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  • Akademie ghost

Morning, and you dug about loudly in the heavily screwed-up tin-foil pouch, fingering its contents, but still not finding the crusty balls of bread into which you had needled hot jam a few days before. You often tried to recreate doughnuts, didn’t you, you moron. Since they had withdrawn funding for the field it had become increasingly difficult to secure any meaningful support for activities which could not be defined, and you dined out on this for months, enjoying the way it made your mouth feel, each ulcer ticking and clicking, singing like a gathering of barnacles on an exposed rock in the mind of Lewis Carroll. You thought the morning had come to soon, that, like bad bread, the sun had risen too quickly and therefore the day would be close and congealed, undercooked in the centre, hard and crusted at each end and with a not so desirable crumb or flake. You gathered your thoughts and thickly glooped into the day like a wrong onion, bruised and layered. The sheen of the igneous outcrop had conjured a real aroma overnight, of wet slapped fart of cold bisto, the sheen had lustred into a golden grey, goose fat sort of scab and although sufficiently hooked, you wondered if this savoury slime was hindering progress. You schemed to spit wads of tod from your mouth to water down the over thickened gravy. As you heaved your distended abdomen like it was a modernist sculpture trying to breath its first breath, you noticed a small opening in the sandstone around your knee. Not nostril so much as a whole from an old piercing which had once housed a daring spacer disk, removed at the joyous offer of a menial job, stripped of any sheen so as to become grey and unwanted. Your mind poached in a vinegared academia, could not fathom the unexplained stones on the beach, you’d have liked to remove them all and see what was truly the beach underneath, but this noose slinging had to take priority over all other explication projects. You had boiled two eggs this morning, suspended 30 feet in the air and you dropped a drip of boiling water on some foliage below which had scalded a patterned, proto-language into a large leaf. The Milton steriliser tablet which you had used to un-gravy the slick water to boil eggs, gave you a very sudden idea, like a smack on the forehead with an unsliced slab of cold-cut. You remembered that guy who wandered onto a train carriage and shouted; ‘everybody look forward to the Krismus, your cooked meats etc etc?’. Then you slathered more rope oil onto the noose and turned to slinging again.

  • Akademie ghost

Before it all ended up like this, I was a labourer, an art handler to be precise, which looking back, seems less absurd now than it did then. My belief in the potential of art to change anything had waned seriously and I had turned back to music. I couldn’t find an overview of art that wasn’t in some way over-inflated, upsold, exaggerated, most of the good stuff existed in bubbles of ever decreasing size as the universities churned out heavily indebted students obsessed with the conservative arts, and watered down any chance of real cut and thrust. I found the implications of the art market too painful to contemplate and so I started to ignore anything made on a large budget. As an art handler I would regularly visit the houses of the extremely wealthy and discover works which formed the joys of my youth. Now sad, hostages to a world they were never intended for, shut away, muzzled, silenced. My biggest disappointment was that some of my favourite artist were implicated in this stale and seedy uroboros. Extraordinary works of great capacity for political and social change, hung as status symbols by people who would never, ever experience the conditions which led to their production. These palatial abodes took on the feel of great hunting lodges, the heads of previously wild artworks, decapitated and hung on the walls like trophies. It always struck me how, like wild animals, if the only traces of artistic wilderness were to be found on the walls of the rich then they were simultaneously removed from the public realm, depriving the poor of culture. A doubled castration. My wealthy clients often employed art consultants, I always thought these people were like taxidermists or whatever you call the people you employ to behead and mount your kill after the big hunt. Very often I felt I could actually smell blood in these art mega-mansions. The level of uncertainty amongst the wealthy art owners, was always remarkable, they often behaved like a child receiving a present; ‘Oh, I love it, thank you so much, just what I wanted….what is it?’. Their lack of understanding for even the physical capabilities of those who assisted in their wonderful adventures was the most astonishing thing. I was once asked to hold a large work up on a wall above a staircase so the client could see how they felt about how it looked. Run of the mill stuff, however this work consisted of 16 large individual frames which I had laid out on the floor. I explained the problems with the request but was met with a strange disbelief which I thought verged on madness. ‘So your saying you can’t hold it up for me?....I need to see it before I decide…’. I was perplexed by the reaction and at first wondered if my relative lack of experience had led me to miss something, I racked my brains but just could not think of a way to do it. On the way home that day a few things started to make more sense to me. This extremely wealthy client had immediately requested their private jet to be readied as soon as we had finished, needing to get to Milan as soon as possible. There was a universe to which this person belonged, where anything is possible, literally anything and it was not regular to have to think about the individual physical limits of those lubricating life for you. How many hands and arms a servant has, is not something they want to have to think about, after all they are paying, whatever they want to happen is the thing that should happen and the idea of human physical limits is an inconvenience which had clearly been forgotten many years ago.

  • Akademie ghost

You threw the noose over a rugged hook of igneous rock, protruding about 10 feet up and slick on the underside where the curdled water, like gone off gravy, had gathered all the local bacteria. You, you, you. Yes, you might not have meant to arrive at this outpost, far as it was from your usual routes, you are a linguistic gooseberry, seeping thick sticky into the world you think up. You let language guide you, and the paths become well-trod, least resistance etc. Your steps like words, you move like a sentence and even catch yourself at times marvelling in the accumulation into paragraphs, essays and novels. The erotica of time collected and banked, no seepages, no spillages, just viscous liquid time drip-dripping directly into your swelling libido. The first few times the noose never stuck, you kept trying, frustrated though you were, didn’t you. Sucking on those gross bonbons of lemon sherbet, strawberry daiquiri and toffee. Toffee was your favourite right? Chomp, slap, slicky, licky-suck, hoovering up the excess saliva so it filtered through the E numbers and became a toffee flavoured gob, which you swallowed in delight, aloud and with no inhibitions. Glibbering down the phone, you polished harsh instructions all greased with that fine saliva, more from the front of the mouth, something about fixings and claddings. Coddled clod of eggy earth you had smeared above your brow line in 3 small vertical strips and one from left cheek across nose-bridge to right cheek, like a lead singer, which you are not and will not ever be. This for what purpose, to make your activity seem more ritual than crime? Like high-vis for doing undercover, unofficial interloper billboard changes from car ad to giant image of your own anus, like you did in 1995. Without getting caught because, well high-vis, so.

As you took another attempt to sling the noose, you had an idea, slip down that crevice there and find a sheen of smarmy mud, pick it out of the flayed sandstone nostril below and rub it with old Murdoch rags until all gloopy, not gleaming but heavy matt and then add a wad to the noose end for extra ballast to be removed at the next convenient moment. You couldn’t remember the name for what you were about to do, the process, so you didn’t do it, fearing the unnameable as though it was godless. Anyway, your harness had become sticky and gunked, the central carabiner jammed up from the splashback of that sap you had tapped earlier, thinking it was maple syrup you could’ve used. So the most pressing task first, you thought, like you don’t start from the middle of a sentence or novel, do you? Yes the most pressing task became the smeared harness, those cleats in the sandstone bits would need relocating and that would mean a total repositioning of most of the apparatus. You quelled your grave hunger by poking the last two iced buns into your ulcerated mouth, chewing carefully. Then you went about fixing the problem, first you removed the sticky bits with a wet wipe, discarding each wet wipe as it became too full of the honeyed material, as you idled through the task your mind wandered, you imagined a language consisting only of adjectives. All the gear cleared of blockages, you used the sandstone forearm as a place to clip in for the night and set up your suspended bed using those un-stickied, freshly screwed-on cleats. You were fearful of going back to ground level, the bog had a proper stink which you feared would turn your mind into salt marsh lamb, anyway you hated the idea of your big toe squeezing an ooze of black smug mud between your other toes and necessitating another deep clean of the lingo-less crap from about your operation. That and the nodes of formless matter whose vibrations sent you loopy. So it was for the night you paused the noose slinging and gathered milky strength from the moonlight.

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