Sugar-worldy

Free money. The Dutch-ess Noah and I had already declared ourselves uninterested on the idea of going to Tate today, as had suggested the Portuguese Caetana. In my mind: Nam June Paik, five pounds tickets, which is three pounds more expensive than Papa John's 'personal' pizza, which comes with garlic butter, which brings me more ethic-aesthetic ecstasy than any contemporary art exhibition could possibly do — the Art which concerns me is under my table — but this table here ain't mine.

I woke up from a vain dream and abandoned it all; climbed down the building and walked a few meters on the matinal Upper Street to stock up on milk for my supernatural cereal; on coffee; on stolen pesto-sauce; and I shan't go out again except if for receiving my payment for yesterday's retail work at Johnny-Mainly-Black's store, a store "so exclusive that doesn't have a name". Neither Noah is leaving the flat this Sunday; we're two walking Aquariuses concerned about getting our own work done.

It's been a while since I've become uninterested in the official themes and circles of culture; am not sorry to say; was I ever interested. What I like — is the quotidian magical empiricism, and experimental literature made of acts and gestures, acts and gestures shinning an infrared glow which has, by nature, the need to reflect itself on the work of words, on the work of film, on the work of work and on the raw passions.

I have a virtual lover who says she doesn't like raw things; food or relationships. Our relationship is raw. I said to her that sashimi is raw and is however absolute; that all passions are raw while vertiginous; always almost bursting — in sight of the immobile pendulum of love; I now complement my thought.

In this flat we draw tarot cards everyday; we like reassuring ourselves on how easily we manage to make magic flow from one thing to the other — "The goosebumps that I get when I place my intention here, they assure my mastery." — But then I have to put on my gloves, because the electricity is too much and it charges my fingers with jitters which I then unload in brushing my eyebrows compulsively.

Maria Luisa, the water-swirl, is away for the time being; yesterday, in Berlin, she took part in a performance at the CTM Festival in which she wore an exoskeleton on her back which gave her electroshocks; I wonder what effect that had on my friend's fragile content. I, here, remain the lightning-twister. Electricity is captured by a tornado's time: light is caught in a spiral wind.

Only at times I still romanticise about an impossible discretion. I administrate bird-of-paradise courtships towards exterior-mirrors; I continuously make "love with the eyes like cats do", she said. Now it's Carnival in the intercontinental space; is Carnival my Name and Birth. — I remove my gloves: I interrupt myself while I cross the arches, I scan the lines on my palms; they're in place — I remove my gloves: anarco-monarchy. To be your own castle stops the world from imprisoning you, said the old Scottish and I never forgot to remember.

I landed on the City of London five weeks ago, an errant bird of prey under the roofs of friendship. Tomorrow I'll abandon the a-systematic system of poetic vagrancy — no-never — I am finally employed. The celebrated employment is: to exert excellency in feeding the tables, once again, in a new country; but this time overpauis. Thirty hours a week offering a service as useful as going to an art gallery.

Above it all, to honour that which happens behind a building's walls when one knows how to manufacture daily revolutions using one's mind and one's sex: arcana nineteen: The Sun.