the hesq news desk.,

imitations of life # 2 : forest gump says...

2009-01-13T17:03:00.001-08:00

"Sometimes, I guess there just aren't enough rocks..."

(forest says of jenny throwing stones at her abusing father's house)

imitations of life # 1 : who are you...

2009-01-13T07:31:00.001-08:00

Imitations of Life : Modern Humans imitating the media/Tv/glossy mags which imitate an imaginary world of human life - air-brushed and censored to suit the social and political climate - which in turn is loosely based on Actual human Life based in the Spectacular. The resulting situation is one where life imitates an imitation of Life...

So Who exactly do You think You are? Forest Gump?

girl in gaza...

2009-01-07T07:11:00.000-08:00

by now most of the words that can be said have been said, most of the hopes that can be hoped have been hoped, most of the motives seem to be known and most of the perpetrators are clear to see - on both sides... and so nothing remains then but a vacuum, a black hole into which we sling our phrases and actions again and again; but not quite for there are people in that vacuum, living feeling hoping dreams to grow up and be a doctor or a teacher or a musician or a fireman or a clown, or just to grow up and live yes live in some kind of unimagined yet life and who owns what land which god said what to who really doesn't figure all that much in the mind of a ten year old as the flash of bomb or shell or mortar explodes and in that last blind white light moment its scared and pain she feels.
*
*
*
stop the bombs.

marks of the stigmata # 1.

2009-01-05T05:14:00.001-08:00

Is the Anorexic not the true Ascetic of competitive capitalism ?

Like the ascetics of the Ganges who wander naked ?

Unconscious insane Acts of penance to remind the rest of their guilt and complicity.

a sad memory...

2009-01-04T16:32:00.000-08:00

this note was written in 2007, presumably so that i'd come back to it - a strange contextless message in a bottle written from a past self to a future self, it does still resonate though :

"late last night (19th may) a speeding police car hit and killed a 16 year old girl on the street. the car was driving without lights late at night. in the ensuing dispute a taser gun was used and a male arrested..."

The Smoker in the 21st Century...

2009-01-04T15:49:00.001-08:00

"You're like lepars to me" were the first words that my new boss greeted me with after first inquiring as to whether or not I smoked cigarettes. "I'm sorry.?" i asked quite stunned at this out burst of bile. "You, you smokers..." he said simply waving his hand judiciously as if the subject were now closed. "Here's your room" he said showing me into the small room, "you can smoke but i'd rather that you didn't, it would make me happy you know..."

I closed the door, sat down on the old office chair with the stuffing coming out at the broken seams, opened a by now warm can of cider and lit a cigarette.

In the 21st Century the smoker has become an accepted target of random abuse even by strangers. This being caused by the terrible secondary smoke representing an absolutely irresponsible attitude towards ones fellow man (even if they consider you a lepar..) and disregard even for ones own health : all in all filthy ashtrays of people who cough and weeze their way to an early grave.

Ah, and that grotesque pleasure that a non-smoker can take in telling a smoker how they are sure to die early and in great pain... how reassuring, the old electric shock therapy, the unpitying rod to save the child... or else a channel for that frustrated impotency of non-doing.

The sad irony is that many of these anti-smokers do not seem fully happy or self aware unless they are in the actual process of berating a smoker, and will sit moodily sulking while other employees take a cigarette break complaining of how they work an extra five minutes each day... so even their treasured and massively longer life span isn't enough?

Well, I mused to myself as i sat smoking that first cigarette in the beat up old hotel room, I could always comfort myself with the thought that non-smokers die every day...

Sweet dreams.

The Illusion and Reality of Scarcity... third mall from the sun...

2009-01-04T15:42:00.001-08:00

Promoting the concept and reality of scarcity to create a frenzied environment within which the actions of the consumer become more and more like the reflex movements of animals in the wild through which the human is assimilated into the overwhelming commercial environment.

An environment which increasingly plays on the deep rooted age old tendancies that have their origins in the pre-historic swamps. Humans being reduced to the level of algae seeking sunlight.

The death of art.

Messages in Bottles.

2009-01-03T16:13:00.001-08:00

Messages in Bottles : the North Lakes.

The north lakes are blessed with numerous rivers and tributaries. These criss-cross their way down from the heights to join the larger rivers and eventually find their way to the sea.
By the time I left the North Lakes I was injecting into these rivers two messages in bottles per day.
One of these messages varied each day and was housed traditionally in an empty wine bottle. Sometimes it would be a simple message “greatness is from within for without” or “a bullet can silence a man but even a whole army cannot silence an idea”. These were sent with the specific hope that the receiver of the message would consider their meaning.
Other times a news paper cutting would be sent, sometimes a sketch, sometimes a betting slip for a random horse that had yet to run…

Of course by the end, each day as well as these more traditional messages I also sent the mandatory samples of urine.

At first these were collected in moments of laziness when the toilet seemed too far away and would thus force the use of any bottle that came to hand. In the early stages these were not even sent out into the world but simply emptied out of the window into the central courtyard of the hotel; and I’d amuse myself with the various prospects of this 17th century behaviour.
However eventually a sense of social responsibility kicked in and it became apparent that I had to overcome this laziness and instead of wasting these valuable piss filled bottles I had to put them to a truly good use – some kind of use that could maybe one day benefit the entire of the future mankind.
And so it was then that the traditional messages were joined each day by another bottle that contained a sample of my own urine – collected in plastic bottles and only half filled to maintain buoyancy.
Being plastic the bottles would not degrade in the natural world for many hundreds of years and in that urine would be recorded the DNA of a far sighted 21st century citizen. In the future these bottles might provide an invaluable link to the past. Through the water systems these bottles would be carried far and wide (and very efficiently given that no extra energy would be required to take them on their long journeys).

But what is that the future will require from us? Mere samples? Evidence of our existence? Records of our routines?

I do not pretend to know the answer but what I offered the future was simple. I offered the future my own unique excrement and so let them make of it what they will.

May god speed you sweet samples.

2009-01-01T16:14:00.000-08:00

And so while some raved
half mad tearing and biting
at their own brains
to find out some answers to the questions
they'd scrawled lewdly on their own walls
others would flip through
bright coloured magazines
in hair and beauty salons
mesmerized by the
turnip-urined gossip
of anorexic cunts
and plastic dripping models
And yet by some strange quirk of
our magic universe they both could
find a perfect calm
from the storm outside...

2009-01-01T06:48:00.000-08:00

The London Press.,

2009-01-01T05:25:00.000-08:00

London never sleeps, or at least it sleeps in shifts so you can always find some part awake, thriving or busy dying, somewhere it is still eye-balling something, like cement that will never dry the city soaks us all up into its damp dusty hold, swallowing us into its digestional tracts - the underground, those wriggling channels of people, swarming about with numb worried faces, sometimes curious but then only for an instant and like a light that goes out we arrive at another station, another organ in the belly of this horrible machine; and the true bile of this place is the newspapers handed out for free – simply adverts and various articles of plastic propaganda that tell the city what to think of the war of politicians what to buy when to do it and most importantly of celebrities – at the entrance and exit of stations, given you by people dressed in the bright garish colours of the paper they hand out, “Lite” with its street people dressed in luminous yellow trousers and coats, “London Paper” with its street people dressed in bright purple attires, and the papers blow about like tumble weed in the underground, swept up by the under pull of the carriage and they swirl up into the dust thick air, the puss press that floats about the consciousness of this swarming mass of people, the name “Lite”, not LIGHT, but LITE…perfect for out lite generation, thin on the ground, papers that reflect the people it reflects, a generation half obsessed and half starved by their own guilt, lite, diet pepsi, diet coke, diet organic carrots and organic ham and I feel sick and vomit heavily in the carriage of the underground train, and coughing on chunks of a mcdonalds’ hamburger that I had found on a seat before I boarded the train I assure the faceless bones of protest that yes, this is organic…and in the never distant back ground its that old whine of steel on steel as the train rockets down the tunnel unknowingly…

hesq.