22/04/2007

Y'a'right? Deviants?



Hello everybody! “marvelous screened summery”. Last year I felt we at least doubled the population of people in trollhatten (for most of those you meet are trolls, very friendly not at all like the ones that turn to stone in sun light in the hobbit (book)) . . . seriously the first person I met as I got of the train approached me like one of our beloved lost Hackney who are just 50p short of their bus fair home (everyday) and suffering memory problems (you asked me ten minutes ago while I was on my way to the shop, and that sweet old lady with the Zimmer frame gave you P's as you had no change) a said in my asking directions to the gallery . . .

hey call me Troll;

Gnawer of the Moon,

Giant of the Gale-blasts,

Curse of the rain-hall,

Companion of the Sibyl,

Nightroaming hag,

Swallower of the loaf of heaven.

What is a Troll but that?

It took two seconds for it to sink in . . .while my mind battled with the idea of turning around and getting back onto the train which was full of Goths, seriously I was the only non-Goth on that train, sleep deprivation had made me forget that I had been on a plane of relatively normal folk to Gothenburg, and everything had seemed normal at the station, I did believe however momentarily that Sweden was a country full of Goths who each carried with them at least one crate of beer until I noticed the tents, they then became the displaced underclass of Sweden, Like Wells’ –dites they were the backbone of Sweden fleeing some overlord on their way to god only knows where taking me the only Indian in Sweden with them, where was my gun? (I hadn’t brought a gun, I didn’t own one, Got to use a gun whilst I was in Sweden, it belonged to a guy who later shot himself, so be prepared for sheer craziness) anyway I didn’t need a gun a this point, the Goths were on an a train to a massive gothic festival, a Glastonbury sponsored by white makeup companies, a Woodstock (so nothing gets lost in translation for our fellow transatlantic death wishers) where the hippies are replaced by the marginalized and alone (I should of stayed on that train) . . . still with me? 2 second battle going on in me brain, Goths, guns, trolls, festival, American friends… Rob are you really 98? Fantastic … Joanna shouts Jay, I side step the troll, pick up my bags, swig the double proof Swedish Cider trust through my hand and Head for the pump house, the benches in town have a lively bunch of drunks watching the passing shoppers, swapping empty cans and bottles for money for the next fix for the Alcohol mafia (only one real place to get tanked in Sweden, they control the booze) I realize that this is just the sort of place you can have fun. I stop mid swig of the special pear cider which is seeming to me to be perfumed mentholated spirits, lift it from my mouth and glance at it then at the half elk half vixen character I see standing before me, I take some photos of her f**king with traffic, then she asks me to watch her stuff as she has to piss, boy this alcohol rocks, the next person I meet has the ability to make me invisible and blesses passersby’s with the ability to see around corners, I think I won’t be able to handle this show, It’s going bad already and my grip on what’s real and what’s not is tenuous at the best of times this exhibition might just send me over the edge. Crazy couple beating the shit out of each other, I mean really f**king each other up, they notice me feeling uncomfortable, film me to put me right on edge, I mean Razor with deep dark ravines (Road Runner, Wile E) on both sides, he takes my ladder and she lays into me for pimping the local girls out as a means of subsidizing my two weeks (hey an artist’s got to eat) and bring me back my LADDER, you ***K!. Convince two of my companions to jump ten meters in to a swimming pool illegally while the locals cheer at us from behind barbed wire. The next day things start getting really mad, the locals are drunk 24-7 they are up before me drinking, and I pass out before them, I start to think of them as drinking vessels, placed here to toy with me as I live my own “Better Than Life / Vanilla Sky” existence, the dogs speak French, I’m fishing for junk, old bikes and broken boats using the man I mentioned earlier, the one that shot himself as bait, waste not want not, I was not going to add another grave to the cemetery any way, better to let the cannel junk eat him, swap him for boats. Man who could make me invisible and me walk around town, follow the railway track, see so many fish eggs on the tracks, some thing to do with feeding the trains, we go to the rubbish tip to free what others throw away, two stories at once, the cemetery behind the gallery has been freshly made by this witch that’s in the show with us and her assistants, in the four weeks leading up to the show they’ve prepared and filled a field of something like 50 graves, each nameless like the soldiers sent by Slovenia to Baghdad, separating the back of the gallery from a shrine of suicides, I’m starting to love the place, I’m invisible, walking back along the tracks with bandages, bandages I need a drink. Approached again, this time to buy fat straight out of someone’s belly, not going to happen mate, I’ve seen fight club, I know what human fat is used for, the more fat people you have the more weapons you can make, whilst in the back ground I see two fellows carry away a person who just destroyed their only child in front of a live gallery audience, the crowd is shocked and camp out under Jesus who is dribbling driven made by the baby flesh that sits on the floor, three days later we move the baby flesh has started rotting, so many flies, Jesus has started to bleed, a specialist has been called in to rescue him, the local Christians are upset, I can see why, for them Jesus should of died on the cross so that all their sins could be forgiven, saving him after milking him for holy water made him into more of a cow than a god, I told them it goes around in circles, cows are well holy and Jesus is bloody lucky that we are choosing to treat him as such, whilst this is going on someone been at the graveyard they’ve upturned at least half the crucifixes, we all pitch in so as not to feel any wroth from the witch or from Christianity in general, blah blah blah I’m feeling ill, go into town pick up a girl bring her back, when she sees the hell we have unleashed in Sweden she promptly throws herself in the river dragging someone’s drunk father with her, It’s time to end this , , , lots more happened but I need a cigarette and I can’t smoke indoors.

2 comments:

Charlotte said...

And Teddy Sheringham. It just wouldn't have been the same without him.

beth said...

Hot SHIT Baby

trés criptique

I lost my foam padding at some point. nearly deflated myself.