Dai Coelacanth arrived a year ago. He had been on a holiday in Greece. It started then. Thinking while listening. Something happened. A man who was there when Mr. Sony sent his walkman to earth. They fell on every shop and in every home like children’s balloons who had gone the reverse way.
He still has a walkman. Other people have a smart phone. Both walk the streets and talk freely into a microphone. Both transmit messages.
Dai makes cassette walkman art. And I wonder if he is the only one.
Raw and rude recordings, like the streets of a post industrial town are rude and rough. We don’t live on touch screens.
Words, fragments of words, short fantasies, fragments of fairy tales told to the granddaughter and the dirt sounds of the traffic to warp it all. To me this is great art.
Mr Malignant had made a mess on his bathing suit it was the atmosphere on the planet forcing everything out first it was the letters and numbers but then it spread to the other waste products. The villagers were in deep hibernation. Not out of choice. Nancy had avoided it. She was sneaky and blue. Now she hid amongst the tall dreams and worried about her feet. The TV room on space station YABA was a right state filthy crap smeared all over the walls the carpets hadn’t been seen in months something horrible coming off the ceiling … and the smell. It was the soap operas. They sent Astronauts crazy, code sequences hidden deep within the glands reactivated and wayward
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