Supplement: The postwarwickshire Institute



















I thought it was real

I thought it was noise

I thought it was a category

I thought it was an event horizon



I needed to tell you like this. I needed to tell you that it’s a rift, some sick and sadistic timewarp, where I have come from. I need to tell you that I cannot remember, that I cannot cite, and that the museum has failed. I needed to tell you about how things have manifested all wretched and contorted– I need to tell you that I am following the contortion– I am/ I have decided on it, to go right down it. The postwarwickshire institute has been dredged up from the avon. I have been seen and photographed from every angle, and from each angle these photos acquire dust from any (and every) given era. I can see it in the castle’s brickwork, pre and post fire, in all of the costumed ancients and oldes, I can see their dissonant prestige and I want to devour it. I need to tell you what I can see– what is made visible by an analysis of time, how, when we tune in (attuned), to how, just how history is unleashed like this, like it is. Write me a contract– for how things will have turned out, or rather, how things will have been (because of, or) in spite of these conditions. I wish we would have met at a different time, yet: It’s blatant. Markedly true that we have split.



Group fantasy is plugged into and machined on the socius.

Being fucked by the socius, wanting to be fucked by the socius, does not

derive from the father and mother



See how they must coexist


de– ranged citational system:

What is a citation?  It is wax. 

It is a method of notation, or a crediting system. It situates a text or idea and provides provenance. It is a temporal(ising) artefact within an essay that positions the text at a fixed point in time, in relation to other fixed points, i.e., date published is listed alongside date accessed. It is a method of shibboleth- admittance to an in group (journals have their own style guides, deviance from formatting guidelines lead to rejection or sanction). They are a quasi-legal system- providing a disclaimer to protect against allegations of plagiarism. 

Essentially, they provide a standard and standardise the written word, paying close attention to the moment in which a work has been (or is being) written.

The range of the citation: 

She must be both reduced and expanded. The solution to the citational problem is its material, wax. 




As we observe: Paradoxical wax– wax in and out of time. What is especially compelling is the ability to fix and depict time whilst in total defiance of it. (its material is inert, its appearance is hyperreal). Wax dioramas are facsimiles of fixed and controlled provenance. They contradict the museum display in their tacky re-editioned states. The diorama is often in contravention of sensible time and historical enquiry. It is a dramatisation– a living-yet-not-living spectacle. 



How did you know about this? The state I am describing aims to proliferate dissonance in the face of spectacular prestige. It feels so real. It doesn’t make sense that Henry VIII would be there rendered in wax alongside his wives. It does not make chronological sense. The whole thing is senseless– old England is an atemporal senseless fantasy– there has to be something here, there has to be something in it: Final Contemporary Thought- there has to be a way out beyond historic warwick and its vagaries. If not, then what is this rift, this melting A46 for? Why are there so many disorienting gaps in my memory? Why are there so many images of me, recumbent in those parks? There are no individual originals in warwick, it is a loop, a hole in time, a pit for us to spew our desires into. How do I put it to you? Just how, how should I put it to you? Such perverse visual information, such a tension, such tension made manifest



I am so gifted at repeating myself. Repeating is as good as novelty– it is not easy to recognise a pattern if the pattern is just simple repetition. It is a canon now (it is my base instinct) I found it, I came across that phrase in a layby, dark, down a single track road. I was turned to, I was asked something. (I look at the pathways between blood, synovial and directionless sperm), he asked me to hurt him –our own ”next time darling”, except this time we are in the dark in a layby, we are not in the light on the side of the freeway like they were (they don’t swim, they crawl). The thing is, there just isn’t enough traffic in warwick. Such technological assemblages are not possible here. We’d sooner recreate Crash at alton towers– I heard about the girl whose legs were grievously injured. Whenever I think about that, her legs seem to become mine and I shiver. Whenever I think about Crash, I think of the dizzying strength of my bite, of the unctuous taste before blood, biting through a nipple.


If it isn’t real, I have to make it– build up the postwarwickshire institute and become its affiliate. If I have an institute I am cited, If I am cited I am real, If I am real I am fixed, I am fixed up, I am fixed right upright. If I am serious, serious things may happen, serious events may no longer evade me. I don’t remember what happened in those gaps. I don’t remember who or what, I cannot confirm if, or when I might have been accessed. I need an institution  to control this access– you have to understand it’s gone out of control, now every fucker can get at me, you have to understand that this is uncontrollable, I have created, I have placed limits on this recording regime (even though they all seek to record me). This is just out of control, my institute can bend and reshape control– in time. (control needs time), it is a new postwarwickshire theory of shifting sands, constant movement, it is irreversible damage, it is out of control– out of yours and into mine. Out of you and into me