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In the world in which I live year 2,000 last
time we looked: recently I have sewn buttons
on foutons. To live. To eat. I have walked half-across
Sydney, a large city, sick, to try to bum instant
money from the sickness-benefit office in order
to walk back again after rejection, dollar twenty
in my pocket, hallucinating back to the warehouse
in which I was existing. That was only five
of my 57 years ago. I have attempted to make
speculative action, of nothing. Having nothing.
Because I wished to take the responsibility
for myself in the only place where such absolute
freedom is possible. Meaning the self defined
arena, which I consider speculative practice.
Meaning the Arena - meaning engagement.
On a metric square on top of a 20 year old
Volvo, wearing a baseball mask to preserve me
from flying bottles. Using a courier to carry
a kilo of garlic to the man who nearly killed
me, oh yes. With the daily paper following my
press releases. And so on. I am a small busy
person, doing small silly things, "Telling
Artaud to the Trees." but still doing too
many things which do not really interest me
that much. To live. I have also read two emails
from you.
I like this country, the very beautiful South,
particularly because of the lack of arrogance
and pomposity and recognised value of people
here, and a genuine interest I feel in what
I try to give. Reciprocal engagement. Equipoise.
Through this praxis I breathe somewhat, and
often now with Ventelin. And I still get high
on the adrenaline of small new discovery. and
exchange. And mutual respect. At least ten separate
experiencings I have found a total novelty this
57th. year, though I have still not managed
to levitate.
Through this visit, I have works, the like
of which I have never done before, in an inappropriate
place. This I have learned. Which I think is
- engaging for those who might let themselves
get hooked - there has been other stuff, live
and ambiguous which is still engaging the silent
secret lives of some who do not realise such
things. I know. Like maggots under a pelt.
There will be - in a place which will be hideous,
with people who are scary, a small slot in which
I can fly another small kite. Break another
small personal limitation, despite those hideous
things. And after the real terror which always
precedes such nonsense, maybe I shall know some
more. What not to do again. That small pain,
and my small lettered name on a trash occasion
has allowed everything else to happen, here,
and will allow me to pay my half of $360 per
week rent. Help support a nine year old who
deserves better, and just afford to maintain
this independent, ancient, technology of divine
vengeance, and constant learning. It is ancient
enough to cause other problems of not-working,
so I have to wait whilst traveling to get somewhere
else and borrow and reconfigure in order to
download for instance only half an hour ago
forty-three emails, despite that I too am unemployed.
And on the edge of the great reality of fiscal
nothingness. Anything at all, gained with these
hands, and what remains of this brain. From
Scratch. Again. Don't grizzle to me, or the
world, about "tertiary" generalities
and the obvious failings of the bleeding obvious.
I have blood still on my hands. Though my scars
are healing, they are real. Six more stitches
on this trip. No kidding.
I am flattered you have found me useful. There
are a few others too I believe. That helps makes
it worthwhile, that is why I was paid. People
need to feel useful, though I no longer choose
to engage with institutions on the level I once
arrogantly did, or feel obliged to talk to people
I was once paid to tolerate. Strangely I have
met a number of interesting people on this trip
for free - even some exceptional individuals
quietly ripping into life's edge within such
frustrating confines, and others outside too.
I salute their ability to allow their work,
their thinking, to surface, often without funds
or flattery or rebop from GangGangs... without
expectations. I would have liked to visit to
talk some more. This will do - in a world without
time. Though I appreciate that I once may have
been welcome there. And thank you for that.
Your letter: I was choosing to flatter you
with a leisurely considered reply, unfortunately
in the world in which I live, (having moved
house now 7 times in six years, the like of
which you cannot imagine, and seven different
dwellings in the last two months), I cannot
always make time - when real living must be
made, and I get very tired too. So slippages
happen. For that slippage I apologise, for your
snail-mail letter was an honest and very appreciated
gesture.
Your bald rudeness and ignorant craving for
possibly overdue intelligent attention, however
is a pity. Bullying bombast. There are many
things I could proffer on this. Even Padraig
at nine might suspect a contradiction, though
I can never presume to speak for others, as
you seem able. Though your own peroration two
years ago I enjoyed, and enough of what I could
absorb of your astounding rant. While next you
beat your bounds, contemplate those two sheep.
Well woolly protected from a falling sky, but
not wild in their paddock two trapped and silent
screaming psyches-in-wool don't you think? If
things are as good as they should be considering
the investment, despite the Theatre of the Sheep,
you might consider Yale University Press, New
Haven, Connecticut, USA. But watch your copyright
and your wooly balls. Or project your news upon
the moon.
The best thing about England is the driving,
particularly around Heathrow. Where I was once
rapidly overtaken on the inside lane by a bus.
While three other lanes shot by outside in horizontal
rain. At the time I was doing exactly 108 Mph,
not Kays, on a motor-cycle. The possibility
of instant communal annihilation is constant
and profound and spectacular, the nerve-ends
tingle, the colon liquifies. I did that for
five months in winter, on a CX500 at the age
of 46 to provide for a fractured family, and
me. 12 hrs a day. Gladly you pay seven dollars
for a tea-bag in water, for things go well on
shell. Pass the crumpets vicar. Change the channel.
Take the Chunnel. Good luck.
This was not a difficult letter to write, for
I have not taken the time to flatter, nor even
engage you probably notice. Indeed though if
you have reached this far, it is better value
than you probably deserve. Though you are used
to that you say. But I enjoy a babble now and
then, and when I do write, such as it is, somewhat
like this, new light learnings surface and this
text will be mulch for other printed reveries
under a name you will have heard before, but
will not see. Nothing is wasted. Ever. Even
gross stupidity. I know - I am that man.
Enough. Good wishes for a future better. Kindly
note this constitutes a reply, but does not
necessarily guarantee any further.
Tomorrow is in all ways another day.
Adrian Hall, Dunedin, January,
2000.
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