hoover me

no use crying over spilt milk

Paul Celan's Death Fugue is, of course, one of the greatest poems of the greatest of all Post-War poets. This milk may not be black milk, but nonetheless it was found to be cracked and left lying on a street corner by a stranger who obviously abhorred cracked containers of milk.


After some photos, we took this milk home and we did drink it, but not before it managed to leave a trail, not unlike a trail of candy, that the cats of the culture industry could track us down with.


Thankfully gravity is on our side, and the cracks between the pavement provide an ample maze for any liquid Ariadne's thread to lose itself within, and to lose those cultured cats who hope to follow it to 'The Next Big Thing'.


Dreams of success can provide no reliable Ariadne's thread in our present world, unless ones enjoys following the threads of steel wool used to clean soiled coins. Maybe a love of mutability, affirming the mutability of love, and an expenditure without hope of earning interest in this life nor 'interest in eternity', however, carries a gravity all its own, and 'It is enough, the freight should be/ Proportioned to the groove.' (Emily Dickinson)

entertain me

Telstra - Ostraya's formerly publicly owned telecommunication's giant- has opened a premium Melbourne retail outlet: T [Life]. Communists, as the colloquial wisdom runs, prefer to drink herbal T- lets shorten Tea, for marketing purposes, to T- because they don't like proper T. Telstra prefer to place life in brackets behind the T their company logo drinks, and me, naturally for any advertising expert, follows in brackets after any mention of entertain. I'm not sure whether life and me are thus quietly subordinated, within the Symbolic, to a Name of the Father adhering in T and entertain, although a good cup of T can be entertaining, but is less so if one drinks merely out of fear. But what becomes forgotten in all this is the anthropocentrism of telecommunicative technologies, ergonomically speaking. For horses, although insultingly measured in hands, have no hands, and hooves are certainly something no mobile telephone manufacturer considers when designing telephone ergonomics.


Hence a quiet protest appeared amongst the entrance to T [life], which we were fortunate enough to capture the results of. The communicative technology here utilised against anthropocentric telecommunicative devices is, like the body, much more ancient and reliable than the all-too contemporary technologies it critiques. And there is no contract involved, which means no credit check! But horses, like all who have a cultured stomach, are also very sensitive to art and art history. But we shall allow the audience to decide on whether or not the critique is naively avant-garde or ironically sentimental, or just plain horsing around.