"Aizvest tevi tur kur tev deguns rāda" / "Taking You Where You Want To Go"

Alik and Silika;
"Aizvest tevi tur kur tev deguns rāda" / "Taking You Where You Want To Go"

Sharlotta on the Streets

"Sharlotta Portrait I"

"Laba ticība" / "Good Faith"

"Mana dzīve starp metāla kokiem" / "My Life Amongst the Metal Trees"

Syberium;

"Mana dzīve starp metāla kokiem" / "My Life Amongst the Metal Trees"

Syberium #1; My Life Amongst the Metal Trees

Steadily stepping out of my haunt - Old Lynn’s 90’s-chic retropub, Buffer Underrun - on Monday afternoon I found myself confronted with a basic realisation. I am helplessly and hopelessly depressed. And that I want to die. Now. Only my work for CABAL keeps my interest during these long days of nothing, and even that is beginning to trail off into this self-same nothingness, with fellow supporters lurching into nihilism and totally absurd situationism. People say I should be thankful for what I have, but I can only nod a vacant lie back to them.

Five years ago I had everything. A beautiful wife, son and home. I even had a good job in construction. I don’t mean to go on about it, but that was an absolute fact. My wife was raped by six Русский язык soldiers as my son was forced to watch by the seventh patrolman. My son died soon after. My wife might as well have done; she was still physically there but, if you dared to look at her, you could see straight through her shell into a terminal, grey void. We had to leave our self-destructing country, but she grew to detest my eager, smothering arms and overpowering best intentions. Thus we begin on our separate paths and were no more.

In truth, I cannot connect to anyone or anything here. I feel faceless and non-descript as I walk the streets of Old Lynn – worse, that I really am unwanted and worthless as I parade my frame around the usual job units and building sites for work. They say I steal jobs away from the natives and, if I am honest, I wish that was indeed the case. But I haven’t worked for one whole day since arriving here in Cracktown.

Do you know what it is like to not have anyone at all recognise your face? Thankfully, there is a small group of people living in the Migrant Quarter that I can converse with, to share drink. I would have to say that we share more in common with our sense of woe and despair than we do with our geography. We have that same look on our faces; avoid eye contact / keep your head down / prove your worth / don’t react when a native spits on you / retreat quickly if someone hits you.

The large pale natives jeer at us all, point condemningly at us, and say we have it easy. That we take advantage of this country’s benefits system. That we’re freeloaders. Ad nauseum. Well, they can go fuck themselves. They know nothing about me. About my wife. About my life.

I have found a way out. A small metal portakabin hidden away near the Lilith Plantation, to the North of the Swaffham Cageworks, surrounded by rare, dense areas of trees. Buzzing cellphone towers stand guard like majestic metal sentinels nearby, but its so quiet there, in that long-abandoned construction site. I have spent several weeks sneaking up to the site this year, making an accessible yet discreet route for me to come and go, and repairing the kabin like I was some kind of uber-conscientious squatter. I cycle up there when it gets to the gloaming time (its about 8 miles away from the migrant quarter). I find shards of myself in my solitude there in that rusting metallic box, away from the pools of piss and drunken abuse from the natives. I am a drug user here in my kingdom, yes, but any umbrella of comfort in a raging storm should be grabbed – at least as a short-term measure. Yes, I am still alone there – but under that roof, my roof, I am no longer lonely.

Last night I was there, laying in the kabin under candlelight, watching the flickers of flame reflect and dance on the metal ceiling. I heard the very familiar overhead buzzing from the cellphone towers and I drifted into a half-sleep, fantasising as to what telephone conversations were being transmitted through the electrical, snapping signal pulses from these metal giants as I lay in slumber.

…

“My love, I miss you so much. You are my world. Every day without you is…”

“Hello Mr. Raven. We have called to inform you that your last Direct Debit payment was withdrawn by your bank. We are sorry but…”

“I regret not being with you, but I can no longer do this…this… thing we have. I don’t love you. I am so sorry. Too much has happened that I…”

“If you do not provide an alternative payment method, you will be…”

“But I don’t understand. You know I love you – you MUST love me. Remember all those things you said to me. I still have all your texts. You said I was the ideal partner for you…”

“You have 14 days to pay the outstanding amount…”

“Please stay with me. I cannot live without you. Our child…”

“We will be forced to take stronger action…”

“Please tell me you will reconsider. I will give up everything just to be by your side. I would give my life for you and risk…”

“If you do not resolve this matter, your home may be at risk…”

…

I woke up a couple of hours later. A gentle rainfall was pattering on the kabin roof, creating a slight, soothing echo on the metal surface almost like a wind chime reverberating in the darkness here in my man-made sanctuary (the candle had long since burnt out). My thoughts and faculties came back as the chiming rain stopped. To my surprise I could see beams of light wavering through the steel grids of the solitary window, occasionally lighting up the interior of my rural abode. I laid there for some time, watching these strange beams of light, before the question as to what they actually were came to me. I got up, unlocked and opened the kabin door to see…

Well, it was just amazing. The sky was filled with shades of purple, green, and dark orange. A pulsing, psychedelic bruise in the night sky that came to befriend and to love me that night. I looked around at the nearby trees, through to the distant clearing of the abandoned industrial site, and much further into the distance; everything was changing vibrant colour and I felt a broad blissful smile form on my face – almost as if I wasn’t in control of my reactions. At that very moment I felt like I was a truly free human being. Surrounded by puddles and churned-up tyre-marked terrain, this land was all lit up in a very strange fashion but so beautiful. It seemed like this HAARP-induced, artificial but accidental weather effect was reminding me of something I had clearly long-forgotten.

But, just I almost reached that moment of realisation, the faux-northern lights faded into the black, starless sky without a trace, its balmy warmth ebbing away with it as it died into the night.

I continued staring at the crow-black night sky for several minutes, but nothing came back to me. The night grew ever colder, and I realised I felt naked and abandoned out there after such a phenomenal personal light show. I could also feel a sense of dreaded loneliness seeping back into every pore and knew I must leave my metal box for the night, otherwise risking everything that that kabin represented.

I left my bicycle locked up in the kabin and walked all 8 miles back to Old Lynn in the early hours of this morning, for some reason not bearing the thought of cycling home. I stopped momentarily on the outskirts of the town (or city – since the Norfolk floods and the resulting mass-migration to Old Lynn, no-one knows what it is any more). I surveyed the familiar horizon of Cracktown’s ailing industries and newly constructed towerblocks, the silhouettes of cranes and other construction machinery now becoming visible in the early morning sky. I looked behind me one last time, back into the distance of the wooded land from which I came, dried my eyes and continued on my journey back to the Migrant Quarter.

When I arrived back at my room on the estate, by around 4am, I fell into the deepest sleep I had ever experienced. I woke up abruptly at dinnertime today having this vivid sense that I had dreamt of my son. I could not picture the dream in my mind at all, but I could feel it. I could feel him. My son was in my dreams, for the first time since his passing, and he held me tightly in his arms. And I could feel him smiling.

Syberium.

Cracktown v2.0; Bitter Stimulus [2/5; Red Slate]

Chatroom Excerpt #2

Silika #1; "Soaring Demons Now Swarm the Skies, In Awe and Heretic Pride

Alik, Syberium and I are here, in the Lilith Plantation; Brown/white rocks, works, vials of 35x Salvia, and Absinthe keeping us company around the campfire as the night looms overhead.

Hit 4 of Rock #1; foil and fire.
Hit 5 of Rock #2; Red Red Red REd REDDDDDDDDDDD.
Hit 7 of Rock #2; THe Sky IS bleeding. I have cut the clouds open and the gore and blood fall into the surgeon's lap.



Suffocating blankness in a rose-red sky of tears. Today I want to remove my shirt and bind my arms in black plastic strips of tape. The clouds bleed onto my skin. Salvia high strength and distortinh/distorting.

I stand and observe the damp lands reflecting the blood-engorged clouds, pregnant belly protruding. In this plantation, surrounded by dead and dying trees, I see myself in mirror-view. A peacock fuck. A grasp at artificial nothing; my Bebo Blush and Myspace Hijinks.

I down another inhale of angel white vapour with black rim, replace the metal paper, and resign with my ironic slackjaws; smile smile smile smile smile at the cellphone snapshot jingle of this instant-communicate-world, my sweet comrade.

Life is fine/life is white, when you don’t have to think – so drink another… and inhale another… Relax into my comfort redundancy. So I’m into “indie” music and I love the Raconteurs. Remove my beliefs there…that’s better / there… that’s better. I am trite, I am emptiness personified, I am a suffocating blank, and I am female. With child.

I feel the fetus heartbeat, its echoes reverberating through my tired, scarred frame. I inhale once more and the heartbeat fades to the back of my head – still constant, but dulled by the immediacy of the hit.

Feeling this sadness, an age-old illness, is heart-wrenching in its commonality all the fucking time. Sick of it [take another hit…]

Sickoftheconstantreminderthatiamadepressivesadperson.whycaninotfeelbetter????????? whatdoesittake //take/TAKE???

0-0``1`..;horrific advertising….prop-a-gandhi pamphlets{:{}:@ the art sensibility of subversion¬!””£ ££££££ No reason to live and every reason to die]]]] THE REAL STORY; Humanity = worthless antiquity [another hiiiiittttt from the dragonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn]

Every 400words you have an advertisement. Heroin is everything- doitdoitdoitoditoditoiodoitodiodoitdoi0i0101010101011001101011011010110101

Leviathan = Levi Frederick Auker???????? The EnD.

Decay fetish & social degeneration; the endless soft white blur of grief breakaway

Silika & Alik;

"Mēs kritīsim kopa" / "We Fall Together"

So much/many blood clouds....

I love Alik with all my rotten heart, and all of my baby’s heart. He is my everything

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Silika –Silk Ka – Silkia – Siky –Silky –Silika Z.

[An iPhone App to mend my filthy soul]

Florian In Excelsis

"FLORIAN IN EXCELSIS"

Florian Van Jannel

Old Lynn's own "Conceptual Artist", the eccentric-yet-endearing Florian Van Jannel, recently made headline news for his Deceased-Rodent-Spleen-Mary installation at the Washlands Gallery (December 2013-February 2014). There were whispers of outrage and shouts of indifference from every corner of the East Anglian art circuit; cliques were being clicked, and peacock feathers were being ruffled, basically speaking.

And we have him right here for you, today, in our very offices, to explain himself and to answer the burning questions that YOU, our favourite Quicklime News readers, want to ask him. So, without further ado;

Q1. "Hi Florian. I really love your work. You are waaaaaay out there man. The degradation looks so beautiful and beige. Anyhoo, I went to a gallery opening for regional pop artist Dick Slap esq. the other night. A rather mediocre show itself, but I swear I saw you handing out drinks and food to the gallery visitors wearing a gas mask. Was that you??"

A1. Why yes, it was indeed my good self there, helping out good old Dick. We go back a long way (I first met him at one of my happenings 7 months ago). The way I see it, all of my performances and secret/unbilled appearances are a good way to bridge myself between major installations - it also keeps my public profile very, um, well, public! Its all good clean fun - except when its dirty. Good question!

Florian Van Jannel. Backstage during one recent gallery "performance".

Q2. "Hi Florian. I just wanted to say that I don't really rate your 'work', such as it is, at all really. I find it moribund at best. Am I missing a trick here? Am I getting it all wrong?"

A2. No no. I would say that 'moribund' covers it nicely. Its just how you market that moribundance that matters. Good question!

Q3. "So then, big fella, what do you have in store for us in the future then, eh? EH?"

A3. Lots. To tell you the truth, I am so overworked at the moment, I just find myself falling asleep all the time, often without warning. Which is helpful, as I am otherwise terribly lonely. The Deceased-Rodent-Spleen-Mary installation makes its way to Munich at the end of the month (see you there!), then on to Michigan, and then on to the McBain Gallery in Malta. If you haven't guessed already, I plan to work my way through the alphabet of countries & cities with my touring works. Arf. Alongside other projects that I cannot talk about at the moment (because I haven't thought of any yet), I will also continue to do unscheduled gallery appearances whilst wearing all kinds of breathing-restricted masks. Good question!

Q4. "Hi Florian. Big fan. What do you say people who just don't 'get' conceptualism or modern conceptual art in general?"

A4. I'd recommend them to look again. Good question!

Q5. "What is your most proudest moment in your art career?"

A5. Ah, now that's easy; Eating a fish supper with Joel-Peter Witkin. Paris. 2007. Good question!

Q6. "Are you not more of a bourgeois situationist troublemaker than you are a Fine Artist?

A6. "Well, I don't know about all that. I am just being me. I tend to attach labels to myself and my work only when I can't sleep at night (which, as I say, is quite rare at the moment). Oh, and I'm not a Fine Artist. I am a Damn Fine Artist. Good question!

Well, a big thank you to you all for your questions, and I hope to speak to you, my audience, again very soon indeed. Hugs & kisses, Florian x

"Claret Trees in Motion" 2014. Florian Van Jannel.

Along with all of the above-mentioned projects, Florian's future includes a digital exploration of trees, his "Claret Trees in Motion" work already causing a major stir on the continent, and a planned multimedia collaboration with Russian cannibal celebrity Виталий in late 2015. Rest assured, we will be seeing a LOT more of our controversial golden boy in the very near future.

Whether you like it or not.

Quicklime Newsdesk.
May 2014.

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