February 11, 2018

Emptyscapes in Beverly Hills

Please do not feel under any obligation to attend this event…

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January 6, 2018

Poit of Procrastination: El Eh Weekly

http://www.laweekly.com/arts/meet-john-tottenham-las-poet-of-procrastination-9027939

January 2, 2018

Some former curmudgeons…

Some former curmudgeons, later in life, make a conscious decision to become warm and encompassing individuals. As mortality becomes more tangible, they realize that it’s a waste of rapidly diminishing time to be cagey and mean-spirited, and with an effort—no less laudable for being discernible—they summon long-buried reserves of warmth and generosity. They realize that it’s time to be a good person, and strive towards that end until it comes naturally. Such a position, however, requires financial (and sometimes connubial) well-being: a secure center from which geniality and generosity can flow outward. It can be a heroic feat and is probably very rewarding for all concerned. Unfortunately, I am incapable of it on a practical level, as I will probably never be able to financially (or connubially) afford it.

December 23, 2017

The One

I am the one
waiting for the One.

I have never entered a room
without hoping that the One
I am waiting for
might be found there.

Despite decades of disappointment,
I still look for her in every face,
looking for somebody to become that place
where everything that falls apart
falls into place.

But if I found her, I wouldn’t want her,
for as long as the possibility
of somebody else wanting me exists,
I will always want somebody else.

And I realize now that if she ever does arrive
it will not be in the prime of either of our lives,
at a cocktail party with a drink in her hand,
but that she is more likely to arrive holding a bedpan
as I am breathing my last in a hospital bed.

Only then, with restlessness and hope extinguished,
and all other options exhausted,
will I finally be ready
for the One.

December 20, 2017

Gravy In The Rain

Italian broadcast from Radio Kaos featuring unknown interpreter “reading and stumbling over selections” of Inertia and Antiepithalamia.

 

December 2, 2017

WINDSONG

I have a heart like a wheelbarrow,
there are no windmills in my mind.
Love blows in and floats around freely
like the wind – getting in the way
of other things.

This rootless love without design,
which has no object, point or point of origin –
one looks for it in every face,
looking for somebody to become that place
where everything that falls apart
falls into place.

It seeks definition, a place of rest,
to find its home in a woman’s breast –
to die there, or multiply there.
When, surely, to keep it to oneself
would be best.

November 10, 2017

Regen Projects group show

September 18, 2017

Inertia Variations (slight return)

The The’s interpretation of John Tottenham’s The Inertia Variations will be released this fall. It features Matt Johnson’s oratorial stylings laid over a gorgeous soundscape and an ingeniously devised morning-till-night time frame rearrangement of the original work.
Available October 6th…
http://http://www.thethe.com/

September 18, 2017

Inertia Variations – The Film

The Inertia Variations, a feature-length documentary by Matt Johnson (The The) and Johanna St Michaels—inspired by John Tottenham’s book of the same name—will be making the rounds in the UK this autumn. Matt Johnson’s recitation of ‘Inertia’ verses function as a sort of verbal soundtrack that is woven throughout the film as he reflects upon his own struggles with work-avoidance, indolence and related afflictions and affinities.
The film will run at the ICA in London from October 20th to 26th, followed by engagements in Bristol and Manchester.
http://http://www.thethe.com/news/

 

July 22, 2017

The lowest form of literary endeavor

Yet I honor this stale ceremony.
As if anything of value might be extracted from the refinement of futility.
Recoiling from the sight of these words dying on the page.
The results induce uneasiness and distaste, but I must press on and complete something for once in my life, even if it should have been expunged from my system twenty years ago and has grown irredeemably stale; even if it falls miserably short of my aim, not that I ever had an aim.
It would be nice if all this was building up to something. But it isn’t.
Nevertheless, I proceed.
Towards what futile end I know not.
I thought there was still time to get started but it’s almost all over.
Maybe I’ve done everything I was ever capable of doing.
Just because it went unnoticed doesn’t mean it’s not over.
At this rate, maybe, in ten years time, if I’m lucky, I might have completed something, if I live that long.
I certainly can’t blame anybody for their indifference. I already find my own interest waning.
There’s no point carrying on about it.
This is surely the lowest form of literary endeavor: driveling on about oneself.
What’s the point of actualizing oneself if nobody can relate to what you’re actualizing or derive derive any solace from it?
But it can be pleasant sitting here, stroking the keys in anticipation.
There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. That’s the sad part… one of the saddest parts.

At least write one line this morning: