Weblogs have been piling up in my RSS reader for days now, some for weeks. Unread are photographic essays on Ballard, critiques of net_art, poetic exchanges on the Altermodern and Nobel prizes, speculations on Zizek's integrity and deep, deep investigations into the soul of Emmanuel Eboue. Perhaps I will share them with you.
The kitchen here is cold. Housemates are away, one is holding workshops in Zurich, the other is out into the night, avoiding the freezing fogs, perhaps rolling cigarettes in a warm house some place else. Cara is away too, out into the night, looking at a Kapoor exhibition and eating Mexican foods. I meanwhile am working, huddled in the one room, heated by a cranky oil-filled radiator. The roar of Machinefabriek, rising seas of static, fills the room as I work. I am completing notes, writing up agendas, trying to put things into mental compartments, trying to shape directions.
The festival goes well, digital culture is still there. I have not been out into the world enough of late, out into the night, but I know that things still go on. New archiving technologies and codecs and embedded players arrive daily on my doorstep and all the time I keep to the traditional paths too, to the well-trod lines of paper and ink. Right now I am surrounded by lakes of notes on A4 paper, in addition to an old telephone handset, jam-jars full of coloured markers, a dying capsicum tree and a pile of art catalogues I bought at a charity auction on Saturday.
So, yes, kitchen is cold, interests are pretentious, social life is non-existent. There you have your summary, feel free to go and read something else now. Thankfully, the last three weeks have each individually provided the basis for a novel, a decent solid human story that gives something to work from. Perhaps time, when it comes, will be used to make myself interesting again...