a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

.

i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything

there's probably something in that, but I don't feel like thinking about it too much yet.

a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it

theres a kind of a cowardice to generative art that i want to avoid though. i want the kind of relationship to this thing that a game designer has to a game engine

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.


There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

there is a distinction between western-modern pedagogical systems that's like text-based as in a legal method but there is an idea of "pathshala" or "guru shissho"/ "porompora" i mean how masters relayed knowledge to the student by (oral) transmission often by memorising books. so what was taught was always interactive. knowledge was interactive, you spoke with people rather than read texts.

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

but i respect your search

brb i will read and reply sincerely

hiding from the rain

mazelike/rhizomatic/immanent/emergent are not antithetical to a transcendent real but its very manifestation

Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.

Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:27:13


Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.

After I get away from the old racist failed actor, I go to see my Korean colleague. He's just arrived in London and I want to see how he's handling the party. We'd been invited as fresh meat for some of the older, gayer attendees. We aren't aware of that.