I bought the handsome mug pictured above for €25.

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Smile Party, 2009. Campaigning on Ginza dori in Tokyo. Today is election day!

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Then is one not only not an artist or architect or writer or baker, but one doesn't even make art, design architecture, write or bake – one produces – perhaps it could be called producing oneself, since all other categories are externally decided divisions.

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Rare recordings of the famous Pink Glass Swans are now available for free download or streaming audio!!!

http://www.last.fm/music/Pink+Glass+Swans

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Undertaking such activities as sewing together a bunch of banana leaves discovered in plastic under my bed in my new apartment and installing the assemblage on my balcony to give something for the neighbors to look at; I suddenly find a pair of eyes staring at me from within my conscience: those eyes belong to Amélie.

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Last night after dinner, reluctant to return to the small apartment, I rode the bicycle without aim down a large boulevard in the Northeast of the city. Gradually I was overtaken by four men on their bicycles, maybe getting off work (strokes of plaster dust on their shirts). As they passed slowly, all of us caught in tides of jettying buses, I decided to stay with them.

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A fictional conversation between Xu Tan and Michael Eddy

It is evening and Xu Tan pops his head into my room. I am on my bed, producing a watercolor. He says, excuse me, gentleman, can I ask you something? Yes, sure, what is it boss, I answer.
I wanted to ask about the word 'efficiency'.
Well, that's an awfully big word.

(...)

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After graduating from NSCAD, I began planning a road trip across the United States to reach the West Coast. I thought that it might be an idea to try and contact artists whose work I thought was interesting, and if nothing more, just visit them. It was a very naïve notion, I confess. When I tried finding their contact information, enquiring through galleries or university faculty lists, I would only receive answers from assistants. At the time, I was surprised; I just had no idea how this thing works. It occurred to me at the time – but I failed to act on it then – that instead I could just meet these assistants.

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George Brecht comes to mind as an artist whose career significantly and famously overlapped his "normal" job working at pharmaceutical companies, as one can hardly imagine two areas that seem less connected. Admittedly this fact is built into a persona, but it is still these days either a fairly rare PR strategy (excepting the tortured furniture designer Cattelan, Nan Goldin the sex trade worker, Serra the mythic steelsmith, Koons the cunning stockbroker) or not very common to talk about one's money job. (...)

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My apartment building is being illegaly dismantled to push through the construction of a private school...

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Kernel of pride like walnut lymph, spiritual microphone; the pioneer is a character buried deep in self-incommunication, speaking from screen porch to dark hinterland, an imagined eternity into which the discourse spews without echo, feedback or recast. (...)

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latent

The photographic process to some extent still entails the storing of experiences for later use, although on the digital front the contrast between then and now is almost negligible. (...)

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We should not cook our disparity, so that it unfirms and yields, sides oozing together plastically. This relationship is not a lasagna, with coquettish veil of noodle separating effetely our substances. Passing over with reluctant ease, driven by affected affront, determined to clear the name, and to sacrifice principles by resort to wicked osmosis: we forego all this. We, in profile, without a quiver of the chin toward frontality, without address, compelled by the desire to cleave the We in two, not flatly but widely refuse – a breezeway as buffer, across a cold cross-traffic which constantly moves, never to align. No nearness.

2007

A hangover can achieve a spiritual state – not to say it is blissful or pure – but intense in such a horrifically holistic sense as to call to question existential premises. All quarters of the body moan mutiny; the stomach, bloated and volatile; the breath and even the heart limping reluctantly; the hands dumb on their own; eyes blurred and rotten; the head, with a weight on death-drive pedal, rancorously aware of its own subterranean slowness, its contents smoldering darkly, impossible, vindictive, eternal.
(Amazing that such a solid mood is perhaps so temporary, and at the same time I am violently outraged by the suggestion that my experience isn’t real. Like a casualty bleeding profusely, I perform regular reality checks, reminding myself that I am merely hung over, but feeling insulted by my own relativizing; the ugliness of which causes parentheses around this paragraph. I suppose if there are true believers in hangovers, there would have to be Protestants as well as Catholics.)