The freezing jungle wants us dead but before that some news:
Mail Me Art is a thing where people do hand-art on envelopes and send them through the actual her majesty's royal post office mail to be collated and displayed in exhibitions and a book. The Factory Road Gallery are hosting one of this year's exhibitions and have parachuted in a few people they know, including Teratogens, who has universes seeping from his East Midlands fingers all the time and at night stores his eyes in a jar of unfathomable syrup.
It all starts in London the first week of August. Everything's very nice and you should go. The brief mentioned fun so I bought a scalpel and some exotic glue and put a lot of fun in there. But then I had to remove it all because it didn't look like fun, it looked and smelled like a baffling accident. I then put some words on the envelope using a biro.
National Poetry Month is all over the USA in April and as part of it The Found Poetry Review assigned the eighty five Pulitzer Prize for Fiction books to eighty five people. Each of the eighty five people then made thirty poems out of words they found in their book. One poem from each book will be posted on each day of April. I am one of these people. How the fucking hell this happened I don't know (I mean I asked to do it and they said yes and then I did it), but it's happened now and there's nothing we can do about it. I was assigned Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay. I changed my name to Chutzpah Limey and polished my butchering goggles. Now there's these thirty squirming blobs on my desk. They're a bit twitchy, I've given them all haircuts and I'm going to have to dress them properly. I'd be grateful if, if you look at them, you could tell me when their flies are undone.
It was after reading Brooke Valentine's blog just now that I thought I should stop wittering on for a minute and maybe deliver some information. She's good at drawing and cutting things.
Thanks for reading.
