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The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah


 I'm part of a Visual Dialogues project at the Laing Art Gallery for a few months and today was the first day! Noone knew what we were doing exactly but I did some rummaging beforehand and thought it was something to do with interpretation.
 Turns out the project involves making an exhibition or something similar around the work of John Martin. John Martin is the man who painted 'The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah' .. which just happens to be my favourite piece of art :D 
 So it's pretty beast and the people involved are really quite cool so it promises to be an interesting venture.

http://tallyessin.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/john_martin_painting1.jpg

Dear Dream Diary


Ok. there was a large building and i was exploring. In the middle of one of the rooms was a big wooden staircase with no banisters and i started going up it but a man came and said 'what are you doing? that's my staircase; you're not allowed to use it'. so i went exploring some more and found a soundbooth. I came across the sonnen-burgers rehearsing and went to sit down where i thought i ought to

(i saw suza and teddy, only it turns out it was suza and beth and ted was sat half a row away) someone shouts 'east' and i watch as we go on stage. sit talking to beth and ask 'why are we all in black? we look like we're going to a wedding' then i go back and try to climb the staircase again but get stopped again

i'm sat in a room which the sonnen-burgers are using and theres several (jan, vedran,alex) drawing on the table. i'm sat under the table trying to fit inbetween the legs. i get stuck and ask alex to help me out but get free just as he's about to. Vedran has a sleeping bag around him to the waist and i go to him but he pushes me away seeing he has a cold. i give him my coat and go.

then in a very movie-like way i see anke running all over a town.

she ends up knocking on a door and i open it for her (though i'm not actually there) and she knocks on the church door. the priest however is talking to her ex-boyfriend who is now going with a very butch woman and anke goes over and they all go into the church

i hide behind a curtain as they do and other people come and hide with me.

we then follow but the room before anke is a nursery and we stop and play with the kids but the teacher doesn't like it. she looks at me skeptically but i just act as i usually do around childern. everyone paints the walls. some men in the garden are carrying a giant sarcophagus that looks lik it's made of lego and the skeleton head falls off and inside is brown something that looks like acrylic paint when there's too much water in the tube. then a man comes at me with a camera and we get escorted to the room anke is in - turns out the priest is on the boyfriend's side. they'd told the kids that we were cannibals and that the feet on the wall they were painting were uncle larry's. i get crazed and start shouting at them telling them how unethical it is and why and that they need to debrief the kids, kids parents, all participants retc.. and how it is unwise to conduct anything lik this and i was going to report them to the board.

  paint represents 'expressing your inner emotions', stairs – someone’s stopping me from understanding, kids – personal growth ( is being corrupted), cannibalism – forbidden desire, marriage – transition, maybe sorrow

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El ministro

Well guys, this is the ultimate day in the UK. 

   Yesterday several of my theatre group went on an incapacitating bus ride down to the capital in order to see the minister of justice. He's a very nice man actually :) and really gave an honest (or so seeming) opinion of the questions raised. 
  We then lolled around in St James' park for a while and went for food. Miso again :p
  What I thought would be a really good night was watching the open air opera in Trafalgar square and we remained for just short of an hour (they supplied air cushions so as not to dampen one's heiny) however it was not to be due to cries of boredom and sore bums.
 So we trundled along to Buckingham Palace so Emma could be a tourist and then to a pub near victoria station called 'the shakespeare' which was quite a pleasant place :)

 I trust you are all well, I shall write when I have more to say of Germany.









P.S - the ministers get bitchin' coffee prices.

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Words!


Ok, here's the sitch:
 leave a comment saying 'Words!' and I shall leave you a list of five words. You then go on to explain what these words mean to you in your own journal and declare the same.

These are mine from Lexie:
Fudge, Faces, Farce, Fandom, FashionCollapse )

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Harold Schuuman


 CSS

 

  Ever since the postal service went private I’ve had a calling. I was prematurely fresh from university life and the privatised system meant there were jobs going spare.

  I’ve never felt as at home as I do working for the CSS. You see, since the privatisation, many opposing courier companies have spawned, all of which show the utmost respect for the other companies, understanding that the public’s mail is a sacred vessel of pulp and ink. However, the human mind is a curious thing and if there is a sacred vessel we must wonder why it is so sacred. That’s where I come in.   No, I’m not one of these spies you hear about, nor a government official; I am a member of the Courier Sabotage Service.

  Like I say, it’s not heavy stuff, a smudge here, a line there, if the posties really did care about their job they would ensure a way for envelopes to be free from tampering. Laminate them, or something.

  It’s my job to make sure that the couriers are at their best, not growing sloppy. If they advertise how they will ‘go to the ends of the earth’ to deliver your package then a little misdirection shouldn’t be a problem. We keep them on the game.  You should be thanking me for keeping the cost of a postage stamp low and courier standards high.

 It’s not all that easy to get into this business either. Some people think all you have to do is start tampering at home and we’ll come find you. Boy, are they wrong.

 It takes skill. This is guerrilla posting at its best. I’ve hitched on FedEx planes; I’ve blown up a paper mill, mailed myself to a sorting plant. It takes guts. It takes skill. Practically every month you are hearing of another CSO found and ‘questioned’. They think one must have a mental incapacity to sabotage the majestic system that underpins the whole British way of life.

 As for you: I don’t think you’re capable.

 

 I first made my way into the service by painting a post box green. It sounds impressive on it’s own but when you realise I did it in central London, where even at night there are CCTV and passer-by’s it has so much more impact. Yeah, that was me.   Of course, Imperial College couldn’t have a student as susceptible to environmentalist impulses as to risk his place on the course and quite promptly curbed me.

  Yet the saboteurs didn’t come to me for another seven months. I was turned away from each job I applied to; it was bad enough that I didn’t have a university degree but a petty record too kind of sealed the deal. I began posting water bombs. A genius idea of mine if I do say so, which inspired imitation by the big boys themselves. After receiving a letter from my girlfriend over in Taiwan saying she had fallen for one of the people she had volunteered to help it went global. There’s a way of opening the bottom corner of an envelope just enough to push a small ink pellet in, which then explodes under the high pressure of cargo planes. I was in the airmail hangar anyway and my rage hadn’t subsided simply by destroying her mail (to be sent to her family, her friends, her bank) and so I crept into the outgoing mail and planted as many as I could. In some, I would put two pellets for a tie dye effect.

 

 So you see, it’s nothing personal, you’re just not good enough. There’s no innovation, no necessitation, no anarchic order to you. If it was as simple as destroying mail you might be in for a chance, but sabotage is an artform. Tough break, kid.

 I'm in a weird place between remembering dreams and not. I can recall them for an hour or so and as soon as i stop concentrating on them I forget them.
 It's annoying. I want to dream and dream and dream.

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Wind-up Chronicling

 I got a tattoo this afternoon! :)

 It's very colourful, very unique.. and hell, it didn't really hurt either. :)
 Though when it did it was face-scrunchingly so. 

 
 There's a meaning too, It's a wind-up bird with a queen of spades behind it.
 The queen of spades is from the passion and shows the overbearing passion for something you can't have; whereas the wind-up bird is from Haruki Murakami and though it's not my favourite murakami i do like it. He's got some good ideas, strongly planted in real life, though, so i was very surprised to like him.

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Video

 I made a KICK-ASS stopmotion movie last night, that nobody can access T_T.
  Severus Snape goes to Japan to save his daughter but ends up getting eaten by a dinosaur.

 I can only play it with my mp3 hooked in as i nobbed up the sound. :/

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Compound Adjectives


 I watched History Boys today.
 I fell in love with it. Though I'm not sure whether to say it or Alan Bennet.
 It's less word play as it is grammar, performed with a patronising humour reserved for those that know how to make the blood boil whilst holding back anything harmful. It's insinuation. It's euphemisms. It's the ochestrated relationships and the too good to be true situation.
 It's the way Dakin flirts on with Irwin for the sheer pleasure of it's reception. It's the 'no idea' of it all.

 I'll probably take all of this back within the week but I don't care. As of the moment, it feels like I've worded it well enough, though I may be lacking of compound adjectives.

 RJ

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Without A Trace


 She's disappeared, not from my life but from my world. All those with contact seem to have lost it, she's a ghost. 
It's not surprising, just hurtful. I feel that we deserve an explanation. She'll have known that we feel as if we are owed an explanation and part of her probably feels like we are too.
 There's so many possibilities. Some frightening.
 The recent dream cameo's of myself and R, something that despite my fascination for dreams I would otherwise overlook, today seems poignant after listening to J talk of her carcrash melodrama today.  

She's the kind of person who can live many lives and the remnants of the one I speak were primed to be left behind but it doesn't feel right. It's not clean cut. She left us messy, disshevelled. 
 
 So tell me: what's eating Samantha Baker?
 

    RJ