The glory of the living
Jam looking for a form containing forms; forms with very little form... forms in which writing would become a free act despite the inescapable constraint of submitting to the desire to express, to explore who we are.
In short, the best we can hope for in the face of morbidity in behaviour and life choices.
Artists really do make up a breed of misery that I loathe. Worse still, the art lover: the idiot ends up in a pure state...
Courage is a taboo, and everyone has their own way of convincing themselves that they are not completely devoid of it.
"Please find my wife, but don't call my parents..." Driving the wrong way in search of vehicle collisions, crumpled metal sheets and regain the memory of his atoms.
It's not a question of being in good terms with anyone who doesn't want to be, nor of "making society", yuck once and for all! It's about deserving one's supposed brain capacities as an evolved individual. There is a price to be paid for becoming human: not just being.
A consciousness and a body: nudity and performance under the sun. Eight workshop sessions devoted to the body exhibited through performance.
Exchange is not a process that is satisfied with surface usability. Its chances of happening are as fragile as the desire that gives rise to it.
A little brutality in this world of poetry. No kidding. You don't really think I want to meet humans, do you? You're not my face. You're not my project.
Playing true means confronting the simplicity of being, the banal nature of bodies and desires, the ferocity of our nature and finally having fun with it.
Even and especially when it is touched by love, the couple is a matter of non-desire. This love becomes a repulsive thing.
Opting for art is choosing to live under the totalitarian hold of a submissive god; one whose reign comes by absorption of whoever dominates him.
