Failed Visionary
Am I empty at the core or just around the edges?
Are there riches therein? I wouldn’t know.
I’m weighed down in a warm white glow,
crushing the stark yellow dullness of the day
into dust, statically and statelessly drifting
throughout this haze of rust. Riding the waves
of lostness across the landscape of a desk,
into the bulwark of a threadbare curtain.
Italian broadcast from Radio Kaos featuring unknown interpreter “reading and stumbling over selections” of Inertia and Antiepithalamia.
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/
I waited a long time
to become a failure.
It took longer than I expected.
Was it worth the wait?
Frankly, no.
It was all in the anticipation.
But it was nice to have something
to look forward to.
Matt Johnson’s Inertia Variations film/ installation
will be presented in Gothenburg, Sweden this month.
http://konstepidemin.se/kalender/radio-cineola-the-inertia-variations
http://www.rodasten.com/rs_events/view/radio_cineola_sv/?lang=se
Contact with anybody
who has produced work of quality
fills me with an air of thwarted yearning empathy,
an implausible sense of fraternity,
a melancholy sting. Regret and resentment
gnawing at me, eating me alive.
This is what you reap
when you haven’t sown anything.
Between these three points of love
and sloth (mostly the latter),
I flounder. Resting, without laurels,
restlessly. Pausing between pauses,
to inventory this harvest of regret;
to consider from every angle of unease,
this permanent rut… to forever name remainless,
staring at a curtain.
Putting in the time:
Watching: the trembling curtains.
Listening: to the constant hum of indecision.
Waiting: to languish without remorse or hope
of false dawn; to be able to do nothing
and call it nothing. To sink:
where I have never sunk before.
To fade, only to be found again.
The other lives I might have led
all now might as well be
dead. Survived by no one.
Barren, without issue of any sort:
this withered bud, failed
in art and love. With no time left
to change my course. But time enough
for infinite remorse.
John Tottenham 