The character will be jostled from place to place is a disorienting way. Their desire to conquer and colonise the universe is made possible and then halted. Their actions with each other are violent and delicate. Atomically the radiation will disrupt the DNA samples, constantly degrading its previously pure description of the person from which it came from.

This work will be visually accessible via projection from a camera placed in the centre of the room. Held in place by four rods, the machine of the camera will be protected from the activity in the room by a dense, clear, plastic shield. This camera will be constructed compactly. Consisting of four lenses in will constantly and rhythmically be sweeping the room, recording the activity. This central eye will be the base of truth and a stable point of view for recording the contained drama. Viewers will be on the outside of the cube, which will be slowly rotating, the containing activity projected onto each of its surfaces.

These supplies will fortify my future endeavours with heavy boxes, screws and fastening.

I took some software and installed it on a computer, by the Port that was updated to the point of removing the ability of the previous versions of the same software from “doing its thing”, the new versions are just fine. One of the two blobs of code was on a USB device and could only be found behind a USB1 interface. the 3GB took an hour to copy. I chatted, twittered and fretted about. The computer owner and I conversed and smoked, we ate sandwiches. He was for a portion of time, speaking to a new artist in the other room and I listened in for a bit. He gave good advice. I happilyied received payment in change, bills and bus tickets.

Work Ennobles but the Nobility does not Work

In a discussion about‭ ‬Asunción,‭ ‬a short film about a rebellious domestic employee that he produced with Carlos Mayolo in‭ ‬1975,‭ ‬Luis Ospina stated that it had been their intention to create paranoia,‭ ‬as‭ ‬'domestic employees represent a class enemy under the very same roof.‭' And yet this‭ ‬'enemy‭' is an integral member of the family she serves and‭ ‬cares for and is simultaneously appreciated and exploited,‭ ‬loved and pitied.‭ ‬She,‭ ‬in turn,‭ ‬will inevitably reciprocate in this unhealthy,‭ ‬co-dependent relationship by developing strong emotional ties to her employers and their children while inevitably resentful of their class privilege and the social hierarchy that has relegated her to its lowest rung.‭ ‬Even within her own social class,‭ ‬the female domestic employee is more often than not a tragic figure‭ — a single mother who must neglect her own children in pursuit of a better life for them,‭ ‬particularly for the daughters she hopes will not end up like her.

The saying‭ 'work‭ ‬ennobles‭' (‬el trabajo ennoblece‭) ‬has a complex etymology:‭ ‬although sometimes associated with popular resistance and revolutionary politics,‭ ‬this aphorism can also be tied to the teachings of the Catholic Church and even to the Third Reich,‭ ‬with its‭ ‬Reichsarbeitsdienst‭ (‬Reich Labor Service‭)‬,‭ ‬the function of which was to combat unemployment in Nazi Germany under the motto‭ ‬'Arbeit ardelt.‭' A related phrase,‭ "‬Arbeit macht frei‭"‬ (Work Brings Freedom‭) ‬was posted at the entrances to numerous concentration camps during WWII.‭ ‬And then there is the Dutch witticism that goes like this:‭ 'Arbeid adelt,‭ ‬maar adel arbeidt niet‭'‬ (Work ennobles but the nobility does not work‭)‬,‭ ‬which is curious given that Holland is not a country one would generally associate with class conflict despite its status as an independent monarchy.‭ (‬In fact,‭ ‬many artists,‭ ‬curators,‭ ‬and institutions in Latin America and other developing regions have benefitted from the generosity of this monarchy exercised through grants endowed by the Prince Claus Fund.‭)

The idea for this exhibition derived from a simple,‭ ‬but significant chance encounter between two very different works:‭ ‬Asunción,‭ ‬which I happened to be writing about at the time that I received images of Regina Galindo‭'‬s‭ ‬Angelina‭ ‬(2002‭)‬,‭ ‬a work that is well known to a local public in Guatemala.‭ ‬Once I‭'‬d decided upon curating an exhibition with works dealing with the figure of the female domestic employee,‭ ‬I didn‭'t have to look very far to find additional works from a very diverse group of artists and filmmakers.‭ ‬In Judi Werthein‭'‬s‭ ‬This Functional Family‭ ‬(Familia‭ (‬dis)functional‭)‬,‭ ‬2007‭ ‬-‭ ‬a mock documentary about the Sonneveld House in Rotterdam‭ ‬– the aristocratic Sonneveld family is portrayed by black actors and possible descendants of colonial subjects upon whose exploitation the Sonneveld family‭'‬s wealth was based,‭ ‬while their domestic employees are played by two white,‭ ‬middle class young women.‭ ‬Phil Collin‭'‬s‭ ‬soy mi madre,‭ ‬2008‭ ‬is an exquisitely made telenovela,‭ ‬shot on location in Mexico City with several leading television stars and loosely based on Jean Genet‭'‬s‭ ‬The Maids,‭ ‬1947.‭ ‬The film was conceived while Collins was pursuing an‭ ‬artist residence in Aspen,‭ ‬Colorado and responds to the presence of a massive workforce of domestic laborers from Mexico serving affluent families in the United States.‭ ‬Monica Ruzansky‭'‬s photographic series‭ "‬Dicen que los perros se parecen sus dueños‭"‬ (They Say that Dogs Resemble their Owners‭)‬ consists of portraits of female domestic employees walking their employers‭'‬ dogs,‭ ‬usually expensive purebreds that typically function to assuage the racial anxieties of wealthy,‭ 'aristocratic‭'‬ Latin American families.‭ ‬Finally,‭ ‬Sebastian Silva‭'‬s‭ ‬La Nana‭ ‬(The Maid‭)‬,‭ ‬2008‭ — a film that won several awards at the‭ ‬2009‭ ‬Sundance Film Festival‭ ‬— is a subtle portrayal of the complicated emotional dynamics that exist between a long time domestic employee and the well-intentioned family that employs her.

Side Stories‭ ‬(video‭ & ‬film program‭)‬

Lately I‭'‬ve become interested in anecdotes.‭ ‬Perhaps it‭'‬s due to my gossipy nature:‭ ‬private lives are often so much more interesting than public ones and I don‭'‬t trust secrets or people who build walls around themselves because withholding information is so often about exercising power over others.‭ ‬Transparency,‭ ‬on the other hand,‭ ‬implies a sense of trust between individuals or institutions interacting with one another within a non-hierarchical,‭ ‬egalitarian system in which information is readily available and subject to public scrutiny.

But I think there‭'‬s also something to be said for the ability to simply tell a really good story.‭ ‬Anecdotes are so powerful because they entertain us while secretly and subtly imparting knowledge that is very often more significant than official narratives like those found in traditional‭ (‬linear,‭ ‬patriarchal,‭ ‬Western Eurocentric‭) ‬historiographies,‭ ‬media sources and,‭ ‬generally,‭ ‬the kind of writing that disguises‭ ‬the author‭'‬s intentions behind a disembodied and objective voice,‭ ‬which is a construction that we should know to be false but that we continue to adhere to.‭ (‬The writing of a press release in the first person,‭ ‬for example,‭ ‬is barely acceptable‭)‬.

According to an‭ ‬article in Wikipedia‭ (‬with no cited references or sources,‭ ‬and thus presumably unreliable‭) ‬a‭ ‬side story is‭ ‬'…a form of narrative that occurs alongside established stories… ‬where it is possible to tell many stories from many points of view.‭'‬ It‭'‬s like a kind of anecdote,‭ ‬then,‭ ‬that quietly and insignificantly exists alongside the‭ 'bigger picture‭'‬ but that may challenge,‭ ‬contradict,‭ ‬and ultimately destroy the veracity of those stories that are‭ 'established‭'‬ simply because they have been told from a position of power and are louder and more visible.‭

List of works:
Javier Bosque‭'‬s‭ ‬The Splinter from the Tree‭ (‬La astilla del arbol‭)‬ 2007,‭ ‬is a video shot by the artist‭'‬s mother that shows a series of quirky conversations between Javier and his father on family related topics that all seem to perversely gravitate towards the theme of death and amnesia.‭ ‬The video begins with a warning to its viewers that states:‭ ‬'Due to its personal nature,‭ ‬the context of this video is irrelevant.‭'

Sunset Condor‭ (‬Artistas amistosos de Neükolln‭)‬ 2009,‭ ‬documents a bizarre and seedy ten-day art event held in a shipping container in Valparaiso,‭ ‬Chile.‭ ‬Valparaiso was once an affluent and majestic cosmopolitan center,‭ ‬known as‭ 'the Jewel of the Pacific,‭'‬ but quickly lost its cultural and economic prestige with the opening of the Panama Canal.‭

In‭ ‬La pieza ensayo‭ ‬(The Rehearsal Piece‭) ‬2008,‭ ‬Ana María Millán and Eduardo Carvajal have re-edited original casting and rehearsal footage from Carlos Mayolo‭'‬s‭ ‬1985‭ ‬short film‭ ‬Aquel‭ ‬19,‭ ‬an adolescent love story that ends in suicide and that takes place in Cali,‭ ‬Colombia against the backdrop of the first national victory of the local football team América de Cali,‭ ‬a significant source of regional pride for a city marked by conflict and violence.

Sõprus‭ ‬-‭ ‬Дружба‭ (‬Friendship‭)‬ 2007,‭ ‬is the product of a collaboration between Anu Pennanen and a group of teenagers‭ (‬of both Russian and Estonian background‭) ‬in the capital city of‭ ‬Tallinn.‭ ‬Like the artist‭'‬s native Finland,‭ ‬Estonia has been subject to regional imperialism,‭ ‬including Swedish and Soviet occupation,‭ ‬and inhabits an ambiguous‭ (‬cultural and economic‭) ‬position between Eastern and Western Europe.‭ ‬Today Estonia has the most liberal economic system of all of the former Soviet republics.

In‭ ‬Folklore‭ ‬1‭ (‬2006‭)‬ and‭ ‬Folklore‭ ‬2‭ (‬2008‭)‬,‭ ‬Patricia Esquivias delivers a pair of informal lectures with anecdotes ranging from Spanish real-estate speculator and football team owner Jesús Gil to post-Francoist rave culture to parallels between King Felipe II and Julio Iglesias,‭ ‬all of which describe certain cultural and historical formations present in contemporary Spanish culture.

Thursday‭ ‬21‭ ‬May‭ ‬2009/‭ ‬7pm
Exhibition opening

Friday‭ ‬22‭ ‬May/‭ ‬5pm
Conversation between Emiliano Valdés‭ (‬Visual Arts Director CCE/G‭) ‬and Michèle Faguet

Saturday‭ ‬23‭ ‬May/‭ ‬6pm
Screening of feature film‭ ‬La Nana
Directed by Sebastián Silva,‭ ‬Chile,‭ ‬2008.‭ ‬98‭ ‬min.

Centro Cultural de España‭ ‬/‭ ‬Guatemala
Vía‭ ‬5,‭ ‬1–23‭ ‬zona‭ ‬4,‭ ‬4° Norte,‭ ‬Ciudad de Guatemala,‭ ‬01004

Also when are we going to fix the October, November, December problem. That has been going on for years now and is an embarrassment.

I have never been to Belgium, cannot speak any of the languages spoken there, am uninterested in the history of that land, its wars, politics and they have a dull flag. Strangely, something grows from the minds in that place which beguiles me, fastens my attention and tosses its culture to my affections, which smothers it with kisses.

It began, as many things for me did, when I was a child and I developed an annoying obsession with the animated television program, the Smurfs. The tiny, cyanotic homunculi living in mushrooms, separated by vocation were the blades on the drill of their metaphor that dug ever deeper into my affections.

In my backyard, mushrooms grew and at the school I attended, the word ‘smurfy’ propagated onto my conversation, much to my older sisters chagrin. The Smurfs demonstrated fair and equitable social interaction in opposition to greed and material acquisition, of the programs antagonists. What is not to like.

During this time, maybe before, I was wrapped into the adventures of Tintin and his dog, Snowy. Drawn with clean lines, and modern-ish adventures presented a kind of pleasure of obviousness that the noisy lines of Astrix and his bewildering, old fashioned capers could not, on real paper unlike the poorly printed comics one found in shops at the time. The comics in the store had over-blown adventures an were always interested in distortions of humanity and activity that repelled me. The Fantastic Four could be a little more human and dress better, there is nothing wrong with a good hat on a rainy day.

Belgium has a more balanced two language situation some what like Canada, without the geographic space. It is close to the latitude of where I was born; 54º, Antwerp is 51º. So there is a good chance that it is also muddy with an overcast, white sky, populated with tired, angry people who resent their neighbours they can’t understand for some reason they cannot think of.

As I grew older I listened to a assortment of music from this nation; Front 242 and the Lords of Acid populated these days with songs of machines, corporate life and sexual transmitted disease. Things which I was drawn to, filled the newspapers and pulsing televisions. Jacques Brel is not bad either.

Later looking into the fog of culture, roiling about, I found it difficult to look away from artists who’s work could stand without discourse. Silent. The sad words which sophistically follow artwork are often broadcast by people who did not like or believe art can express what it needs to on its own. Like a seatbelt, the sensation of security can create peril and reason for its use. In this case the danger is ocular failure, blindness. The overt and obvious, self-contained work of Magritte and Broodthaers can travel through ones mind without the propulsion of text and is oblivious to the dangers of the open mind.

Belgium’s national holiday is my mothers birthday, they seems to care about art books, the most tawdry of art mediums. A nation state exporting cultural production into the sewer of my appreciation. Thank you and keep up the good work!

He had very reasonable points of contempt.

We smoked. He repeated his points in a number of different ways and in the same ways. His conversation looped, as if he was forgetting and remembering. I ruminated on how I was to get from where the ferry docks’ to home. The pubic system was cheap but took a long time. There was another costly bus, and that company made my travels difficult previously. We discussed the various options of each.

He opened a very tall can of beer and drank it quickly. A woman near by suggested the costly bus, the public one is a “milk run”, she said.

The ferry arrived. I agreed with the woman on the Berth 3 platform. No milk runs in a bus for me. John was suggesting the public bus, but his arguments were not very compelling.

The boat people, disembarked. The Berth 3 people embarked, chatting. It was twilight.

We found a spot near the ticket sales booth and chatted some more. I told him of my hard times travelling and how I always seem to travel broke. He was still annoyed at being separated from his data in the cloud. I understood. He thought that there was a connection on the ferry and if you had a laptop you could access it. I assured his that there was nary a signal on the ferry, except maybe in some fancy lounge, where there is a charge to enter. He resigned to further data seperation.

I got a ticket for the ride home. I offered coffees as the next step, we got two and moved on to the front of the boat, cups in hand. I suppose, I was already aware that John took lots of drugs when he could and that the inelegant chemicals had harmed him, made him more like them. I could not leave. The twilight was closing, just a faint light on the horizon. I remarked how you never see anything filmed at this time because it doesn’t work well on screen and how perfect and empty it is.

John is 43.

We went back inside, trying to remember the direction of the boat,as to allow us to sit facing forward. There were empty seats ahead. We sat behind a mother and child. We all started chatting, except for the baby as he was too young for conversation. The baby boy was remarkably charismatic. The mum was also as chatting as John and I were. We spoke of her sons future political career.

John went up to the bath room.

I took out the Complete Encyclopedia of Cats by Rebo Publishers. I talked with the mum about books for a while, she asked how long I knew him. I said just today. John returned. We had a strange moment of cross talk that kinda fell into a loops about some silly topic. John went away again. I felt in a spot. The mum was beckoned to by some others sitting near by. Probably to protect her from such strange men on the ferry and then John returned. He brought with him a small cardboard box, containing a black leather wallet.

I got this for you, he said, so you will remember ol’ John when you take out your wallet. I think I must have shuddered. I need to ask you for some money and I thought I should give you something in return. Ummm lets go for another smoke, I say, worried, surprised and tense. He kept offering me the wallet, as I like a small planet with orbiting bags and a slender box, hoped to avoid the gift, with no receipt. In a open area where two hallways converge I accept, with the abomination. Could you be more subtle. He laughed and said, don’t be so paranoid.

John was so different than I.

We stand outside on the deck, lit by incandescent bulbs, in the cold wind and he tries to get a smoke from a group of young people, they turn him down, he makes one out of a butt in a nearby ashtray. I wonder if it was the same one I smoked and did not burn it down to the filter. We talk a bit more and then it is announced to board the buses and cars. I tell him good-bye, a quick handshake. John tells me he is going to try and talk his way on to the bus. I am defensive and say, ok, well good luck. We are walking together and as we near the bus, I rock back while I collect my ticket from my wallet, so that he goes first. He stops too. I start again and show the ticket and board.

The driver doesn’t accept his story, we are divided. I sit in the dark bus, blushing. John never mentioned films, a job or love.

And its here

30 Gnome themes to enhance your Ubuntu experience -

I won't be getting cable and don't want to spend any money on antenna's. Since JoyTV does come in I am confidant that all of my equipment is working.

Thanks in advance!

I would like to combine my old Single Reflex Lens camera, offered for sale in the year of my birth, with my digital camera. This hopeful merger could be part of larger project of owning fewer things and having everything in my orbit glitter with greatness, purpose and my generalised comfort and familiarity. Both of these devices have great advantages over each other as they are separately. This greatness would be the culmination of the diminution of flaws, without the expenditure of resources I do not have access to.

A CCD is not film.

The activity of being a camera is what my SLR does best. Adjusting the aperture and focus is the kind of activity I want to be engaged in on a picture making day and it offers these adjustments to me easily. The shutter and film advance are and solid and fast. It is just that film is an expensive, boring pain.

I would like to remove the back of my SLR and lock on the CCD when the film would sit. I would like to freeze much of the CCD's flexibility and treat it like 400 ISO film. Giving the work of the focus and aperture and shutter speed back to the SLR. The CCD can collect the data, managed by the lens, throw it to the XD card and call it a day. The digital camera can loose the following; focus measure device, the flash, and lens and body. That stuff is no good to this picture maker. Pictures to follow of this proposed project.

Am I being stressed out to fuel machinery of the future!?

Oil must be energy stored for future conflicts out of a present fear.

I need to relax.

While he is reading his eyebrows are up and while she is working on her puzzles, her brow is furrowed. Both of their books are open to the end pages. Lenses hang before their eyes, hers held in black plastic, his chrome wire.

Now their legs are both crossed, left over right.

Stage dark, slowly lit from below
two men standing facing each other, centre stage.

“I have for you, the finest cashmere, to warm your neck!”

“Tha-anks!”

Piano plays a short solo melody. Curtains close

2. The Wearing

Sound of a heavy wind,
lights glow, revealing piles of snow

one man shovelling, he is wearing a scarf and looks content

“This snow, oh, before used to freeze my parts, as my coefficient of insulation would drop as lawn darts
condensation form from my exhale would collect in a web of icy chainmaille
this scarf with prop’ities so vast, giving protection as does a cast
heat; arrested, balanced warmth
the savoury nectar of comfort
this snow is as a test
of the greatest of ease

as I stand here and tis snow I cleave.”

The stage dims

The sound of the wind fades. Curtains close

3. Tragedy

Aboard the Spirit of British Columbia in the Pacific Buffet
a woman and a man enter, they are shapeless in their winter garb.

They begin to remove their frocks piling them on 2 of the 4 chairs at that table.
Joyful piano begins

He — “I am so excited to dine in this setting…”

She — “I as well as my hunger hath been whetting”

He — “This grand expanse of food I must say…”

Together, arms linked, “can only be found at the Pacific Buffet”

lights in the back brighter, a row of 4 sailors repeat

“at the Pacific Buffet!”

Sailors fall back into darkness.

Stage dims, spotlight falls on the man, stands and faces the audience.

“This is when, painfully, fortune looked away.
For it is this place where my scarf has been forced to stay,

filled with food and glee, my dear scarf has been taken from me.”

One of the chair fall, the music stops.

A cat holding a red flag, with the word “Suspicion” written on it crosses the stage.
Spotlight turns red.

“was it the man who was laughing to himself?
or was it a staffer who perpetrated this theft?
haunted by these questions
tormented by indigestions
How will I get my scarf back?
How will my bare nape endure this lack?”

Lights dim. Curtains close

4. The Lamentations

Touch tone beeps.

Man in a room, empty but for a small table with an over-sized phone on it, his neck suspended in a block of ice, icicles of tears trail back to his eyes

“Hello have you seen my scarf? I have looked for it everywhere?
I have lost it on the Pacific Buffet, How many times must I say?

Do you not care, I have looked for it, everywhere!”

Fades to black, the sounds of sobbing. Curtains close

Also, I am going to watch Star Wars tonight, for some reason I have never watched the Return of the Jedi.]]> Mon, 12 Jan 2009 16:05:33 -0800 now-in-nerdy-news http://www.joywebsight.com/dudeisaid.shtml#lines Today I confirmed that I can post my crates around the world with stamps, removed some applications from my Applications folder, exclaimed out loud, "What's up with Picasa [for the mac]!", chatted about a "I Love +levetica” t-shirt with it’s wearer [who seemed irritated with my views and expounds], washed the glasses, packed away the food delivery, sat on the bike that does not move, cooked dinner, called the company I used to work for, removed sold items from my craigslist account, sat in the nice coffee shop with a coffee and trimmed my beard.]]> Thu, 08 Jan 2009 22:46:22 -0800 listing-badly http://www.joywebsight.com/dudeisaid.shtml#chill

The ferry returned to the port it had departed from.

The noise of the passengers has increased as they rose their voices between each other.

Paramedics have come on board, two teams of two. Someone said a heart attack. I am sitting in line of sight to the exit, we have been docked for a while, the paramedics have rolled the fallen man through the doors, to a more complex medical establishment than the Pacific Grill.

There has been an announcement that there is vacuum problems with the aft wash rooms.

The gang plank has been retracted and almost all of us, are once again, moving towards the destination printed on our boarding passes.

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.

Uncanny Sights

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.

Later... from Wikipedia

Cuisine

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/thesedays.shtml#hot 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/thesedays.shtml#dude ]]> Thu, 31 Jul 2008 16:52:55 -0700 there-is http://www.joywebsight.com/thesedays.shtml#rebeca In 2001 I was living in Mexico City where I‘d relocated from New York in order to direct La Panadería, an iconic artist-run space that had enjoyed a great deal of attention in the mid the 90s during one of the many cyclical booms of Mexican art that, for over a decade, has guaranteed this city both a steady flow of visiting international artists and curators and a receptive audience for its artists abroad. The Mexican art scene, as promised, proved to be dynamic, cosmopolitan, and at times unbearably polarized, and was set against the backdrop of a country whose sense of cultural identity was sufficiently complex and contradictory to problematize the kind of regionalist agendas that seem to be inevitable outside of the major art centers. However, as an academically trained female curator working in a masculinist, socially exclusionary (i.e. cliquey), and somewhat anti-intellectual institution that deemed itself irreverent and countercultural (but had in fact become quite stagnant prior to my arrival), my tenure was constantly plagued not only by the conflicting interests of certain founding members of the space, but by the nagging feeling that I could take what I‘d learned and do a little better elsewhere.

So I began Espacio La Rebeca in Bogotá in August 2002, partially in response to this experience, as a critique of La Panadería‘s deficiencies but also a recognition of what it had positively contributed to the history of institutional critique in Mexico, and the necessity of developing such a critique in the context of Colombia where the figure of the institution (an anachronistic and conservative one at that) has historically been, and continues to be, so dominant. Named for a public fountain in downtown Bogotá that had once been situated in an elegant park but was then banished to a dead, neglected space created by the construction of a major avenue (calle 26) in one of the city‘s many precarious attempts at modernisation, La Rebeca was a project committed to intellectual and organizational rigor, sustainability and economic transparency, and in conceptual terms, the establishment of an international network of diverse, critically engaged artists and writers that ultimately sought to work against the idea of defining communities exclusively in geographical or nationalistic terms. Contrary to the conventional and uninteresting model of privileging the idea of the local, as a means not of preserving micro-histories but more as a strategy of achieving international visibility at the expense of complex readings (i.e. creating the next hot spot on the map),

I preferred to adhere to the very common sense idea (derivative perhaps of my upbringing as the daughter of adamantly unassimilated French/Colombian parents in a small, provincial Southern American town in addition to an academic formation in postcolonial theory) that the fortification of a local scene is absolutely dependent on opening that scene up to divergent practices, histories, and points of view. How can we ever understand who we are or what we do without being challenged by difference? For a little under three years, La Rebeca hosted monthly exhibitions divided equally between Colombian and non-Colombian artists most of whom produced new work or initiated new projects for the space. Operational, production, and travel costs were funded by grants acquired exclusively from abroad (international organizations like AVINA, in conjunction with Daros—Latin America, and the Daniel Langlois Foundation), and this was intentional both as a way of promoting the idea of redistributing global wealth but also as a means to avoid the inefficient and elitist character of local, primarily governmental, sources. Exhibitors who passed through the space‘s doors came from many different circuits in different cities like Santiago, New York, Caracas, Mexico, and Bogotá—reflecting my own nomadic trajectory as a curator and perhaps more importantly as a person without roots or an attachment to any one particular place. Artists ranged from not so visible figures working outside of major institutions or commercial networks to others who were beginning to be or were already quite established in Colombia and/or internationally. It is a myth that as an ’alternative‘ space, La Rebeca was necessarily interested in promoting so-called ’emerging‘ artists; this is just part of a huge cliché and expectation imposed on independent or non-institutional spaces to act as filters for institutions. It was never my mission to actively seek out ‘new talents’ (the very idea is so loaded in so many negative ways and the very term ‘emerging’ should immediately be banished from any serious discussion); in fact I primarily worked with artists of my own generation (early-mid 30s) most of whom were already well established in their interests and practices.

As in any other exhibition space, some shows were better than others, although I‘ve never been one to measure an exhibition‘s success strictly based on the public‘s reception—and it‘s the intensely social aspect of curating that ultimately led me to abandon it, as it often feels too much like a popularity contest based on simple formulas. Enough years have gone by for me to unapologetically comment on a few of those exhibitions that were most memorable to me. First, Sharon Hayes‘ SLA screeds, a performance/video work based on an important piece of the history of political resistance in the United States—the Patty Hearst kidnapping—which, not unproblematically for a complete, contextualized reading of the work, struck a local chord because of Ingrid Betancourt. Then there was Gabriel Sierra‘s amorpho, a super simple, austere showing of conceptually sophisticated objects based on the artist‘s particular interest in a critical, deconstructive practice of industrial design appropriate to an economically precarious context. And finally, Phil Collins‘ el mundo no escuchará: not just because of how that piece so deftly negotiated the slippery terrains of emotional and critical engagement or the magnitude of what it would eventually become, but because, quite simply, those two months of production were some of the happiest in recent memory. In early 2005, my already growing desire to leave the space and to move on to something else (that implied leaving the country) was hastened by the arrival of the ’reinsertion‘ program to Teusaquillo, the neighborhood to which I had relocated La Rebeca the previous year, in a desire for a better space removed from the official art ghetto (La Macarena). An ill-conceived program to socially and economically reintegrate ex-guerilla and paramilitary soldiers who had voluntarily surrendered to the State, this short-lived initiative transformed a previously idyllic neighborhood into one that was tense and, at times, unbearable. It makes me uncomfortable to even write about this because it sounds like (and probably is) a scenario of betrayal (and the failure of many people in Colombia to talk about why I chose that particular moment to close the space is testimony to this silent accusation): had I had a thicker skin or actually grown up in Colombia I would have been far more indifferent to this sort of situation. But the flip side is that then I never would have started the space to begin with.

And in fact, I‘m directing my conclusion of this story to my international readers (conscious of the fact that this publication is meant to reach an international audience) to show how frivolous art can somehow seem in certain contexts which, in turn, necessitates a real commitment to a critical (not heroic or romanticized) and contextualized practice above and beyond the careerism and commercialization of that practice or the naïve idea that art is a cause to be defended. In the end this situation provided a good pretext for La Rebeca to close its doors just in time to avoid becoming redundant or boring, stagnant or institutionalized—its absence seemingly creating just enough nostalgia to contribute to the creation of initiatives like El Bodegón (as Victor Albarracín has generously claimed in another text on this subject). Whether or not the space was successful in its ambitions is not my place to say. For me, at least, its memory is overwhelmingly positive.

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

Then I wish to have made for me. By the finest craftspersons, a pair of shoes; one that resembles a large American car and another that resembles a green van.

These shoes will have small car stereos built in their tiny dash boards.

The stereos will be playing the same song the teen was listening to as the car approached and struck him.

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.

Country cats have sorted out the mice who will occupy their stomachs and the birds who will lose flight in the context of the wild, humans may provide a supplement to this inventory and offer a minor interruption to this context.

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.

Please get on this as soon as you can.

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!"

*
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.

This act of removing is the greatest transgression possible. Societies which grant their judiciary, government or bureaucracy the ability to kill, is according to their actions, killers. This of course taint the institutions which have directed those crimes and provide poor guidance to people who surround these institutions and fall within their shadow.

This has often been noted. This is just a reminder.

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

*
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://www.joywebsight.com/movies.shtml Docking.
]]> Thu, 21 Feb 2008 20:21:32 -0800 movies-mmvii-docking http://joywebsight.com/2008-1/thepast.shtml#miki

Miki

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

Be present for songs

*
Febuary 19th 2008

Dumb and Dumber

Hey its hailing!

(01:32:57 PM) Michele: cool

seasonal affect disorder

the sky exhausted of light, our bodies evacuate the desire to continue living.
this desire demands light in exchange for its presence.
this desire screams to recline into the warmth and glow of the yellow hell, burning so far away that the smell of charred atoms is missing.
this fugitive betrays self preservation, creating the unpreserved, unpasteurised vacuum.

christmas, sodium bisulfate.