Come come keston, pull your head up from out of that dingy puddle, it
doesn't really suit you.

Any suggestion of a space untarnished by the filth of capital, any
suggestion that there is some money that isn't simply "money" seems a spit
and polish idealism of the Jurassic.

I'd like to be commissioned for the big screen in Piccadilly Circus (Jenny
Holzer already was). I'd like to make writing specifically for billboards,
the fronts and sides of passing buses blah blah blah. Keston, you get on
your hard sell horse from time to time on this very list. Is 'our' money
any cleaner than Wendy Cope's. You can't be serious.

As to the hypothetical anthological proposals, what's to be afraid of. I
always find seeing my own work, or hearing my own work out there in print
or on CD, the radio or whatever, an excruciatingly embarassing moment. An
almost Lacanian moment of lost opportunity my interior critic often chimes.
If an 'i'll respect your shit and you respect my shit' community is worth
having, and I obviously feel that it's worth an effort, then a proposal to
drop the gloves of defensiveness and talk might be a start. To such an end,
deigning to be in a shared space makes such talk possible. Too much occurs
and is reinforced in the focii of its puffing beligerence, through fear of
inconsequence  -  either one's own or one's opponent apparent. I warm to
the prospect of a reader moving from six one page poems by a. anon (say
Wendy Cope, go on then Carol Ann Duffy, let's take the claret in advance)
and then segueing into a six page piece by Keston Sutherland. Chills might
be sent in both directions. Breezes might circulate. Tongues wag. Wags beg
to differ. Dogs defer to the houseproud. Houses collapse in the wake of
flood. Waters flush the market square. Circles be moved into and rehoused
through agencies set up for the new refugees from agency.

Where's you generosity Keston, where the spirit of the fray?

Tonite Sianed is performing at the launch of 'The Female of the Species' CD
to reopen the Scala alongside Apache 61, Kaffe Mathews. Dodo, Bit-Tonic,
W.O.T., Protein, Red Stone, Tasha Killer Pussies, Starfish Enterprise and
Hanni Bear.
Should she keep herself hidden within the safety of the academic
electroc-acoustic 'community?

Tomorrow we both perform at a bastion of embourgeosiedom, the ICA  -
gateway to or construction-site of a certain 'mainstream'  -  in an event
called 'Writing Aloud' alongside Fabienne Audeoud, Aaron Williamson in the
wake of a workshop run there by Joan Retallack. Are we all selling out in
that hiedously designer-beer and Sun Microsystems fronted context on the
queeens high way?

Indeed are we sad fuckers desperately touting for an audience?

Surely the answers are in all senses yes. But I protest, none of this is
true. I refuse to allow my work to be published in this worst of all
possible worlds. Pah! It's not about numbers or sales or fame or ambition
(in a limited sense) or . . . add yer own poison (or poisson). It's about
conversation, discourse if you will. Bashing one's self against the
shipwrecks, or some such wreaks, of denial. Moving counter to the
ossifications of dominant consensual realities resulting from fixated
positions. Feeling uncomfortable and learning how to field that to positive
and yes discursively robust effects.

Keith Tuma's post proposes cunning tactical strategies that perhaps deserve
less knee-jerk (and this from a jerk who's on his knees here, slobbering
nay blustering with compassion) responses. Though perhaps that's the
apposite of your intent?

love and love
cris




%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%