorly of anyone.

I have began preening the Flick Maps of my local, to find some photos takers in the neighbourhood that have creative commons images, that are attentive to my concerns. This is an ongoing project of playing with electronic maps and see if they can talk a complex talk. Nothing much to report so far, but I did find the above picture of a local meeting hall.

Thank you.

I hope it is fun.

However, Victor's claims to vulnerability and victimization (underdogged by myself), the feigned transparency with which he seems to openly bear his tortured and suffering self, is the means by which he disguises his own secret. And this is: that the rage so uniquely his own is product not of any real feelings of self-loathing but of a sense of intellectual superiority that makes it difficult to live out the farce of trying to be successful (whether that be through visibility or economic remuneration), or even just a productive member of society, when it's so difficult to respect those who will ultimately determine that success or the very values required to attain a position of power (el sueño de mi racion que produce insomnia). If these drawings and writings diaristically reflect the inner musings of a pathetic loser, it is a loser who has chosen the difficult path of resisting to stake a claim in the ridiculous battle for social respectability 'opting instead for cultural relevance which is far less prestigious' — but who is obsessed with seeing how it will all end.

Michèle Faguet

"I applaud this test, but I still feel that variable gears are only for people over forty-five. Isn't it better to triumph by the strength of your muscles than by the artifice of a derailleur? We are getting soft. Come on fellows. Let's say that the test was a fine demonstration-for our grandparents! As for me, give me a fixed gear!"

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April 4th 2008

I also propose that the military handle all forms, rituals and activities concerning death and dying, during peacetime and when involved in low level engagement. The current death industry in caught in some sentimental loop of flowers and brass. The modern secular dying or dead person needs something else. They demand efficiency, high technology and discipline. I want for myself, for my friends; the option to be buried at sea, to be used as biological weapon to spread pestilence or to be laser guided into a new land, along with tonnes of attractive cluster bombs. The military can achieve this. They must now bravely diversify their portfolio and deal with all levels and forms of death that have for too long burdened medicine and business.

I placed that tiny file on my tiny, folding computer for later. More diagnostic tools on the shrinkingcomputer drew me pictures of cylinders, empty and slowly being filled. Things were broken these pictures told me, as sheets of glitch poured by. My invitation to these diagnostic tools proved fruitful as eventually they declared, "All things are right again!" I was glad. Once again in the regular context, the tool Sherlock used to discover clues was "indexing", forever. The special tool was brought out, it told me of this and that, and in a very nonplussed way, told me that the giant file was indeed being collected. It presented me with a number of choices. I chose to stop the gathering of super invisible data and delete it and to begin again from a fresh. All of this was executed in a matter of moments. The duplication began to roll again, the index was also soon completed. I noticed other things around the house, the sun was setting. I could hear children laughing in the distance. The minimac was not spoiled, the delicate sand drawing would be present for one more day.

This machine, when it began, replaced horses dragging uncomfortable booths. Now it is something else. A container for sexual and social fantasy a conduit to power, to a narrative of desire, transloaction and regression.

As the machines spin in a parking lot or intertwine at intersections, displays a sadomasochistic dance. The individuals inside their shells are the entrails of a old creature from the centre of our thoughts.

Also as one who runs a bee hive, I have consolidated my printed photos into one, terrible place, rather than a number of booklets and cases. I feel as if I have broken down a honeycomb structure to reveal a tasty, valuable core. This perhaps is not the case, but it feels good.

*
March 17th 2008

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March 15th 2008

In 2 hours I will begin my 33rd year alive.

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March 6th 2008

i arrive at the terminal, heave my bags and trunk on to a ViaRail cart and roll to the desk, the woman, behind a glass wall, see my bags, asks me their weight, I don't know, she tells me they cannot move anything over 75 lbs. I place my trunk on the handy, nearby scale. It is 112 lbs.

She calls some guy (I think the driver)

He reiterates the 75lbs rule.

She tells me the rule again. I ask what to do. She tells me I have to send it via freight, that I will miss the next bus, that I have to take a cab 2 blocks down the road to Greyhound Courier Express. I am livid. I think of my options.

I roll the cart to Greyhound Courier Express. I get there, soaked. in this squat, shitty bunker is where i learn that I cannot ship anything over 100 lbs to Victoria, that WCB regulations does not permit shipping items over 100 pounds. I ask what happens when people was to move things to the island, he tells me to hire a moving company. Thankfully this asshole goes to the back of the bunker and does not return.

I remove a number of items from the trunk. The weight is 99.5 lbs. Money is exchanged and the trunk is off. 12lbs is 1 can of soup, 1 bottle of detergent, a liquid soap dispenser, an orange enamel bowl, a 250GB hard drive a jacket and 2 towels. All are in greyhound garbage, except for the detergent. I will never let go of my detergent.

I get back to the bus station, and I indeed have missed the 3.30 by 5 minutes. I end up chatting with a two folks about just how annoying this day is turning out. They also have troubles, I listen attentively to the stories of just missed buses and MP3 players in jackets.

I end up telling one of them all of my troubles I have ever endured during the bus ride to the boat, he laughs. I guess it is pretty funny. We trade stories until a post dinner parting.

The next day Rachael and I wander down to the terminal to pick up the trunk and it is not there, it is a 20 minute drive away in the Greyhound Courier Express depot, not the bus terminal. I chat with the Greyhound Courier Express fellow on the phone, ask him about bus routes, he tells me the 31 is the one. Rachael see one roll by the terminal we are at. It rolls away as I jog behind it. Later she and I were waiting at a bus stop, a Greyhound Courier Express cube truck drives past us. On its door, it is written "Door to Door Service". I call the fella again and ask about some door to door action. It is reserved for Monday to Friday only. Silently in my head I imagine a giant fish falling from the sky and smashing his building into powder, my trunk flying through the air and flying through my open window. His dismembered hand following a moment later, still holding the phone receiver.

Another day has past and I am just about to catch a 31.
*
March 2nd 2008

]]> Sun, 02 Mar 2008 10:59:19 -0800 moving to victoria http://joywebsight.com Docking.
]]> Thu, 21 Feb 2008 20:21:32 -0800 movies-mmvii-docking http://joywebsight.com/2008-1/thepast.html Miki
When asked to write about my favorite emerging artist in Mexico, I chose Miki Guadapur partly because he defies the very category of what it means to be 'emerging' onto a contemporary scene driven more at times by flagrant careerism than a consistent desire to articulate something, whether that something have popular appeal or not. I say this after almost a decade of working in artist-run, alternative spaces, most of which quickly become subsumed into an endless cycle of discovering new talents to the benefit of more mainstream institutions, and then having to start the whole process all over again. It's not a very interesting structure is it?

Miki Guadapur is a musician, visual artist, and most importantly, an entertainer who, over the course of the last decade, has become a cult figure in Mexico City, and abroad. He is adored and respected by many but still assumes an attitude of self-deprecation and marginalization that says more about his unwillingness to participate in the system, than his ability to do so. He exudes a creative energy that is at once, weird, sweet, funny and intensely critical (at times bordering on unbearably negative). Above all he is completely and utterly sincere and suffers because of it. He's like that adolescent freak whose genius was recognized by so few-shunned by the popular kids you knew would never amount to anything. But then you grew up and you realized that the world is controlled by those same kids, or maybe others who learned how to play the game a little later on in life. And that's why you love Miki so much.

by Michele Faguet

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Febuary 19th 2008

]]> Tue, 12 Feb 2008 18:22:33 -0800 dumb http://joywebsight.com/2008-1/thepast.html Today is the day in which everything I own (save for a select few), are bundled together and will be whisked away by burly movers on Thursday morning.

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Febuary 12th 2008

]]> Sat, 09 Feb 2008 22:00:26 -0800 sale http://www.joywebsight.com
]]> Mon, 04 Feb 2008 07:42:29 -0800 movies-mmvii-falling http://joywebsight.com/2008-1/thepast.html So like I am walking in a mall in Victoria
A puffy, bejacketed boy and his friend walk past me, he fashions his fingers into a hand gun and shoots me in the head with a verbal bang as I pass. I spin and face him, he drops his gun and shoots out my knee. My head is filled with thoughts. Should I beat him up for the good of humanity? If you shoot someone in the head and they are still alive, it would be a better strategy to shoot them in the head again. I turn again and continue walk.

Hey its hailing!

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Febuary 2nd 2008

]]> Sat, 02 Feb 2008 18:50:26 -0800 so-i-am http://joywebsight.com/2008-1/thepast.html

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January 25th 2008

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January 22nd 2008

(01:32:57 PM) Michele: cool

christmas, sodium bisulfate.