Caballero Sospechoso

ROKKERENNA

2012-02-20T08:46:00.001Z

The Dispatcher 1st Page

2012-01-17T12:46:00.001Z

Meet the Neighbours (Unfinished)

2012-01-14T15:56:00.001Z

The Rebel of Elephant & Castle

2012-01-14T13:13:00.001Z

Eagle

2012-01-04T15:17:00.001Z

Eye

2012-01-04T15:16:00.001Z

Italy

2012-01-04T12:56:00.001Z

Eliza

2012-01-04T12:53:00.001Z

Bird Nests

2012-01-04T12:52:00.001Z

Sausage Face

2012-01-04T12:50:00.003Z

Two Men

2012-01-04T12:50:00.001Z

French Horn Player

2012-01-04T12:49:00.001Z

CUBA (2004)

2012-01-04T00:31:00.000Z

Swimming (2010)

2012-01-02T22:35:00.000Z

Oil and Enamel on Paper, A2, 2010

2012-01-02T21:02:00.000Z

A commission for A + P, 2008.

News Goldberg

2011-12-21T15:44:00.000Z

Written and Produced by
Tom Williams

Designed and Built by
Tom Williams
Phillip Osborne
Matt Lacey

Directed by
Tom Williams
Phillip Osborne

www.finitefunnies.com

Scottie

2011-11-05T23:29:00.000Z

Send Us A Postcard

2011-10-19T10:48:00.001+01:00

A commission for Rob Lomax (2011)

Witchfinder (2011)

2011-07-20T14:16:00.000+01:00

A film by Damian James Le Bas and Phillip Osborne
Witchfinder - Mike Rogers
Design and styling - Delaine Le Bas
Soundtrack by ERH, Klankbeeld, Section 13 (Rinkfern/Grimes)

Commissioned by Latitude Contemporary Art for Latitude Festival, 2011
as part of installation 'The World Turned Upside Down in the Cathedral of Erotic Misery (after Kurt Schwitters) by Delaine Le Bas

Chanctonbury Ravens

2011-04-28T11:01:00.001+01:00

A Film by Delaine Le Bas

Woman - Delaine Le Bas

Man - Mike Rogers

Flower Lady - Yvonne Rogers

Edited by Phillip Osborne and Damian Le Bas Jnr.

Shot by Damian Le Bas

Made with the assistance of the Arts Council and the Lottery.

Selma: A Quiet Heart In The Night Time

2011-04-28T10:58:00.001+01:00

A Film by Tara Darby

Edited by Phillip Osborne & Damian Le Bas

Sound by JM Lapham

Colour by Touch Digital

Special thanks to:

Frederick Douglas Reese
Robert Gordon
David Hurlbut
Bill Torney
Annette Jones and the staff at St. James Hotel
JM Lapham
The residents of Selma, Alabama

2011-02-28T10:27:00.000Z

Recount an event on a London Bus, 21/02/11:

I notice a balding man move from sitting in front of my friend. He looks agitated by what my mate it talking about. A while later, we go downstairs and await our stop.

He turns to me and asks me:

"If I were to say to you, where were you when William the Conqueror came to England at the battle of Hastings, what would you say?"

"I wasn't alive then"

"OK, well, what are you?"

"A human"

"No, What are you? Where do you come from? Who are your people?"

"Here, I don't know."

"No, if I were to ask you, where you were at the battle of Waterloo, where would you have been?"

"I wasn't alive then"

"Your people! You don't know?"

"I don't know, and I'm not sure how I am supposed to know either."

"Well, you're not very clever then are you!"

One Step Forward - Two Steps Backward

2010-07-04T13:31:00.000+01:00

Everyone's rushing towards the same fate.

Jesus & the Great Bear

2010-06-14T16:24:00.000+01:00

Jesus being shown a photograph of the Annunciation by the Great Bear before entering the dessert

Kitty Kat Anti-Nuclear War Memorial

2010-06-09T23:20:00.000+01:00

UNFINISHED

The Best of Both Worlds

2010-06-09T14:59:00.000+01:00

The Baseball cap that the headpiece is attached to is not pictured. But it will be later ya'll.

Half The Illusion Of A Landscape; Half The Reflection Of An Illusion

2010-06-09T14:12:00.000+01:00

Do You Know The Way To St Juan - Exhibition

2010-03-15T14:42:00.000Z

Birds scratching at the seed of life

2010-01-28T16:16:00.000Z

Rain

2010-01-28T16:13:00.000Z

Cirque Du Square (Innit)

2010-01-28T16:03:00.000Z

cosmofique

2010-01-28T15:51:00.000Z

universe2

2010-01-28T15:45:00.000Z

Circle Minus Moon

2010-01-28T15:20:00.000Z

Film Commission

2010-01-21T20:49:00.000Z

Regicide

2010-01-21T20:48:00.001Z

Ko o foro zhas, Romani puv

2009-09-28T16:46:00.000+01:00

Heathcliffe

2009-09-28T16:45:00.001+01:00

LA - Car Shots

2009-05-18T09:06:00.001+01:00

I Bet You A Dollar, Love Tickles Like Magic

2009-04-22T22:56:00.000+01:00

Swan 1#

2009-04-22T22:52:00.000+01:00

Eagle 1#

2009-04-22T22:51:00.001+01:00

Anna's Shoes

2009-04-22T22:16:00.000+01:00

The Cobbler

2009-01-23T19:50:00.000Z

Finished Article: Squarky Marlow On A Barrier Pass

2009-01-23T19:32:00.000Z

Sketchbook 5

2008-11-06T15:48:00.000Z

Squarky Marlow On A Barrier Pass

2008-11-06T15:01:00.000Z

Car Boot Snaps

2008-10-28T13:20:00.001Z

He Sold His Soul To The Devil

2008-10-27T19:57:00.000Z

Nanna's Photo-Album

2008-10-23T14:27:00.000+01:00

Junior Skool Drawings

2008-10-21T20:53:00.000+01:00

Vantage Points

2008-09-30T14:22:00.000+01:00

Pons Postacarda

2008-09-30T14:19:00.000+01:00

Copywrite: Ian Pons Jewel

Pan Book Covers

2008-09-30T14:09:00.001+01:00

Space Horse

2008-09-22T15:37:00.000+01:00

My Grandad & His Guitar

2008-09-12T14:52:00.000+01:00

New and Unfinished Drawings

2008-09-12T14:31:00.000+01:00

A dream

2008-08-18T23:31:00.000+01:00

One of my hopes is to amass all the diamonds in the world and gel them together to form a luxurious cliff. Hunters will pay to shoot diamond bullets at the wall, and the light shards shall fall onto a quilt of snug guzzlers, cut by wealth.

The better the shot, the more death is distributed equally.

GREEN GRASS OFFICIAL VIDEO - CIBELLE

2008-08-18T22:48:00.001+01:00

Interesting animation

Quotes I am Digging

2008-08-11T13:06:00.000+01:00

Paper is poverty...

It is only the ghost of money,

and not money itself.

Thomas Jefferson

In a time of deceit,

telling the truth is a revolutionary act.

George Orwell

I am a most unhappy man.

I have unwittingly ruined my country.

A great industrial nation is now controlled

by its system of credit.

We are no longer a governement of conviction,

no longer a government by free opinion,

but a government by the opinion and duress

of a small group of dominant men.

Woodrow Wilson

Eastwood Sines Bath

2008-07-28T16:24:00.000+01:00

Isaac Albeniz, speaking about his "Middle Works"

2008-07-15T20:06:00.000+01:00

“there are among them a few things that are not completely worthless. The music is a bit infantile, plain, spirited; but in the end, the people, our Spanish people, are something of all that. I believe that the people are right when they continue to be moved by Cordoba, Mallorca, by the copla of the Sevillanas, by the Serenata, and Granada. In all of them I now note that there is less musical science, less of the grand idea, but more color, sunlight, flavor of olives. That music of youth, with its little sins and absurdities that almost point out the sentimental affectation…appears to me like the carvings in the Alhambra, those peculiar arabesques that sway nothing with their turns and shapes, but which are like the air, like the sun, like the blackbirds or like the nightingales of its gardens. They are more valuable than all else of Moorish Spain, which though we may not like it, it the true Spain.”

Two Local Grape Lines

2008-07-15T13:20:00.000+01:00

2008-07-10T09:37:00.000+01:00

Broke Business Two Years Back

2008-07-09T22:48:00.000+01:00

2008-07-09T21:59:00.000+01:00

A painting from my 2nd year on the pillar of our lickle den.

School Days

2008-07-09T21:37:00.001+01:00

Atahualpa Yupanqui - El poeta

2008-05-28T20:21:00.001+01:00

Para mi hermano, un otro poeta que ilumina la verdad...

First Scene of a film that shall lead to, possibly, the dopest miracle ever...

2008-05-28T20:15:00.000+01:00

Scene I

The opening shot is a distant look at a field from its fenced boundary. A corner of the field is walled with a forest where three white caravans are parked, two are adjacent to each other and the third is parked about 10 metres away. The early morning light is white and soft against the frost erupting from trees and grass, and the sky is a sharp ascent of white, grey and blue.

The camera has moved closer and stares at the three caravans in shot. The wall of trees begin to assume their authority and tower over the small, portable houses. The long grass looses its brilliant glow and becomes diagonal shards of golden thread. It is clear that the scene has been left and remains lifeless, animated only by the silent wheeze of the wind. The remnants are left to indulge in their natural struggle for power. Even the lifeless bodies slumped in chairs or lying next to a dwindling fire are the mark of jetsam left in the wake of an overnight feud. Their bodies are the proof of a looser. The blood on their clothes is rich and solidified, and their expressions are gaunt, helpless and unfulfilled.

The camera begins to examine three male bodies.

A cinematic investigation of what’s left as opposed to the cause. Destruction that can only be characterised by a silent, observant demeanour. The camera closes in on the three men: Still shots of their faces and necks; their hands; and then their pockets. The three men are without jewellery and gold; even though the fingers tell a different tale with the pale shiny bands of bleached skin that orbit the digits.

The camera reveals the fact that loot has vanished from the scene, and objects taken.

The scene is eerie, like an intrusion, coupled with the fact that culpability is an ominous reality faced by anyone that chances upon a crime scene where there is no witness. The inside of one of the trailers confirms the horror of the past night. A man lies contorted on the bed, arms flayed, and his body has been treated like a canvas for anger and fear. The same kind of fear could convince the camera that the dead man was only sleeping, lying in wait to attack under the morbid guise of expiring flesh.

The camera has seen enough of violent dashes and seeks out clues of life before last night. It glances at the interior of the trailer where food, a cracked light and ornaments adorn the trashed space. There are objects that huddle like penguins, shrines to the Family, God and trade. The most notable decorations are the spread of photographs and the faces of those pictured. The generations differ in size and fashion. In a large mirror frame, (composed of mirrored sword shards in an oval shape, almost like a halo) the face of a young lady is smiling, staring into a space once loved now destroyed. This image is to be a reminder of the lady who left herself behind.

Scene II

The next scene begins by introducing the landscape as a cinematic poem, much like credit sequences in other movies.

Il Palio

2008-05-14T00:12:00.000+01:00

Where Does Heathrow Go? 2004

2008-04-21T17:08:00.000+01:00

The Map from my First Year Installation. It shows all of the flights in one day, with the space inside the longitude and latitude housing the Airline's insignia. The Letraset ran out whilst i was marking the Airport initials.

Cuba - Tobacco Country, Animals, Odd Tourist Art and Rooftops

2008-04-21T16:04:00.000+01:00

Photographs - London, School and Around

2008-04-19T19:22:00.000+01:00

Italy 2003

2008-04-19T16:49:00.001+01:00

Render Your Hearts and Not Your Garments

2008-04-19T11:36:00.000+01:00

Sunrise

2008-04-16T01:56:00.001+01:00

Willie Wright - Right On For The Darkness

2008-04-16T01:55:00.003+01:00

Eagle Chariot

2008-04-16T01:55:00.001+01:00

Shapes on a Plane

2008-04-14T16:23:00.000+01:00

Transportation - Slides from Cuba 2004

2008-04-14T16:02:00.000+01:00

Bricks and Moarter - Daughter - Walls from the Motherland

2008-04-14T13:03:00.000+01:00

Gangster Illustration - Fashion In Film Festival - London

2008-04-07T15:10:00.000+01:00

I hope my tongue can shake off its native dance lest it be violently escorted out of my mouth mid yawn by a vulture.

2008-03-06T14:03:00.000Z

(A Story I started way back in the little league years of 2002, thought it would be good to give it a breather here)

Finn

1.

Some people say it is a crime to eat on the toilet. My previous girlfriend thought of it as "the one trait that excretes sophisticated behavior from our refined social development." A somewhat delusional character who made the mistake of thinking that humor was a product of refined behavior and not the other way around. She ate at the table, seated comfortably on her chair, and sometimes got up to go to the toilet whilst we ate at restaurants. Just because she brought the shit to the bowl, leaving her food alone at the table and me, didn't mean that I couldn't take the food to the mouth of the body whose bum it was sitting on that bowl. I spent two years trying to persuade her that these two natural actions need not be separated, and instead represent a combination of actions that are truly compatible, unified and tied together at the heel. It’s like addition I’d say, “The difference between your age and mine is no problem, I wouldn’t want to be condemned to only interact with people who were born on the same day of the same year as me. Difference is good darling. It’s startling.” I could guarantee that one in every two meals would be interrupted by her nagging. Surprising how someone who prided herself on her polite demeanor could start such a fuss. Waiters would cowl at her chat and scuttle off into the corner to inform the Maitre'd that a domestic was taking place on table 8. Our food would always taste like shit. The mash potato wouldn’t be mashed; our vegetables would be torched like a corpse; and the food was too salty, definitely too salty. I would mutter to myself and wonder whether I had ordered this ordeal. Initially I had hoped for the usual dynamic of a relationship, one where we could tease our quirky characteristics but accept them for the simple reason that love transcends all oddities. Ours smelt like rancid one-upmanship. Now there is no love, and the oddities I was once ready to accept have punished me for turning my back on them.

She liked to be called Rosie. Her name was Beatrice, but Rosie served as a reminder to herself and her friends that she was cool. The slightest attempt to join in or add something to the night was met with nothing but people turning to pamper Rosie, “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie Roo.” They appeared to be fond of each other, close, always willing to respond, and fairly tolerant. However, their support was sarcastic and bitchy; their attitude, nonchalant; and their judgment, poor. Unfriendly friends: a knit of haggard screamers. Banshees who favored fashionable tails of fabric that draped down from their waists. They never used them. Instead, they commented on how delicate a certain pattern was when placed alongside their right hip or through the loop in their continental crop top. Every Friday I would be treated to ladies standing up and exposing their flat bellies and explaining how the strip of material never interfered with the comfortable hold of their knickers. They liked to think I was getting an intimate peep show when they pulled the band of their panties down in jest, or on other occasions brazenly allow their skirts to fall to the floor for a more thorough demonstration. Then they always pulled a face and raised their hands to their mouth instead of their crotch, like a crude imitation of Marilyn Monroe, whilst their laughter darted through the rooms of our dainty house as though they had a rape alarm instead of a voice box. One Friday, the same jester who let her skirt slip in front of me followed me to the bedroom and did it again. Rosie never knew she did this, but she undressed in front of me whilst I was on the phone. The only vibrations I could feel were through the fabric of the bed. When my conversation finished I found myself staring, only out of curiosity, trying to determine how much pleasure she was having by the amount the sheets twitched. They itched to be changed, so I told her that Beatrice had recently discovered she was HIV positive and wasn't so Rosie after all. She dropped the vibrator immediately and left.

2.

Beatrice trusted her ability to design and decorate a room. She liked to have tall standing lamps in the corners of the lounge. She said that the beauty of the room enticed her onto the couch, and not the welcome look in my eyes. I came to accept this and comforted myself for knowing that the fabric of the room was fragile and the longevity of these objects were dependant on the care and attention given to them. They looked tired and dusty, used and neglected. Beatrice found it comforting to be shielded by light. I never mentioned how she cuddled our cushions, and how she always chose the soft, almost velvety covers with heavy feathered packets. Her friends adored these cushions too, using them as a soft punctuation between their waists whilst they sat on our sofa. Their frizzy hair would get caught in limbo by the downward glance of the light that flanked them. Movement produced an animated glow. It came and went like a disinterested former self. The light also exposed the top soil of foundation that caked their faces. It carried the texture of cold butter branded to the skin and left to dehydrate. Their bodies were like horny potatoes wrapped up, resting in the cupboard. These are a couple of the misfits that arrive on a Friday.

For this weekly dinner party I designed the theme. I had to sacrifice guest satisfaction in order to present my gourmet disgrace in its most genuine manner. I served plain bread; sun dried ciabatta; onion loaf; and French stick on a platter. The offering was thrown in honour of an empire of flowering, trend conscious disciples that deserved my hand woven wicker baskets laden with baked items. On the second table, pots of dip had been arranged in neat lines, intentionally composed according to their vivid colors. I bought and mixed conventional dips and attempted to throw my guests by forcing them to appreciate the wonders of "world food". This food was my attempt to dispatch hate into neat containers, a flourishing hate in hues of beautiful colors. I mixed Guacamole with Houmous and Mouthwash; Garlic Mayonnaise with Horseradish and HP sauce. They were all hideously vile. However, I succeeded in recreating the taste of the orient, imitating the delicacies of the southern most tip of Asia, and even included the delectable smoky aromas of Senegal and Morocco. When they arrived it didn't take long for people to be intrigued with the modified tapas "essentials" that lay on the table. My guest's mouths became tense, and they attempted to hide their disgust by using their tongue as a shovel in a hope that the food would bypass the majority of their taste buds. The southern most tips of their tongues became sore. Some even swelled up slightly, and gave off the putrid odour of seared muscle bubbling from pesticides and chemicals. You could hear faint interrogation from the polite and unaffected, while the rest sensibly sat in silence smoking or resting their head on the shoulder of their partner, waiting to go home. Beatrice had got involved too, speaking to people and issuing apologies. This was the first silent commotion I had ever witnessed.

The end was signaled by groans and a nine-nine-nine call. It was a sensible time to leave. The food had been half-finished, every uplifting song had been played and muted farewells were all that lingered in its place. As the last guests left I looked up and thanked them for the last time. They were faces that came with the ‘Beatrice’ package. They were her circle of friends and they detested me. They used to cad me out for buying soft drinks in bars, now look whose going home with a weathered face blue from crying. Even in our crampt doorway I felt like I had mounted my brown steed and rode across an open plain to meet my enemy. The ground was dry and covered in a layer of dust. The hoofs of my horse dug into the clumpy earth and flicked the compressed soil out of their shoes. My reason rode beside me bearing flags that disappeared behind trees like planes through scattered cloud. I had probably ridden past Beatrice, but the spectacle of my momentum was addictive. I had already won and I could not contain it. Beatrice knew this smile well and said no more until she perched next to me on the sofa whilst I smoked by bed-time cigarette. The lights were no longer an incentive, she wanted to talk. The last defence of our relationship was about to be breached. A flimsy arrangement of coloured towels attached to three wooden poles. It was a weak wind-shield erected on the beach, whose only strength was to conceal the terror that lay on the other side of the pattern. I wondered when Beatrice would begin to huff and puff.

It was pretty tense, walking through different rooms but having to consider your route and manner of contact. It’s normally sensible to stay in the same place. It passes on the responsibility to another person to prolong the tension or break it. After about forty-five minutes of speaking on the phone and crying in the toilet, she came and sat next to me. 15 minutes of silence ensued where we simply sat and refused to acknowledge each other. I could smell people sitting alongside me in our dark and empty room, and their sinister eyes hurt my confidence. I asked her to open a window but she refused saying that she was no longer willing to help me. It was getting stuffy and I needed help. I considered going outside for some fresh air, but I knew that I would be evading an event that was likely to come. A little hiss which reminded us that we didn’t really like one another.

It reminded me of watching ‘This Is Your Life’ as a kid though. People entered the studio and sat down on the couch, crossed their legs and said their emotional “hello” at their television funeral. The final outburst of a long and successful career. Similarly, our lounge felt like the last show at a redundant theatre where the audience witnesses the final, most breathtaking act. At this particular performance, the audience was silent, staring at a brain lying on the dark wooden floor boards. A hand the size of a human appeared on stage and began to tap his cane against the floor, then bowed. He wore a dog collar around his wrist instead of a watch, and used his thumb and fore finger to tap the cane repeatedly until it blurred the palm of his face. Once he had gained the audiences full attention, he moved behind the brain and bent forward until his fingers pressed against the floor. He looked like a skinned umbrella sheltering a helpless infant. The tapping sounds began to resound around the auditorium. The four fingers were responsible for the rhythm, and the thumb would add a lingering bass tone by slamming it against the slats. This ordered commotion caused the brain to wake up into a state of delirium. A cavern of reverberating echoes had been installed by the repetition, and as his fingers moved faster the brain began to rise into the arch of the dome and hover. This was torment to someone whose body could not shake the pain. The brain moved higher into the centre of the arch. He could crush it if he wished. It was your decision, a free show; no entrance fee; a psychological dissection and performance where, under such torture, the brain rapidly evolves. Two cords formed from underneath and hoisted themselves as far forward as they could. The eye balls arrived and the cords collapsed slightly under their weight. It gave the impression that I was staring at someone who resembled a jellyfish more than my distant partner. An overly large triple celled organism that didn’t even look like it had half of the ability needed to peer-out-from-under or peep towards the audience, or even a prominent feature to determine its sex. Yet it was powerful, and the only area of activity was inside her brain. The eyes served as a vehicle to trace the faces of those who laughed.

I began to tap my leg as my cigarette came to an end. She continued to stare straight ahead: Ahead and slightly to the side, purposely overlooking my nervous behavior. Her stubborn pose would have made a good photo. The straight posture and the contained expression could have convinced you that she was beautiful. And although she looked like a photo from where I sat, I could see slight vibrations shrouding the surface of her body. Her mind was concentrating on installing her conditions, altering the space to suit her and her needs. She was detached from her body like a child from a doll, and her lifeless face had produced a timely silence. A quieter continuation of the austere silence created at the party. My lips mouthed a lyric along to the beat of my invasive tapping. Tap tap, snap. A fraction of a crack came and split then caved in. The bulbs blew to the sound of chaos, “You fuck Finn, you complete and utter fucking prick." I couldn't see her as she shouted her way around me in the darkness. I could only feel the pain as she bit my toes and knee, crouched on the floor franticly nibbling at me.

In the bathroom I inspected my injuries. I noticed that my leg smelt of dry blood. Had my blood not clot I would have bled across the white floral tiles in our bathroom, nearly painting the roses red. My body saved my life again. I could only hope that she would foam from the mouth and slowly vomit pussy saliva over our plump pillows she cared for so much. Firstly I had to open one of those small cosmetic cupboards with the mirror on the front to get at the first aid kit. The smell of a wounded man rose from my knee and made me feel faint. It was like some rotting corpse attached to my leg. I opened the box and began to make choices about what to use on myself. Healing yourself is like cooking, and since I have been experimenting with cooking recently, it came naturally. I plucked the tape and some dressing from the box and put them down to the side. I needed the long bandage but the roll was lonesome, so I had to use my initiative and fetch the towel. I neatly folded the towel into a bandage shape and wrapped it above and below the knee so as to facilitate walking. Then I held the flap of towel down with my chin and began to reel out the tape and fix the towel in place. It looked professional for a job done in the bathroom lit by rose scented candles, and instead of magazines like Hello, Heat and Red, I had Beatrice's Shelf of comedy to read. I remember reading in one of those funny "calamitous collections of gaffes" an opinion delivered by an American scientist during World War Two. A Dr S.L. Katzoff noted that "a genuine kiss generates so much heat it destroys germs.” He said nothing about a malicious bite and how that generates so much swelling and suffering. A kiss makes sense as a painkiller because the nerve that carries it is faster than the one that carries the pain, but pleasure had been abandoned in favor of nurturing a hatred that has now climaxed. I think that a genuine kiss would also prevent these aggressive outbursts from taking place. I considered bandaging my ankle as well, but that would have been ridiculous, just a simple graze cross hatched over with scratches. I had better things to look forward to.

3.

Two days ago I saw Beatrice and some fellow walking towards me. They had passed the shop I wanted to go into and we were steadily drawing closer. She had also noticed me, and in a snide fashion spat some slur out the corner of her mouth. An awkward exchange was predicted by both parties. The only thing that could have prevented us from meeting was if one of us wanted to avoid it. I couldn't justifiably skip it by falsely visiting a shop of little interest to me. She would have noticed, and I would be the loser. A dishonourable move that would bring me shame to the smartly dressed man that hung off her shoulder. My wounds were beginning to heal and my towel had recently been replaced by a bandage; he wore a suit and carried an umbrella, a wound that would probably last all his life. Overall, his choice of attire was very puzzling as it happened to be sunny. A bright sunny summers day.

We began to slow down, exchanged a few frank remarks, then said goodbye politely.

It was comforting to see her future inside a man that was very different to me. It made me appreciate my bad judgments and erased my fear of us growing old together. I always transposed our living room into one of those really spacious old people’s homes. I then imagined how they would arrange our furniture for us in case we tripped over it or dislocated a hip. It could have gone that far if I didn't eat on the toilet, but I prefer the way things have turned out now. I appreciate a bit of space from those ladies that ate away at my patience for two years. I became neurotic; started to have random outbursts, and began to question my compatibility with females. Are they all this bad, do they really nag this much? My friends told me to hold my head high and "ditch the bitch". Friendly advice is always good but I never had the balls to follow it through. Now I come home to find a silent room with the lights off, looking like I left it in the morning. Nothing tampers with my personal space. Her man is the shape she tried to style me in, namely the romantic whipped classic culturalist. The most expensive coffee money can buy. I guess she intends to marry him and climb a few social ladders. I slid on the snake and fell down a level.

Her new man kept his hair in good shape; waxed from the side and spread over. The comb had imprinted ditched lines in wet look wax, so that his side parting parted like a strong wind dragging grass in one direction. His eyes were slightly odd, buckling under the worst of the wind. In our brief meeting he attempted to flicker them back to a straight position. At the peak of the flicker they reached momentary perfection, but with every effort they leapt back to being a skewed glance. From his stark, etched image I could imagine him doing one of two things only; either he works in finance, or works with someone who has finance. A logical judgment I feel, especially for a woman who looked for that quality in me too. He was useful to her in this respect because Beatrice was totally incompetent with money. He would be able to facilitate her habit of buying something “irresistible” for the mantle piece or table. These habits extended into the afternoon and the night, when Beatrice and her friends would visit commuter belt-bars, where, if I am correct, men and women continue to do their job even after they’ve clocked out. But clocking in and out is a term I am probably more familiar with; to them it is probably a wave to their personal secretary. Beatrice’s attraction to these qualities best describes the reason why she ditched someone who dresses in poor suits and sports scruffy hair for a man whose looks aren’t the main attraction.

Beatrice didn’t take the time to introduce us. She had him stand back from our polite fray. She did not want me to dig my nails into something she owned. Luckily, I’ve never met him before today, so we have no history. No school boy sporting rallies, no infiltrations of pubs as disguised teens or excursions to The City of London or St. Paul’s. I will dedicate this blank sheet of paper to his life, and those points that boarder on my own life. The following observations of his character were supplied by a similar social spy. The first thing I was told is that Beatrice said that, “Finn (me) was a fool who couldn’t understand what he wanted and why, and in his eyes, I obviously had no place in this fucked up world view of his.” Reasonable, until you hear how she calls her man “suited and booted” as a coy sexual reference to the roundness of his ass. That is why I titled the page:

MME BEATRICE SHAMES HER ROMANTIC MIND SET TO COMPLIMENT HER ASS OF A PARTNER

♦ His name is William, Will for short.
♣ He’s not tall either, about 3 inches shorter than Beatrice.
♥ He can provide for her and remain confident that his job is under no threat, thus ensuring his financial stability, and by proxy, the stability of his relationship.
♠ His umbrella is the conductor of his social ambition, whilst the sound of his shoes serve as a periodical reminder that he isn’t seated at his desk.

My source of information was reliable at a base level but tended to try and deceive me on aspects of her stories. However, she did this in an incredibly flirty way; she also happens to be the woman who took pleasure in lying by my side. Her name is Daisy, and her relationship with Beatrice has seen better days. Since then she has amused the role of a single lady in her late twenties who sees herself as the author of erotic novels, cutting out shapes that animate and obscure the picture. They appear to be troublesome manipulations of the truth, whereas I believe they should be viewed as a testament to her imagination and the adept eye she uses to produce her novel fantasies. And as fantasies are generated by reality, I trust her account because I know of her sexual fantasies.

I did not need to ask a question to receive information. Instead, she began by telling me that Beatrice was faithful to me, even during our relationships demise. She described his failed attempts to buy her drinks or invite her to dances. And when Beatrice would walk after work, he would be standing on a bed of leaves as if by accident. I could imagine the meal he would order on their first date. He would hold her hand and slightly shyly describe how a bed of lettuce was instrumental in any good salad. And hold her hand without really holding it, fiddling with her fingers as though they were sausages or pens. Daisy found this funny and laughed after every comment because she has already had the pleasure of meeting Will. She talked of his drinking, and his habit of bringing the bar to work or work to the bar. He always arrives with an anxious grin that Beatrice calls charming. The only time he charmed Daisy was when he concentrated on drinking and pouted like a fish or a greedy parishioner. Daisy and I had no doubt that Beatrice and Will suited each other.

Daisy’s explanation reminded me of the time when Beatrice sat me down and described her perfect man. She wanted a “tall and handsome…romantic… (Who had to have) a stable income… (i.e.) smart clothes and (scripted) manners… (he had to be) respectable.” I did not totally fit her idyllic description, but she obviously saw me as a suitable candidate and invested some trust in the idea. She offered herself as a partner, a teacher and a “dream-catcher”. Incidentally, her book on “dream-catching” was kept in the toilet on the shelf. She told me how the “dream-catchers” make it all possible through “the mutual recognition of long term aims, and by completing a series of assimilated actions that make up the means to an end of complete (and utter) binary satisfaction.” Beatrice enjoyed talking about how she effected a situation, and used the dream walker exercise a lot on strangers. She was an amateur mystic in this sense, always willing to preach to the crowd about how they are losing their way, straying away from the sacred natural pasture of spiritual influence. Over the last two years Beatrice taught me her theology on life; the events that life contains, and the smaller situations that the divine spiritual order allows us sensitive access to, is a gift. It cannot be leant by people who view things wrongly; you must be on the same spiritual asteroid as her. I learnt about the terror of homosexuality, and the menacing faces of foreigners that composed a collage of theft and misdemeanors, all an exaggeration of her fundamentalism on my part, but views that could easily be justified by her incredibly positive maxim that “it is our natural disposition to fear difference”. She used to say, “I could marry anything I find pleasant Finn. I acknowledge the fact that liking something is an important facet of a relationship, but my judgment is strict Finn. I won’t allow the majority of good nor scum into my life, let alone those lazy buggers that look good but stand and do the rest then sit and ignore you because they think you’re too clingy. Arrogant fucks, Finn, don’t get anywhere in the world, and those that are accepted are treated like family. They deserve my attention. That goes for anything that looks good, from a horse, to a door, to the area of grass rolled up as a carpet on my front lawn, and more, like a beautiful doorbell or a soft comfy cushion, a very good friend or fuck-buddy.” This is where her arguments began to dissolve into a slowly sinking set of contradictions and perverted proverbs.

I began to tell Daisy how I had listened to Beatrice laughing on the phone, suggesting to her friend that the only way to become fully satisfied in a relationship would be to write a book entitled, “Beatrice for Dummies”. The last words lingered long after, like the resonance of a cathedral bell, “Then they’ll understand… Then they’ll… understand… then… they’ll… understand…” Daisy confessed that it was her on the other end, I awaited some further explanation and leant back in my seat relishing the extra time with Daisy. A neat embellishment of the story that brings Daisy closer to the peak of her creative drive, “She has said more, but in less jest.” I gave Daisy a little “you know” look and smiled; she laughed and flirtatiously touched my thigh, “Beatrice was never a fascist though Finn.” She lent her head forward and stared at me, “She just used to find you slightly queer, that’s all, but in a happy way!” She was taking the piss, and began to rummage through her bag; “Daisy, you have to admit that it sometimes crept through.” She took her time to answer, arousing my interest, “Of course it did, Finn. The way I see it, Beatrice was never suited to you, she couldn’t have been, but then she always liked you, for obvious reasons.” Daisy was right, for obvious reasons, and in the dim atmosphere of our pub enclave she too seems right. If I were to describe what she wore it would sound boring. But from where I sat her outfit looked less like fabric covering flesh and more like a body glistening in a damp cave. Her black hair was loosely held back and her dark eyes were animated with one of her internal seductive narratives. When a person stays still for a long time they give you the chance to look at the gesture they have halted in. They allow you to admire the qualities of their figure, and give you a glimpse into the way they wish to be treated. If I had to pick a moment that best described how I feel for Daisy then it would have to be her sitting here and not her excited body naked on the bed that one time.

4.

I had had a peaceful break from life. A month of calm. An inevitable product of this change is a slight unsociability. I quit my job; redecorated my room and made some shelves. They stepped up the face of the room and formed a pyramid filled with books. Underneath this I constructed a desk, and then personalized it to cater for particular tools I prefer to use. To the right of the desk was the long, flush window of the flat, a second floor view of the gardens. A passive interaction between the exterior and interior existed here; the tall trees outside and the horizontal shelves mounted onto brick and plaster; a pane of glass was all that split these two habitats. Like God I had labored and chose to rest for a while to nurture my creation in thought and contemplation. However, stronger distractions existed in the immediate glint of the rain drops stuck to my window and the projection of their distant journey. I would perch on the ledge and wonder what the view was like from a penthouse in the distance. And whilst I see his house, I doubt that he can see mine. His is an expensive oddity shaping the skyline. One of those scars penned onto a city’s breast.

Attractions like these had to offer refreshments. Predictably, I chose a hot cup of tea which lay by my side on a coaster. The tea suited the city’s warmth which insulated its people like the thick knit of my tea cosy. The wooly red stripes of its pattern resembled the circle line, rambling round its bumpy surface. Maybe like bark, but more like bark growing as hair on a sheep or goat. An outlandish assessment of texture; since saturated bonds can’t contain content. A mass of sprawling, vibrating molecules who think it best to deposit themselves into a realm of incomprehensibility.

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Maybe this is the point where I have to formally address my intentions and state them. Since I am unemployed and the days are filled with little or no commitments I want to start writing. I don’t want it to have a specific vision or goal, as though the story is carved out by an undefeatable integrity. I want it to confront itself, evolve into forms that can never be realised but exist as a vast tangible illusion. Ultimately, I hope my tongue can shake off its native dance lest it be violently escorted out of my mouth mid yawn by a vulture.

4.

The house is complete. The ceilings are covered in a flat canopy of Polaroid’s ranging in colour from translucent green to ochres of red and blacked blue. A reminder that obstacles are maneuverable and walls passable. I dream that I can feel sunlight passing through gaps in its formation. So I lie there like a bather, basking in light spun through a web covering a swimming pool. My next dream is that this dream deserves to be rooted and given a trunk.

A week ago Daisy introduced me to Hundertwasser and promised that one day we would plan a journey to visit his sites or forever contemplate his vision. Since this revelation I feel compelled to architecturally adorn myself and that which surrounds me. Like in Hawaii, I welcome Daisy home with a wreath I hang around her neck. She too shares an impulse: to disband that which is strong and to support it with the weight of fantasy.

The reality of our 24 hour clock is experienced in sleep and whilst awake. An international awareness nurtured in rest where some hours are observed and some are not. I feel like we have gone beyond praying for the sun to rise the next day, or asking the weatherman if he can promise a lush summer. Figures show that expectations and aspirations have boomed since people took dawn for granted. Last I heard American scientists were developing a gel that can be scattered into rain clouds to make them disappear, a technology that guarantees the perfect barbeque climate. A reality that can only ever really creep into the fantasy of a film or book, a result of multiple cuts in time, where the edge of incisions are united with the past or future. Much like the relationship between dusk and dawn, which, for me, is always coupled by a dream. A seamless transition.

Another world is accessible when you cease to observe. However, I always find it hard to determine the separateness of those other worlds I grant myself in rest. Could they exist if I had been blind since birth, or if I was in a wheelchair would I walk in another world? Some would say that the nature of these places are false because they betray the truth of your actuality, “Those who are awarded sight without ever experiencing it are dreaming. How many fingers am I holding up?”

If our history has been making fantasy real, absurd emulations of natural forms that empower humans, then

Raised Inscriptions One Could Trip Up On

2008-03-06T12:58:00.000Z

Karlheinz Stockhausen

2008-02-18T23:52:00.001Z

The Cobbler and his Opposite Number

2008-02-16T20:56:00.000Z

A drawing for Shalmaneser's Story of A Cobbler.

Two Paintings of a Competetive Nature

2008-02-04T21:55:00.001Z

4th Sketch Book - Lickle Yela Spat

2008-01-24T15:15:00.000Z

3rd Sketch Book - Rocks that grow

2008-01-23T17:25:00.001Z

2nd Sketch Book - Roma Si

2008-01-23T15:45:00.000Z

1st Sketch Book - a sixteen year old yut in Paris

2008-01-23T14:33:00.000Z