Loner International Gourmet

SF to New York night flight

2011-03-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

He arrives in New York.

In his hotel, a better one than that which he usually stays in, there is an enormous world map cut out from cast iron attached to the wall behind the reception desk. It is a shock to his sense of self, to see the world faking it like that, up on the wall, acting like nothing at all.

-

In Milan he has been waking up thinking to himself ‘I am the company’ – I’ve become the company, his voice is its voice. For a kid like him this is some sudden revelation, a concrete shock and not one he immediately knows how to use, first thing he says to himself, when he comes to his senses is ‘It was so easy.’
He’s been travelling enough, in and out of the flat, for the place to get a kind of scuffed look, brushed through too many times, dirty, but not because somebody dirty has been living there, rather it’s a result of a certain speed, moving too fast through the place he’s roughed it up. He keeps almost everything packed away for this reason – he wants to wear the scuffs – this place is a rocket – a few work stations and a low slung bed, a multi-purpose bathtub: small enough for the less than 30 square metres he has and a shape which allows it to double as an armchair (there is no space for one anywhere else).

When he’s certain that not even the appearance of age will obscure his intentions, he shaves himself really clean – glowing with absurd youth. He leans himself forward over the waistband of his underwear and in an old tic, he grabs at the flesh that bulges over on his stomach then leans backwards and sees what remains in his hand, if anything. His scales are precise, analogue, enormous, like a set of hands, they cost more than all the other things put together, he pushes them right under the sink with his foot. All he’ll remember afterwards of this place, this flat at this hour, is how empty it seemed, it’s a different romance to that he’d imagined, to shout at himself from the bed when he wakes up. The emptiness is recurring: the first coach from the station to the airport, empty airports, the smells that actually wafted – gelled heads, women’s armpits with synthetics and brittle perfume, cheap brioches defrosted in the oven, coffee, empty puddles in the rain, high ceilings – the days he washed his hair and shaved and felt like a set of clean white sheets.

Other mornings, the gently jetlagged ones, soul violently in the throes of rediscovering his alienation like a long-distance lover, his piss is completely odourless and sounds exactly like black morning winter rain outside as it hits the side of bowl, casual and relentless. He looks around his rocket, he wonders when he’ll have the time to get really skinny – his colleague the day before asked him when he’d started cycling – he told the kid it’s over FOR ME nothing remains of cycling, I’m finished, nothing remains of it, just staying thin, getting thinner, the feeling of not eating when you’re hungry, the cleanliness of being empty, I can’t remember NOTHING else about it. He can’t remember the last time he really rode, but still his legs are shaved – the light is glassy as he stands in the bath contorting his leg, picking up tendons like experts pick horses from a form guide – maybe I’ve earned them and now they’ll never leave?

-

His pitch has become more and more radical, he can hardly believe he can get away with it.
He goes to San Francisco before New York. He stays in the same hotel he got sick in last time. This time he resists the smell of cats which lingers underneath lemon flavoured candles and dust, each time he breathes in he is quite consciously on the defense, he sleeps with a woollen hat on and the window open.
The scene is different to what he expected and not what he likes. He meets with Mike and they talk shop, a six months ago he’d been nervous, unable to pitch directly, instead drifting ideas through beer and compliments, feeling his way – six months ago he’d just delighted in the influential company, listening to Mike talk magic numbers: ‘Everything has a magic number, quantity, price, colours, everything, each product has its magic numbers, that’s what we do.’ Overseas he has learnt how the brand grows agile.
This time he’s more confident, he can claim to know his way around, they look at the new website, its features and menus and he is able to use word ‘tactility’ regarding electronics and make himself understood.
Mike is on a different line, though, this time, not the same vicious edge that made him blow up the whole movement a few years ago. Now he’s talking, whining even he thinks, about doing right by people, teaching them the basics of maintenance, sharing&caring – it irritates him immediately, this straying from the point: all he can see in his head is a fuck you cool. The most extreme un-repenting forms, shirts folded so tight you can’t touch them, big video screens of helmet cam footage, virtual racing, stacks of tvs, nighttime meetings, concrete graphic design, the most vulgar and sculptural combination of styles – Velcro straps on classic machines for one – fear and more fear until you can hold in your self constantly with no worries -he ends up saying, it falls out of him almost: ‘I can’t understand you because I’m not part of any community – your thoughts,’ and maybe he meant motivations here, ‘are completely alien to me.’
And to his surprise Mike replies ‘You’re right, that’s a good point.’ To Mike there seems to be no conflict in this outsider position, just another line.

And so he ends up dealing in internationalism, and telling people too.
City what city – the shining city he imagines – shining in his mind, a beacon, the silent glide at night - information jumps through portals from one urban density to another, cities are just for shittalking, he realises when he gets back.

The days in foreign cities are so long he often can’t even remember what he was saying to himself in the morning to keep himself alive, his motivations are fatless, constantly forgotten, updated and refined – he travels from San Francisco to New York with seven or eight pieces of attitude he writes on the airplane – when he comes out of meetings often he’s screaming to himself in his head ‘I NEVER MISS I NEVER FUCKNG MISS”. It’s a pretty lonely feeling but at least this makes him aware there’s no way back, that he’s on a suicide run.

‘Hustling is just getting off on your own performance’ he says over the phone, in the guise of advice, to his brother who is 10 000km.

‘My expertise is moving between cultures.’ He says in Italy, without a moment of doubt. But in New York he keeps its tighter, knowing how they like it. The first time he meets Brett and James upstairs on Wooster St he exaggeratedly articulates his knowingness, puts parentheses around the situation ‘I know that things stand like this and that therefore its difficult for me to understand where you’re at but from what I can gather, as somebody who feels some kind of aesthetic affinity with you – I might have ideas that could be of interest.’ Pitching it that way, on the long run, he ignores the fact his cheeks have been red for three days and even redder now, that he forgot to gel his hair and push it back in the airport mirror that morning, if he ignores it others won’t notice. Import, export – the trick is never showing who you really belong to, or better yet, and the time he realised this was the time he started worrying a little less about being found out - don’t actually belong to anywhere, permanently.
He masks his stink all day in coffee and horse hide leather jacket which still stinks – in the evening he tries to come off it all, the constant coffee, with two quick beers – he feels it in his head, trying to relax his blood, for a moment the caffeine and alcohol mix in a high pitched fever – he is shaky, sick feeling, paranoid – he still can’t shake the paranoia of illness abroad– then the fevered moment passes and he begins to relax into great fatigue.

Tropical Thoughts (Milan - Sydney)

2011-02-20T13:55:00.001-08:00

He tells the people he meets out in the evening whatever lie or truth comes most quickly, most invisibly – without effort. His eyes feel like they never move from the back of his skull, nothing changes. The alcohol here feels like poison entering the back of his neck – he thinks why would anybody drink poison? He goes to the bar, looks at all the bottles and the beers on tap. He doesn’t know what to drink. The beer tastes like piss in his mouth, he drinks it so slowly it even becomes tepid, and the cheap spirits act like sugar syrup blocking his veins, pinching his muscles, making them ache. He says he’s on a diet, straight-faced. He imagines a form of nutrition which has no effect on the body’s equilibrium, the pill of bread and water alone, without expression.

He says to himself that he won’t change his mind while he’s away, but inevitably he goes tropical thinking. His mind can’t grip anything, he lies on his bed in streams of longing,– erotics – said the same way the mind knows how to say the tropics, all floating sensually below his surface. He wonders again, perfectly still, what can you actually do to the naked body of a stranger, when it undresses itself for pleasure, he has no idea, just the shock of heavy breasts, he thinks .

The city slides past him, the harbour bridge, the bay, and through his mind; all its vicious flora and fauna, enormous trees, sandstone, ominous backyard cactus silhouettes, purple jacaranda flowers, stinking frangipani. An arching and languid ‘one-hit’ sensibility pervades the city; an idea seems to go no further than its initial euphoria – over and over again. Even in winter, he remembers, the city doesn’t lose its deceivingly lightweight perfume, rushing silently, minding its own business, over swathes of perfect asphalt.

On the plane back to Milan he feels his soul crush suddenly, like a can of soft drink as he remembers hardness again, that of moving too fast – and knowing how to make something of it. In this way dualities prick themselves to life inside him like veins on athletic forearms, useless thoughts coincide with the really important ones, for him its impossible to distinguish between the two.

He closes his eyes: shittalking endlessly, the dream of it, the smell of it – its intimacy.

Exhausted, burnt out pointlessness flashes through him desperately, I can't sell myself anymore, quickly, like a momentary loss of gravity as the plane hits an airpocket, your guts suspended in mid-air.

Milano - Torino, Back and Forth Across the Atlantic

2010-12-19T05:07:00.000-08:00

Paris Pt2

2010-11-19T13:39:00.000-08:00

He travels with his leather jacket again, the first time since the end of last winter, and he’d forgotten how much fun it was. Its smell reminds him of everything he likes best about his situation; hitting the airport, through the glass doors, zipped up to the neck, at six in the morning, a bleary line at the bar past customs and the smell of cheap brioches and fresh coffee floating over at nose level, hunger aches, familiar. Sitting in the airport’s plastic bucket chair, the thick jacket squeaking, thoughts of his fuckless summer are replaced by memories of his fuckless winter.
This time when he travels he feels distinctly separate from the real thing. All my heroes were punks – he says to himself, the older he gets the funnier this sounds. If he isn’t the real thing, then what is he – he feels as though he is drifting badly. A hopeless ad man, treating clients badly, pah, depressed, hurrying back through the wet city, full of arabs, soup restaurant - glistening heads just below eyeline, bread and lemon and chilli on the tables, to the hotel – if he isn’t the real thing…
He sits on the bed in the hotel room with the window open, his jacket off, there is a slight chill coming in – the room had been hot and humid when he opened the door – the cold air feels like a fever, he feels tired, it is raining, he listens to the music outside coming from somebody’s party in a flat on the other side of the street, people laughing, he imagines them walking upstairs and downstairs, looking for a fuck.
If he isn’t the real thing, and down from the lago he had forgotten he wasn’t, what is left for him other than to make himself an approximate version of it, the autonomous product, some object, for the kids, for all the punks to live by. He wonders, despondently, to travel as the real thing, back and forth across the Atlantic... The product would be a crystallization of a relationship with the real thing. He sighs – the economy of now can go fuck itself, he’s laughing, sitting on the bed.

-LPM

Paris' Leather Jacket

2010-11-14T11:07:00.000-08:00

-LPM

No title

2010-10-21T00:19:00.000-07:00

-JPD

Buy a black car, drive it

2010-10-21T00:11:00.000-07:00

They stop at a small town. Jean meets a girl, Juliette (Dita Parlo), and they are married, while hardly knowing each other. So the barge moves on. It is not an easy transition for the married couple. In Paris they go ashore and the wife flirts with another man. There is a fight and she runs away, then the husband goes in search of her.

-LPM (after Guardian)

Morganti Fragment: down from the Lago

2010-10-02T12:13:00.000-07:00

When he’d first come into town, drifted round the periphery, on the coat-tails of all the others from the lago who didn’t know any better, thinking the big city meant seeing the same people they saw up on the lake but in a more expensive bar with shitter food, bars with small dogs in them and stink of gelled heads, first years: drifted round the periphery, like a bobbing head, trading in sex, not other things, leaving the acrid taste of a white chick’s sincere chest tribal tattoo in his mouth. He stared at her and he could get off. The next morning, the bar, the coffee bar with coffee cups piled up next to Africans and bus drivers like the long comic reality of an American movie, chocolate brioche exploding on his fingers, walking out in the piss cold to see the sunrise properly, and the land steam.

-LPM

Triple Breakfast

2010-10-02T04:26:00.000-07:00

-JPD

Postcard Poem

2010-10-01T03:45:00.001-07:00

City's chartered streets

Lost in strangeness

And to our plans.

-RV

Three Poems

2010-09-13T12:24:00.000-07:00

They'll never know

They'll never understand

Peter my only kiss

On that rickety bed

Sweating

Arms around buttocks

Etcetera

-

Whispering about me in corners

Stealing my own stuff

Mummy's boy artist

Waiting for nothing

-

On the Sofa

Densly packed dreams

Cushty leather

Cash in hand

-AP

Milan Milan Milan

2010-08-07T04:19:00.000-07:00

-LPM

Double Portrait: AC/Vilebrequin (race weight)

2010-07-31T05:39:00.000-07:00

- LPM

Double Pink

2010-06-09T06:21:00.001-07:00

-LPM

Cycling Socks

2010-06-06T12:39:00.001-07:00

-LPM

Rhinoceros morning

2010-05-31T14:12:00.000-07:00

-LPM

Each night each night more vulgar than the last

2010-02-04T12:35:00.000-08:00

I have four sheets of err paper in front of me. Fuckers are trading in cheap sentimentality and against it too hehe, err heh yeahh well we were glorious thinking back, bastards! We did it the way nobody else could have – and that’s testament to our youth and the instant generosity of it heh- BASTARDS! - same usual shit uhuh, ha-ha.

I go to bed each night - haha yeh I go to bed each night.

Getting tarted up and going out on the town. No- there is another death that’s been renounced; walking away with nothing but just the usual casual - that it ends there for tears and aspirations etc. Yeah I'll go to bed

-LPM

This joke which ended

2010-01-20T05:49:00.000-08:00

Well, he's lucky it's my birthday - otherwise I would have fucked him as well.

It was one of those things which sound as if they come from behind a wall -

in one of those picture-frame places with a yard and a fence and where no one wants to repeat things, full of men. She had the mouth of a trooper, fists like a docker and a prisoner's arse. Maybe it was a line from a film, or just not a joke or something. People were pissing themselves and sliding about on the floor -

She was in so much trouble they even grabbed her hair - do you know that fat lesbian even accused the parents of not doing a proper job. (She laughed when she heard that, she was picturing them). She said That girl of yours needs - So what. Everyone was normal and boring and bored and funny and that was fine, no one minded flying plant pots or spastics or being scared shitless of getting caught. Laughter. These are the best days of your life!

Before she was on the bus she turned around and said with a look in her eye, 'Shut your fat fucking gob. It better not be' - and that was the first time someone spoke that way. Not the swearing. It was like a crack in the sky in her face. God! she seemed lovely after that

jpd

Whoah Captain Morganti

2010-01-19T12:29:00.000-08:00

Do they have any idea what it is to glide between vision, darkness, I mean completely without vision in the fog -3 degrees headlights picking lines out sliding diagonally rather than cycling? Whoah. Frozen jacket, high contrast lenses. Whoah. Captain bawdy Morganti does, does well Sometimes he looks at the earthquakes and feels like a dinosaur: I don’t know, I’m getting old? He twists my ear. I had a dream last night… I woke up from it. Can you imagine how I felt. I don’t want to repeat myself (heh) but remember those fucking grey cement floors, shithead? I thought I’d never know passion again and I was right. Heh I make decisions, let’s not make a big deal over why they listen, I’m a little far gone personally I’m actually in the airport, in the waiting room, the bedroom not mine heh, the grey floor, the particular light of one morning in particular, the folding of a new season back on the memories of the last time it smelt like this, the drunk morning waking up, the silences, the moments you live for (hah, yes), the cold the big duvet smell.

Swaddling to the shitter silently splattering the walls popping pimples and driving a sports car the next day, this one, this one I'll repeat to the young and unformed.

-LPM

Holiday Photos Summer 2009 Alex + Lodovico

2009-12-11T01:44:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the music. The Rocky Road to Dublin is fantastic.‏

Big lungs.

That jazz club smoke.

Dancing.

Endlessly dancing.

-AP

Dearrr...

2009-12-07T11:32:00.001-08:00

-LPM

Tonight to could be the night I meet my future wife tonight could be the night I might my future wife tonight... (Cinelli Bootleg for M. Morganti))

2009-11-24T14:19:00.000-08:00

Blasted confounded darkness and its accompanying shining lights!!?! I step out and push out. In the dark you don’t notice anything for kilometres. All of a sudden the colours swing past my head as I avoid the splayed and butchered carcasses and shattered ribcages on the dark greasy asphalt ahahaha. I NEVER SAID I LIKE CYCLING what a frickin bore!!!1!

I pull up at the blinding!!! Lights and some sharpshooter, some punk, pulls up to next to me cocking his wrists and says are the sunglasses Oakley is the helmet Giro are the shoes Sidi this is pro cyyyycling!!! I look at this hysterically shrieking CHILD, and this is what I tell young people, my glorious own sunset pink burning youth, back when the bad wind blew through the whole peloton, before the internet or even newspapers and it was just the shattering teeth of us in hotel rooms in far flung angles of Europe ahah, I say listen, first I say gloves never EVER wore them, a wasted and ripped bone-ful teenagehood in Tuscany with Cipo’ and some other Hungarian I’d like to hear from one day, listen carefully NO JERSEY my breeches tied around my waist and the shorts rolled up my ponytail my dark greasy skin the cool corridor and the sweat dripping of me coca-cola etc. etc. - what happens if you fall of yadda-yadda-yap-yap-yap LISTEN you don’t EVER think to fall because to think of it is like to think of an excuse each time you fuck you make an excuse for if you get caught, the time you get caught you’ve run out of excuses to make up to yourself. Do you understand?

This is MY youth and these are stories I tell the young ones, this is how I paint my youth to them throwing a hand back over the past but with a real urge just to talk PUSSY if I ever get the chance, they never understand they don’t have the depth of experience to understand what I mean, haha. Naturally.

A night ride is a flying saucer and a comet in the mind.

-LPM

THE FOLD

2009-10-28T08:43:00.000-07:00

TMR

Frank Vandenbroucke

2009-10-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

I took it differently to most of the others, I mean to anybody else, I ever spoke to on the vulgar fucking subject. There is one thing I don’t know and he knows, and it remains, that's two legs on the same plane knees tucked in, scooting, hollering down, being 17 and taking the piss out of what the older guys can do and having your name, the one you casually drop as you peel off the fucking wheel and go to mother's old home made... potato dumplings bacon?? You virtually admitted to eating virtually nothing when you weren't racing and bashing in sheets of aluminium when you were at school, your morality was there for, for bullshit, there are your eyes, which you give to everybody, then there's what behind them and that's yours, had them since you were 11 or 12 as far as I can remember, when you started bleaching your hair, the most disappointing fuckers are those that stray from the ambitions we had then.

Our rampaging twenties. Yeahh very funny and where were you then? Busting your arse busting my arse it doesn’t really matter frankly I don’t give a shit about you never did if you’re going to speak I want the language to have just eked out of a moment in history otherwise shut the fuck up, to have been spat out like a fleck of gruel stuck in your throat as you threw yourself on the floor - when you threw your bike down you looked like a girl and your legs like the doughy ones of an embarrassed teenager - knowing only that you’d either lost or won and that the crowd was roaring. If you don’t speak then don’t ever bother again.

As we rampaged through that decade.

I don’t give a rat’s arse about what anybody else said about you frankly I think it’s some sick joke that they still talk that way when all I can think of is that you knew something none of us knew and for this I feel a little shitter, a little more deadened than the usual because what a roaring rollercoaster you would have been to be alive, and me too, we would have left the others for dead in your huge sorrows I know, drink me under the table pal, if only, haha, if only then I had the time to savour it the next day. Haha you know you know you know? What do the other's know their behaviour is a clear indication of their wide-spanning and bland painful ignorance, come on.

-LPM

2009-10-15T04:11:00.001-07:00

JPD

EVERYONE I HAVE EVER SLEPT WITH /2008

2009-10-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

1	Damien Hirst
2	Larry Gagosian
3	Kathy Halbreich
4	Nicholas Serota
5	Iwan Wirth
6	Jay Jopling
7	David Zwirner
8	Francois Pinault
9	Jasper Johns
10	Eli Broad
11	Jeff Koons
12	Steven Cohen
13	Daniel Birnbaum
14	Charles Saatchi
15	Brett Gorvy [& Amy Cappellazzo in 2006]
16	Tobias Meyer [& Cheyenne Westphal in 2006]
17	Marian Goodman
18	Gerhard Richter
19	Richard Prince
20	Dominique Levy and Robert Mnuchin
21	Michael Govan
22	Marc Glimcher
23	Annette Schönholzer, Marc Spiegler
24	Alfred Paquement
25	Amanda Sharp & Matthew Slotover
26	Barbara Gladstone
27	Matthew Marks
28	Takashi Murakami
29	Agnes Gund
30	Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed al Nahyan
31	Dakis Joannou
32	Bernard Arnault
33	Richard Serra
34	Sadie Coles
35	Hans Ulrich Obrist [& Julia Peyton-Jones in 2007]
36	Donna De Salvo
37	Simon de Pury
38	Don and Mera Rubell
39	Ann Philbin
40	Paul Schimmel
41	The Cisneros [Patricia Phelps de Cisneros in 2007]
42	Michael Ringier
43	The Mugrabis
44	Chris Kennedy
45	Bruce Nauman
46	Cy Twombly
47	Ai WeiWei
48	Timothy Blum & Jeffrey Poe
49	Andreas Gursky
50	Olafur Eliasson
51	Harry Blain & Graham Southern
52	Jeff Wall
53	Peter Doig
54	Roman Abramovich & Daria Zhukova
55	Bruno Brunnet, Nicole Hackert & Philipp Haverkampf
56	Marlene Dumas
57	Gavin Brown
58	Victoria Miro
59	Mitchell Rales
60	Yvon Lambert
61	Mike Kelley
62	Paul McCarthy
63	Banksy
64	Emmanuel Perrotin
65	William Acquavella
66	Lucian Freud
67	Victor Pinchuk
68	Maurizio Cattelan
69	Cai Guo Qiang
70	Maureen Paley
71	Roberta Smith
72	Peter Schjeldahl
73	Thelma Golden
74	Ralph Rugoff
75	Robert Gober
76	Iwona Blazwick
77	Richard Armstrong
78	Massimiliano Gioni
79	Jerry Saltz
80	Reena Spaulings/Bernadette Corporation
81	Louise Bourgeois
82	Cindy Sherman
83	Okwui Enwezor
84	Jeanne Greenberg Rohatyn
85	Shaun Caley Regen
86	Liam Gillick
87	Miuccia Prada
88	John Baldessari
89	Francesca von Habsburg
90	Christian Boros
91	Nicholas Logsdail
92	Subodh Gupta
93	The Long March Project
94	Paula Cooper
95	Peter Nagy
96	Casey Reas
97	Anita & Poju Zabludowicz
98	Guy & Myriam Ullens
99 100	Laurent Le Bon
	Thomas Kinkade /TMR

Sunday Pt 2

2009-10-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning slide off the grey concrete floor of the apartment as stark as the morning I am dazed and always fucking I’m on the very precipice of abandoning all this stinking nostalgia, the land, the sky, the night, all the time, if I just tremble a little more oh god sugar spills on the table as I tried to put it in my cup coffee after coffee, it’s a hot warm bullet and all I can think about is the suicide, when will I be dead again; there is nobody else in this piss-stinking city (haha and the piss-stinking city was below me that night, the heat off pink bricks wafting up). Morning, fog, or whatever you call it, mist just steam, in London where you never know what time it is, night-time, tunnels. Go away what do you mean do you mean out into the countryside?

Out in the countryside where the morning couldn’t be starker and I stand in it and I wear a white jumper and the vague sunrise is my halo, my hand sways along the horizon, the ocean is not far off and I hear its waves. Being fucked on my back with my head out of the tent looking at the beads of moisture on the grass as if I were a microscope. There are only two big emotions in love and they are confused. Last night I saw the dew form and now I am seeing it vanish again. Too late, this morning should have dragged on forever because I would have lived in it, but it slides by the window, the shadows of my plants, the dried teabag and I barely know what it is to be alive.

-LPM

You See It?

2009-10-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

Orange Ribena...

When i think of you i walk a little taller, i almost float...

Now dont misunderstand and start putting words where they're not... I dont mean that i have butterflies in my stomach, that i see flowers blossoming at every turn, that i think the sun is always shining and the birds chirping, this aint disney, you should remember that...

I have a picture in my mind and its this i want you to see...

You see it?

When i think of you i walk a little taller, i almost float...

Haha

2009-10-09T03:30:00.000-07:00

SINGLE LIFE

2009-10-08T04:00:00.000-07:00

This Latina chick with dick likes to indulge in auto-eroticism with a big mirror as a main accessory. How does she do it? Well, it’s pretty simple. She gets off on the idea that other people are watching while she wretles with her one-eyed serpent, and then she gets doubly aroused with her own image doing that.

/TMR

When you're facing death...

2009-10-07T20:31:00.000-07:00

Whiskey...

Bushmills, 16years...

When you decide to be something, you can be it... But, noone's gonna give it to you, you have to take it...

How i feel? HOW I FEEL? There are no half measures, there's no room for compromise, I need a steady hand and a cool nerve, an unflinching resolve, it's something still shrouded, something that's still evolving, something that could disappear in a whisper. I've got no time for doubt, I've not been where I'm going, but I'm gonna get there...

I'm the best friend I have on the face of this earth, I dont mind going it alone, coz when you're facing death, what else is there...

Sunday

2009-10-04T11:05:00.000-07:00

We didn’t get the best books (And New York… was like that… mirrors, upside down, lines, the kids, nothing to imagine but what you see what a life, and New York was like that. Not like London) no way because the cunts wouldn’t dare try, go on stay up in Hammersmith you stinkin outsider, that’s your London. And it’s dull isn’t it I’d rather die than be up there. And all the stinkin stupid kids did the same thing, went to the same places, picked up the politics, it had made me sick, this isn’t the place for outsiders as they know it, it’s for them as we know it and have known it, since before. The word Hackney should have sent a shiver right down your spine and you could have lived in the marshes, watched the water steaming, woken up off your bed, not seen a single person, gone to the cafe, walked over the little bridge, round the corner, ignored everybody, stomped on idealism and those kids arseholes careerist pieces of shit who didn’t do it right who tied a knot in your stomach and it stayed wrenched as you cried around this bleak shithole, your whole aspiration echoing off the time of day and the LONDON, you crying, as empty as the sound of somebody on the other end of your mobile phone, where are you I’m in LONDON WALKING ROUND BY MYSELF. But the early morning unforgettable, but again and again, you needn’t ever stop talking about this youth, and even held the hand of a girl as you did it, fine, whatever exacerbated your melancholy and nostalgia you were born with it you believed then, in your trembling little baby’s fist, change your accent don’t you dare hold onto your difference, remember it all fifteen years ago, and laugh don’t forget to laugh but not because it’s funny, walk the streets, take everything for granted, the shit etc. don’t believe in change never did, the word hackney sends a shiver down my spine and Roman road and the Victoria park up there, my dirty bicycle, my dreams, they don’t belong to history as they knew it or ever conceived of it big titted arseholes, journalists fuckers, but the fog and the morning and early onset of melancholy, sure you age but we wouldn’t notice it, or ever make anything of it to you, dinner and alcohol, even love, I’m not against it. Ghosts mutters music the shit. The shit the accent the perfect shoes the kids exactly like you that you never met, thank god, they minded their own business even if you were never into the same music fuck it it was your kind of thing too, and if I had em I’d vouch a million pounds to say they were just like me though we never met and they’ve got pride but you doubt it good write the books about something else you’ve got no idea about this Africa, we never wanted to be exceptional in their eyes, just the old cobbled fucking gangways, the fog, or whatever you call it steaming off the canals.

-LPM

THE EUROPEAN GRADUATE SCHOOL

2009-10-03T07:48:00.001-07:00

Scholars all over the west have no fear. There they sit laughing, they’re grand!

TMR

Junk food-menu delirium

2009-10-03T03:54:00.000-07:00

But what a city!.. Sleazy streets, sleazy memorial plaques. And tourists sleazing over sleazy old Matisse. Fountains erect in the name of sleaze, sleazy attics where students candle-light suppers and sleaze all over the Pont Neuf, jingling your pockets, hooting from balconies - rust bending under the weight of sleaze, up your nostrils and melting into your fingertips. At night the Eiffel Tower sprays glittering jizz for sixty seconds every sixty minutes, while school children huff and puff all over in different veins. The sun rises over the Sacred, freshly-baked Heart, the city makes the mating rattle. There are a hundred Polaroid feathers on a wall somewhere which stylists are ruffling, gently stroking, the individuals falling away one by one until only the most fixed stares, or most nonchalant glances, or severe cheekbones or only eyes which are an absinthe-green, skin that would crack beneath a dessert spoon, mouths which form the letter O or the word Tropic, all these irregularities combine a fifteen faces, faces which are imposed to define an age, the PRESENT age, which you have never seen but in which you recognise an idealised version of yourself: Sorry! the most beautiful thing in this city is when it's Paris.
-JPD

The Bicycle Business

2009-10-02T14:16:00.000-07:00

What is this the know-it-all’s guide to framebuilding you don’t know shit. Straight off the bat… nah nah nah nah,/ Nah nah don’t worry about that I’ll lay it straight down the line you don’t even mention the word culture what the hell you know or nostalgia or style or waves and where the damn drawings? Aristocrats were always dying of nostalgia. You know that? You probably don’t even damn know that. Keeling over stiff and dead. You in a position to begin your discussion from this fact? Romantic losers always nostalgic, phewww dropping down out off the radar. I have all the drawings here. In business you have to consider four things: culture, style, nostalgia and China or Taiwan (volume). Make a frame that understands all that fuckface, haha, make a frame… feeling, intuition… haha they don’t mean a thing here, in this jungle, they won’t get you anywhere you need a clear diagram which understands history, how many times do I have to say it? Nobody is going to give a rat’s arse about your aching nostalgia served up on a plate like that and the same goes for your stinking scepticism etc. A clear diagram illustrating the operative mechanisms of history, how many times do I have to say it

-LPM

CURATION WAS GOING TO BE A PROBLEM...

2009-10-02T01:50:00.000-07:00

/TMR

You know, you just know!!

2009-10-01T20:58:00.000-07:00

bourbon...

JTS Brown...

anything can be great, anything can be great, i don't care, bricklaying can be great, if a guy knows, if he knows what he's doin' an' why and he can make it come off, like when im goin' n' i'm really goin', like... i feel like a jockey must feel, he's sitting on that horse, all that speed, all that power underneath him, he's coming into the stretch, the pressure's on him, and he knows, he just feels, when to let it go and how much, coz he's got everything working for him, timing, touch, it's a great feelin', BOY it's a real great feelin', when you're right and you know you're right, there's no better feelin'

all i need, it's all i need, bruised ego, bruised knuckles, it's all i need, it all adds to a character, a character that keeps score real simple, positive 'n' negative, i just need a moment, one moment every day, and i'm right there, on top of that horse, and i feel it, 'n' i know, i just know, and i can grimace the through the layer cake...

Thanks
FEF

I've always believed in myself

2009-10-01T12:02:00.000-07:00

Opened a bottle of good €2 wine and I'm here just shooting the breeze with myself haha there's just no time these days is there, just to sit down and savour it all, pissing all over everybody else down there? Haha Shit if this wine isn't good - Cazzo se non é buono questo vino. Huh? Haha... A moment of reflection as it seems the world roars across the horizon for another evening in my flat or on the balcony sniffing wondering in terror why winter hasn't come yet, because when it hits I'm gone. Fucking arseholes. No. Haha. Un altro bicchier' di vino. This one's for all my friends with whom I wouldn't know what the hell to do.

-LPM

Spitting Come

2009-09-26T01:59:00.000-07:00

I don't what it is about it, being lost, that scared you so much that time, I realised I've wanted to die so many times that I can float. Do you know it means to die? Probably not. I woke up with my heart beating in a panic. I flogged my inanimate dick last night. I was sleepless at 2:45 in the morning in Tokyo I switched on the tv and the manchester derby was on japanese television. Sometimes things are so accelerated for me they make me want to spit my come down on the faces of all the people I used to see. I was there. 4-3. I was there. Even the TV screamed when they scored and all the japanese characters turned into english as they ran. Manchester United 4 - Manchester City 3. I was there.

-LPM

Just been eating pasta with figs, pasta with fresh artichokes, pasta with sardines and sultanas, lasagna, breaded turkey with potatoes, cassata, perfu

2009-09-20T23:58:00.000-07:00

med Neapolitan cake, cake with pinenuts, mirto liquor, a selection from 100 ice creams, custard donuts, potatoes with porcini, tuna wrapped in aubergine. 4-4-2

Schmeichel

Cafu Nesta Ferdinand R. Carlos

R. Keane

Iniesta Maradona

Zidane

Ronaldo Inzaghi

-AP

Ernesto Colnago

2009-09-14T13:22:00.001-07:00

Where we been? Where the boys been? Haha just popped for a quick suck off underneath the bridge haha. We gave her an extra twenty bucks and said wait that’s for the guy who rides past on his colnago around six thirty in the evening, she said colnago yeah I had Ernesto here once grabbed his head while he was doing me and pulled off his hair, I mean his wig, you know, yeah I know Ernesto, no no we said to her the kid is called Lodovico he rrrides a colnago ok?

-LPM

comment; raw egg in beer

2009-09-05T07:24:00.000-07:00

While painting out the shades of the white square, the gambler indulged himself in thoughts…
During the last year, a strong contempt, to which he had always been inclined, had grown fiercer. His gnawing hatred of humanity had reached such a pitch, that the sight of a disagreeable person, or most people he knew, would etch itself into his brain so deeply, as to require several days for its imprint to be even slightly dulled; a touch of a human form, brushed against in the streets, was a most excruciating torment and he would return to his room in a rage and lock himself in with his books and greasy racing posts.
Here he pickled himself in letters and gambling; everything vanished in the dust from those galloping horses. He was not one to romanticise loosing in this game; a systematic winner, he started to see overwhelming patterns of time floating before his eyes through the hooves of the speeding beasts…shiny numbers, tensed veins, all this made up a real engagement with the pure duration of a detached life
It turned his stomach, the look of disgust and disappointment he received from questioning faces on finding out this was sole occupation. It infuriated him beyond measures; who the fuck were they? WHAT the fuck were they?
And thus, he eventually became a complete recluse (was it even a choice?). Ready to beat the world on half seconds, he took off on his own ... A n y w h e r e o u t o f t h i s w o r l d.

TMR

Raw Egg In A Beer

2009-09-05T04:21:00.000-07:00

fuck everybody, tossers, can we just win this so we can fuck off and retire, and write, im tired, and angry, ive been reading against nature, there is a passage in it where he describes des esseintes walking down the street, and all he is thinking about is smacking someone around the face because they're so fucking stupid...john the number of people who look at me like i have a disease when they ask what im doing, and i answer that im watching and betting on horse racing, is enough to turn my stomach, the look in their eyes is disgust and disappointment, it infuriates me, disappointment pah, who the fuck are they? what the fuck are they? they have no fucking clue, "slaves give birth to slaves" snarls Nikolai Luzhin, i cant wait to leave it all behind, only a you understand the work that i put in, and only a few know that this is a way out, a way out of the shit, i was walking today in the sun and was watching my shadow, i was amazed at how calm it was, it was just floating, it wasnt walking, it was floating, completely at ease with where and what it was doing, i tried to imitate it, i want to be a shadow in this city, "i dont wanna be a product of my environment, i want my environment to be a product of me" F. Costello

Analysis 1

2009-08-30T07:40:00.000-07:00

How and why did the future change???
As unemployment becomes an increasing reality, how might we think of unemployment as an artistic and philosophical category?
TMR

The Evening

2009-08-28T13:35:00.000-07:00

I thought the glory… the world would be at my feet… as I punched the air with one fist… everybody watching me… the glory… the world at my feet… satisfaction is, obviously, having nothing left to do, imagine! And… the piss-stinking city was below me, me… ha ha… I am scorched pink earth (THAT EVENING I DIDN’T DISTINGUISH THE EARTH FROM THE SKY, horizon)… the world actually streams out from my head… like tending to the plants on my small balcony. It’s true.

When I can’t sleep… or who knows when (actually that this thing is happening)… aching for… I think… it’s all a question of this battle with death… I run to suicide inventing all before me…

with nothing behind your eyelids… only the world is a couple of lines I invented… until youth hits some extreme exhaustion like a truck running straight into a wall at 90 clicks in the middle of the night with the high beams on… And what then may await us? … Your head in the stars.

And then refuse to die, as if the shell of yourself can keep going… without anything to distinguish itself from a shell. This being your pathetic will, I imagine, and I admire it. Everything after youth merely refusing death… in a straight line, any other discourse being deviant bullshit.

-LPM

First Day (serves all)

2009-08-24T13:29:00.000-07:00

JPD

Breakfast for ONE (Peasoup & Mocca)

2009-08-24T01:58:00.000-07:00

TMR

I Can Remember Helmut Newton Like It Was Yesterday

2009-08-15T05:22:00.000-07:00

JPD

Africa Pt 2

2009-08-15T04:01:00.000-07:00

Only pussies don’t write.

Snigger

Sunsets, mountains, foggy panoramas, a life under the stars etc. I move on absolutely without any new purpose.

I just cut the sleeves off my jersey haha…

A Ferrari roars past me on the highway.
“Forte!” I roar back fist waggling laughing to myself.

I go into the highway supermarket and smell the salamis, I can’t stop laughing to myself. Don’t look at the fat German young sisters with their parents buying pasta souvenirs!!! A sort of lesson in futility,

dear friend,

Even during the day I imagine myself on the bicycle, jack-knifing it up the hill, wiping the fucking floor with you.

-LPM

The Quiet Life of the Alcoholic (Serves one)

2009-08-13T06:15:00.000-07:00

TMR

BIRTHDAY DINNER (serves one)/TMR

2009-08-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

Africa

2009-08-11T03:51:00.000-07:00

Imagine you are in Africa.

You are in Italy.

I miss you. No no no. Early morning steaming or late afternoon disintegrating. So much space to think.

The birds scatter through the vines as I cycle past them on the hill.

I feel cut and dried. No no no no. I feel like Lance Armstrong haha

LPM

Dogs Dinner (Serves One)

2009-08-09T13:56:00.001-07:00

Serves One (Where Do I Go From Here?)

2009-08-09T12:38:00.001-07:00

JPD

For the Execution of Juice

2009-08-05T04:01:00.000-07:00

JPD

Lentils

2009-08-04T04:44:00.000-07:00

All the things I’ve seen…

Haha…

The mountains always to the left as the train runs this way. Here everything flat, speeding through one piece of weather to the next. The rain, the low black clouds growling, the mist, the floury sun; everything is enormous and exact. The large hand that moves the weather moves so quickly.

He put his head out of the window and waited.

“I wanted it to belong to me.”

“That’s why I came here.”

Looking at the moon, eating lentils off my fingers…

How could my life, its irrepeatable sensations love etc. ever be sad if I continue further and further into the jungle alone?

-LPM

TYRKISK BROT UND REMBRANDT

2009-08-04T04:21:00.000-07:00

Serves one for one day long
TMR

Eating Salad Everday Over Here

2009-08-02T09:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve been doing this for years. Haha.

To thin my blood out.

I wondered whether it was possible to suicide myself and be born again. I thought maybe in life there are things you can only do once.

…

I got my education in… haha…

Where do you think I learnt to cook?

Outside my flat I have observed the following pieces of graffiti:
6 mesi 6 months
x sempre mia for ever mine
x sempre tuo for ever yours
pupa ti amo pupa I love you

If I become one thing can I then become another, completely different, afterwards? Or not?

...

Things happen

I brush past them, “I have other things to do”

-LPM

Spaghetti: Basil, Grana Padano

2009-07-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

(Serves one)
For grease-spattered, shirtless practice runs in loneliness.
JPD

Eggs (serves one)

2009-07-28T02:17:00.000-07:00