17 year old secluded + closeted teen in suburban Telford. The Smell Of Our Own by The Hidden Cameras: frank, homoerotic lyrics paired with ornate choral arrangements (meandering viola, vaporous organ). It smelt (still smells) musty to me: like dried bodily fluids in a Thoreau wood cabin, nesting under a clear blue sky. Tied to a burgeoning and unrealised desire, the songs have stuck to my psyche like crumpled-up tissues trampled underfoot ever since.
Returning to these songs on the 09:38 Virgin Pendelino from Liverpool Lime Street to London Euston, seat A02 in the QUIET COACH, experiencing full acceptance of the body and a sensuality that extends beyond the urban self, which moved (still moves) via Oyster Card from A+B in search of instant, Pret-A-Manger style gratification. Off-the-shelf. I have taken myself off the shelf. Or become ‘sadly circumscribed’ as one supposedly liberated man put it this week.
Anyway, sense of release and renewal despite / or because it is nearly the welcome death of another year. Slightly fewer, less-immediate and dispersed work commitments plus quite a bit more funding so less ARSEtistically constipated. And with it, space to consider how things could be done better. Namely: the muscles moving, epidermis gilded w/ sweat, saliva + fresh non-capital air, someone’s teeth clamped round scruff o’ the neck.
I read this really lovely and fascinating interview with AA Bronson, formerly of General Idea, on butt massages. The more I read and research this topic, and a lot of it seems to be falling in my lap, the less…uhh, outside of everything I feel. The ass: site of squirreled-away-shame and untapped power. The gluten, strongest muscles of the body, foundation of civilisation. Stand up bent.
Also, was nice chat last night with a producer on the rooster-tail butt plug: male flamboyance and display. Keep with it. Should really have a chat with Wellcome at some point.
Liverpool because I was up for work. Saw we hold where study by Wu Tsang, a hypnotically circular and evasive video choreographic work where the drone becomes an active participant (observer, surveillance, predator), and two different projection frames overlap so the work shifts through synchronicity and dissonance. Something inherently sad and anxious in the work, these two couples unable to rest or escape, to travel and commune between worlds, their race and gender expressions foregrounded. Wish I had a copy to keep.