Thursday, 2 December 2010

Two Performances

December 15th - 8pm
Oranienstr. 189 (2. HH, 4th floor)

Jeremy Hardingham (45 mins) - _Distract_
Lisa Jeschke & Lucy Beynon (45 mins) - john hurts [from idiot]


(abstract / argument)

"Violence of heart and spirit strikes vile terror,
but violence lost from action is terror pell-mell
and more than utterly ruinous.
Finest Work!"

I am already inside the work which contains my death.
Is there a time when I am outside of this work and apprehend its entire form? To

durationmaterial: person clothed / naked / masked / unmasked / barefoot / shod / in light / in dark / speaking / silent / amplified / unamplified / recorded / unrecorded / in movement / still / remembering / forgetting / working / not working. Acting! - 'doing' (but for sustained durations with AUTHENTIC SPEECH!) Performing! - exertion, exhaustion, evacuate. Occupy. Bequeath. Dialogue Music? live + recording <5> x 2. Spontaneous (prepared and otherwise) confessions, professions, childhoods, agings e.g.: 'I am 35 years old' or 'When I was 10 years old I wrote a play entitled "Shit! I'm an actor!"

For an act (of distraction)
is not constituted
merely by (distracting)
the physical movements
of the actor (distracted):
it gains
its identity (distract)
via its location
in a conceptual world.

(And it is this world
which has broken down)

Pathetic expression of nostalgia

(emblazoned on forehead):
One who could take up the past and
-rather than use it for nostalgia
or ersatz mimesis-
project it into vibrant new
ways to live and
to be.

(Here by 'poet' is meant
the broadest sense of
a creative maker
of meaningful space)

I am already inside the work which contains my death.
Was there a time when I was outside of this work and apprehended its entire form? You

Jeremy Hardingham is a theatre-maker and currently manages the Judith E. Wilson Studio at the Faculty of English, Cambridge University, where he also works as a teacher and writer.

john hurts [from idiot]

unintelligible demystifying piece to last forty-five minutes. neither very theatrical, nor audible, nor particularly important. certainly idealistic though. and quick. too quick some might say.

Lisa Jeschke and Lucy Beynon have been working together since 2007. They are based in Berlin.

Tuesday, 9 November 2010


Peter Handke's Publikumsbeschimpfung (1966) works like a machine. When during one of the first few performances, some audience members climbed the stage and were chased down by the still young but already autocratic director Claus Peymann, it did not jar with, but, on the contrary, made perfect and necessary sense within the relentless play-ness of the play. The audiences are heard, but the performers must keep going (almost, but not exactly) like a machine as the piece precisely does not aim for equality or negotiation, but for a clash between audiences and performers. The idea is not to transcend the political structure of a performer/audience divide; it is to sediment it.

Worried Men Skiffle Group - Glaubst I bin bled

Friday, 29 October 2010

1) and 1) and 1)




Thursday, 21 October 2010



Sunday, 17 October 2010

Gomringer's "Silencio" - performance

silencio silencio silencio
silencio silencio silencio
silencio silencio silencio
silencio silencio silencio

Saturday, 28 August 2010

Albert Einstein Bizottság - Szerelem

szerelem (i) love you
minek (?) what for
(i don't understand)

1980s hungarian underground

Monday, 23 August 2010

Review of: Les Ballets C de la B / Alain Platel & Frank van Laecke: Gardenia // at: Tanztage Berlin

Most people in the audience look like they know what they look like, they know. The principles of conversational cooperation apply to formalised theatre & everyone is willing to stand up for a minute of silence. Everyone is willing to be silent (more/less) throughout anyway. The audiences cooperate (aud§coop), though some people will leave. Bodies without determinable gender keep changing clothes. All the clothes are very expensive, the production must have had a lot of money. Glittery substances change body and facial shapes. You look like a woman, man woman. It is a show parodying a show, so it still is a show !=! this equates everyone's stillness. This constant ja ja ja und nein nein nein in the background sound is the only thing that is not vain. No one is allowed to be sadly ridiculous / ridiculously sad that is what is missing, exactly! Sadly, no one is §§: no one is no longer allowed to tell each other of [ugly] and [ ] in one way or more or less, to be honest, so instead of ?what? we accept each other's claims for beauty and achievement and potential. All is not well, no, everyone knows that, but all will be well, everyone knows that for almost-sure, too. Minds sponsored by / and now, after the break that has passed they will all pass for sure, a crude point: Just Do It, or Yes You Can or was it Yes We Can & (line learning is not a strength but there must be others, potentially) & never mind in this case both YOU and WE are inclusive while as a more generally observable tendency WE tends to be a more exclusive pronoun than YOU. Supercreative core = What unites people, but what unites people? This idea that everyone is different but the same and essentially

(it was desolating // post)

Thursday, 29 July 2010

Monday, 12 July 2010

a theatre piece infiveminutes on the radio why the radio? someone asked

unintelligible demystifying play[?] to last five minutes. neither very theatrical, nor audible, nor particularly important. certainly idealistic though. and quick. too quick some might say.

consent to be told something without being accorded equal right to reply, is the same as consenting to be told something about being accorded equal right to reply.
(last sentence)

a play(?) for deutsche welle,
more information to follow.

Friday, 21 May 2010


' W i t h o u t A r t i c l e ' 'Time does violence to us; it is the only violence' - Simone Weil: 'Affliction' in Gravity & Grace 20 minutes duration, performed by Jeremy Hardingham in Cambridge, and Lucy Beynon and Lisa Jeschke live on the phone in Berlin. Using among other materials, Valerie Solana's S.C.U.M. Manifesto (entire text here: ~ As part of the CRASSH Conference: Pain in Performance and 'Moving Beauty' ~ Friday 21 May 6pm Robinson College Chapel, Grange Road, Cambridge & ~ as part of Considering Performance: Cambridge American Studies Symposium 2010 ~ 1.15pm Queens' Building, Emmanuel College, Regent Street, Cambridge.

Saturday, 15 May 2010

YOU ARE INVITED TO: oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh - SPANDAUER STR. 2 - MAY 20TH

oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
from 8pm at spandauer str. 2 (just off alex)


featuring performance and music from:


installation and video work from


miscellaneous others include:


* john hurts [from idiot] at 10pm

Saturday, 24 April 2010

Vulva Fears: Pussy Envy

Exceptionally, a German text - on Valerie Solana's SCUM manifesto. Or just bypass that and go to her own text - here's an online version (with many mistakes in it):

(I don't want to talk to myself. I am talking to myself.)

Valerie Solanas S.C.U.M. Manifesto wird gerne als Randnotiz in Sonderausstellungen von feministischer Kunst/„weiblicher“ Kunst erwähnt: z.B. in der Pariser „Frauenausstellung“ elles@centrepompidou, die zeigt, wie gut Frauen darin sind, sich durch's Malen, Zeichnen, Stricken, Häkeln, Basteln, Modellieren, Schreiben, Töpfern, Skulpturieren, Photographieren, Plastizieren, Praktizieren, Aktionieren, Minimalieren, (Ideen-)Gebären und Radieren als große Künstlerinnnenpersönlichkeitinnen zu verwirklichen - sprich, wie allseitig und vielfältig kreativ sie sind; wir sehen, dass sich auch bei ihnen die geduldige Arbeit in der Privatsphäre der rooms of their own auszahlen kann. Im Rahmen solcher Ausstellungen, aber eben auch in der Öffentlichkeit allgemein, wird Solanas wegen des Manifests und ihres Attentats auf Andy Warhol – die beide keinen „Sinn“ zu machen scheinen – als Vertreterin eines scheinbar völlig abstrusen separatistischen Feminismus' gezeigt. Durch diese Kategorisierung wird sie einerseits annehmbar gemacht, andererseits aber als zu unsinnig, nieder, gewalttätig eingeordnet, um überhaupt eine ernsthafte Auseinandersetzung nötig zu machen. Ob sie als Individualterroristin betrachtet wird oder als besonders hysterisches Element einer hysterischen Feminismusbewegung – in beiden Fällen wird sie so in einen weggeschlossenen Kellerraum der gesellschaftlichen Einheit verbannt. Gerade diese Verbannung macht es möglich, ihre Kritik zu entschärfen: Jemand, die sich gegenüber Warhol in der Tat als gefährlich zeigte, kann letztendlich als Kriminelle/Verrückte eingestuft werden, so dass es nicht mehr nötig ist, die Gefährlichkeit ihrer im S.C.U.M. Manifesto dargelegten Ideen im Wort ernsthaft zu rezipieren.
Natürlich ist es richtig, dass ein Manifest, das in späteren Ausgaben den Untertitel Society for Cutting Up Men für S.C.U.M. hinzugefügt bekam, möglicherweise (!) nicht in dem Sinn ernst genommen werden muss, als dass jedes Wort als wörtlich zu nehmende Handlungsanweisung gelten müsste (aber vielleicht doch). Aus Solanas Manifest werden immer wieder die gleichen Schnipsel zitiert, z.B.: “the Y (male) gene is an incomplete X (female) gene, that is, it has an incomplete set of chromosomes.” Solche Zitate dienen gerne der Belustigung eines Kunstpublikums. Doch allein dieser Satz deutet die satirische Klarsichtigkeit des Textes beispielsweise bezüglich gängiger biologistischer Erklärungen menschlichen Verhaltens an; ein weiteres Beispiel für solche Klarsichtigkeit ist die rhetorische Umkehrung Freuds Formulierung des Penisneids: “Women, in other words, don't have penis envy; men have pussy envy.” Warum wird von einer doch noch patriarchalischen (?) Öffentlichkeit Solanas Text als verrückt abgestempelt, während Freuds Texte als der profunden akademischen Erkenntnis dienend studiert werden (wobei man sich kaum traut, das Wort patriarchalisch zu benützen, ohne selbst als in den 60ern Zurückgebliebene eingeordnet zu werden (als hätte ich damals schon gelebt!))? Im weiteren Verlauf vollzieht Solanas eine Kritik des bürgerlichen (Beziehungs-)Lebens, das zwischen scharfer anarchistischer Analyse auf der einen Seite und gewalttätigen Lösungsvorschlägen auf der anderen Seite oszilliert. Insbesondere aufgrund des Attentats von Solanas auf Andy Warhol stellt sich dabei ständig die Frage, inwieweit bestimmte Stellen des Textes eine verzerrte Satire oder eine tatsächliche Handlungsforderung darstellen sollen, ein Gedanke, der natürlich Angst machen könnte; diese Instabilität, dieser Umgang mit dem Genre „Manifest“ macht den Text weiterhin gefährlich und macht es nötig, ihn komplett zu lesen – als herausfordernde Kritik der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft in den 60er Jahren und heute.

Friday, 23 April 2010


the mind
the chest

the sun
not if in,
the sun.

Was redest du da eigentlich?

Sunday, 18 April 2010

an optical illusion:

the thought you could murder the sun
by pressing your thumb on it

(since you have a thumb)

Saturday, 27 February 2010

mailing list

if you'd like to join the antigone project's mailing list in order to receive rare spam announcing performance nights like yesterday's - hopefully before they happen - you can join here:

Monday, 15 February 2010


On February 26,

YOU are invited to an evening of fragments, unfinished work, beginnings, failures, experiments, first attempts, microtheatres - featuring, among others:

Betwixt and Between (Hildesheim):
Lenzomat - eine Performance über Wahnsinn
(ca. 30 mins)

Ina Richter:
Performance of Takemitsu's "Voice"
(ca. 5 mins)

Richard Pfützenreuter:
[oder die gar wundersame Frage, warum Gott durch seinen Bauchnabel Blut in Antonins Buchstabensuppe schiss]
(ca. 45 mins)

Nancy Schwade
beauthingsies of goddessies
(ca. 10 mins)

the antigone project (lucy beynon & lisa jeschke):
john hurts [from idiot]
(ca. 30 mins)

performances - drinks
free admission - bring friends

7pm - Theaterhaus Mitte Berlin (Wallstr. 32, Haus C:
NEW LOCATION since last summer - plese click on the link for a map

please forward this to friends, mailing lists and anyone who might be interested
facebook events page:!/event.php?eid=306707260902&ref=ts

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

waste in virtual circulation

It is strange that everyone always speaks of the theatre as the paradigmatically public form of art. For unlike writing, theatre in itself is not made for public circulation: rather, it takes place within a very specific room. Only few people can witness it – even if these few are several hundreds, which is nothing in comparison to any text, or video, or photography, all of which at least imply the possibility of reaching – everyone. In this sense, theatre is always curiously private and intimate, as well as hidden from public view. Street theatre imagines it can counteract this hiddenness, but even theatre on the street is never visible to more than a handful of spectators at any one point, and in this sense theatre always takes place on a small scale. It can never be for the masses; people's theatre (I mean in a vaguely socialist tradition: Volkstheater) can only exist on a qualitative, never on a quantitative level.

Friday, 29 January 2010

new website

Wednesday, 27 January 2010


we've improved, that is disfigured, the polite translation of konrad bayer's idiot we've been working with so far.

[konrad bayer]

performance text

a human-like creature is waiting at a street corner. let’s call it a man and give him a name: a. he walks back and forth.
a (to himself): damn it.
b (passes by): shut your face!
a falls silent, feeling hurt.
b looks back again threateningly. a bows down, shaken. exit b. enter c.
you can see from a’s face that he wants to ask c something. his muscles move! a does not leave the spot. c goes up to a and kicks him. exit c.
d enters hand in hand with a girl. they must be lovers!
a goes up to the pair, clears his throat, coughs and prepares to give a speech. that is to say he opens his gob.
d gives him a hook to the chin. the girl goes up to the collapsed man and kicks him in the kidney. a writhes and groans. then the girl picks up a bar from the ground and hits d over the head. d upends.
e comes from the other side, looks at the girl, twists her arm, tears it off and hits her over the head with it. the girl upends.
f comes out of the house and gives e such a kick that he is upended.
f stamps e’s head to a pulp; goes back inside.
a struggles to rise.
g arrives, approaches a.
g prepares to ask a question. that is to say his jaw gapes.
a knocks him down.
a motorcar drives down the street. a rams the bar into the radiator. d has now got up behind a and is knocked down as a pulls the bar out of the radiator with a swing which goes on to hit the driver who is about to get out. another moment and he would have been out! a grabs them both and throws them into the back seat stuffing them in carelessly as if they were wrapping paper. then he jumps behind the wheel and drives over the girl, then back over again. then exits as he drives over the girl a third time.

she stands up, whimpering and groaning from her upper body; her abdomen hangs lifeless behind her.

a policeman comes running up and with a spring into a flying blow gives her a colossal kick in the teeth so that blood gushes out. the motorcar appears in reverse and backs over the policeman.

a wrests the revolver from the dead policeman’s holster and fires at the policeman’s corpse and at the girl’s corpse.
continuous firing.
exit a.

enter a with a lawnmower. he drives over the corpses. he tears them to pieces.
exit a.
enter a with a paper sack. he collects the pieces of flesh and throws them carelessly into a paper bag. he drops the paper bag carelessly and leaves.
enter a with an almost assembled machine and a few spare parts. he assembles the machine carelessly. he never looks over the edge of the stage. his eyes are dull.

if something doesn’t work at once, a kicks the machine firmly but totally without expression. each time the machine starts up at once, unimpressed, a carries on working.

suddenly a human-like creature shows up on one side.

although a is apparently not looking, he rushes over and kicks the chap from the stage with enormous agility, and totally without expression.

a will from now on always appear totally expressionless, but will act quite spontaneously when necessary!

a takes the bag and empties it into the machine.

then he attaches an enormous crank. and starts to turn it. mince comes out of the mincer. a scrapes the meat from the ground and makes dumplings. he does this without expression. he scoffs the dumplings. he scrambles up onto the machine and shits into it.

brown dumplings come out. a bolts down the brown dumplings.

a girl walks past.

a regurgitates in an arc covering her from head to foot. directly after gobbling them down he has to regurgitate. there is no break! the girl has to be coming by just at that moment.

the girl sobs. he slaps her loud in the face and mounts her. he ejaculates without batting an eyelid and gets up with a spring without batting an eyelid and goes, not too fast and not too slow and most of all totally without expression, to the motorcar, gets in, starts the motor, not too fast and not too slow and most of all without expression and runs her over.

she regains her senses and whimpers. she is severed at the foot. a goes up to her and tears off her foot. the girl whimpers. then he stuffs the foot down her throat. she throws up; even her own foot.

he is suddenly overcome by a wild frenzy. he rages, viciously pushing her bloody and now vomited on foot back between her teeth, and he pushes with all his might, his eyes shine, the veins stand out on his head, and he pushes the foot into her gob, assisting with his foot, stamps down, then he bends over and shoves his fist in, up to the elbow, and once again, and again and again. then he straightens up, his eyes are non-expressive, he carelessly smears the blood down his suit and jumps on her stomach. he grabs the mono-footed girl and stuffs her into the machine. he turns the crank. a red, bloody dumpling plops out. a bolts it, chewing and shoving out his jaw.

f rushes out of the house at a, an enormous hammer in his fists.

f hastily takes a stance, positions his feet, one leg in front, and swings the hammer over his head. unimpressed, not too fast and not too slow, but most of all without expression, a unbuttons his trousers, pulls out his member and with a high spurt pisses in the face of the hammer-swinging f.

f checks the hammer’s swing and wipes his face, without expression. a woman above opens a window and rolls an enormous stone onto f.

f is mush.

quickly but without expression a aims the revolver and shoots the woman down from the window. that was quick work! after pulling the trigger, a lets the weapon fall from his hand and turns eagerly but without expression to other activities. once again he is quite captivated.

the woman falls slowly from the window. there is a crash on the paving stones.

a: theatre is a pile of shit.
art is a pile of shit.
science is a pile of shit.
philosophy is a pile of shit.
religion is a pile of shit.
politics is a pile of shit.
the state is a pile of shit.
the community is a pile of shit.
compassion is a pile of shit.
coarseness is a pile of shit.
upbringing is a pile of shit.
love is a pile of shit.
pride is a pile of shit.
fidelity is a pile of shit.
honour is a pile of shit.
infidelity is a pile of shit
eroticism is a pile of shit.
sexuality is a pile of shit.
friendship is a pile of shit.
hope is a pile of shit.
despair is a pile of shit.
fear is a pile of shit.
courage is a pile of shit.
the economy is a pile of shit.
chaos is a pile of shit.
nature is a pile of shit.
knowledge is a pile of shit.
rage is a pile of shit.
equanimity is a pile of shit.
beauty is a pile of shit.
ugliness is a pile of shit.
silence is a pile of shit.
indifference is a pile of shit.
every judgement is a pile of shit.
abstinence is a pile of shit.
desire is a pile of shit.
giving is a pile of shit.
taking is a pile of shit.
walking is a pile of shit.
staying is a pile of shit.
hearing is a pile of shit.
seeing is a pile of shit.
pleasure is a pile of shit.
feelings are a pile of shit.
thinking is a pile of shit.
vanity is a pile of shit.
luxury is a pile of shit.
poverty is a pile of shit.
idealism is a pile of shit.
materialism is a pile of shit.
stupidity is a pile of shit.
laziness is a pile of shit.
industriousness is a pile of shit.
ambition is a pile of shit.
wood is a pile of shit.
electricity is a pile of shit.
the earth’s gravitational attraction is a pile of shit.
all attraction is a pile of shit.
the planetary system is a pile of shit.
leap years are a pile of shit.
human needs are a pile of shit.
enjoyment is a pile of shit.
extremes are a pile of shit.
the mean is a pile of shit.
life is a pile of shit.
death is a pile of shit.
the day is a pile of shit.
the night is a pile of shit.

the man: brother.
a: you cunt.

a: work is a pile of shit.
illusion is a pile of shit.
individualism is a pile of shit.
common sense is a pile of shit.
the mind is a pile of shit.
free will is a pile of shit.
fate is a pile of shit.
reason is a pile of shit.
the subconscious is a pile of shit.
ethics are a pile of shit.
lack of ethics is also a pile of shit.
only justice
and noise are left.

the man: brother!
a: you cunt.

i am just. that is clear.
i am stingy with everything.
i am independent.
i am loud.
i am an idiot. being an idiot means being for oneself.

(the man applauds.)
a: you cunt.
fuck off.
(the man stays.)

a: that was stupid of me. of course he hasn’t disappeared. he is there, that’s it.
a (roars): it’s unfair. did i give you my permission to stand there in front of me? no. i don’t want to talk to myself! it’s unfair, you want to force me to see you, you want to force me to hear you. i have to see you, i have to hear you when you stand around there, and you are standing around there. that’s it. pile of shit. you want to gallop with the individual components of your deconstructed anatomical whole down the rays of light into my eyes. you want to trot into my ears on the sound waves, and you do so. it's unfair.
(the man turns round.)
a: oh oh not enough, not enough. the other side too, maybe lift up the soles of your feet as well, chase around the sounds of your intestines, show your tongue, want to cut yourself open, show your innards, oh oh enough. give the pretence of totality, du schwein. you want to force me to close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears. as if that would help. to sleep maybe. du schwein du schwein, du niederträchtiges schwein, you want to force me to sleep. and i would wake again, and have to see you and hear you and so on and who knows what else. it's unfair. you want me to kill myself. murderer malefactor schwein! i don’t want to talk to myself. i can only talk to myself. because you cannot understand what i say just as i cannot understand what you say. i can extract something for my own understanding and with said extract construct an entirely alien picture book and then following this construction suck the book down in to the wet depths of my gut like so many cold sausages du schwein. i don’t want to talk to myself, you are the reason why i talk to myself. you may or may not be the right occasion for me to talk to myself, for i am speaking for myself. when i speak to myself you or something or other can get in the way, yes, but that is just an accident, isn’t that right? i’m talking to myself! pile of shit. this accident is the rule. there’s so much standing and wandering about here. when i talk to myself something gets in the way, which is alright with me, then that’s the rule. just don’t lose one’s head and get everything in a muddle. i am speaking to myself and only myself. don’t allow your face to turn into a metaphorical ear, du schwein. have i allowed you to take even one comma from my talking so that you might patch together some sort of understanding? schwein. affe, ziegenbock!
how he wants to understand me, this rhinoceros, this pile of shit. it's unfair. if you could understand me, i wouldn’t bother to speak for my own noise. i’m too miserly to give you anything. go, go. i don’t even want to take anything. not a comma, not a full stop, nothing absolutely nothing, i give nothing, i take nothing, i need nothing and nothing, that’s what i am, me. oh but how he keeps thinking, thinking, this skunk. he thinks the thinkable. and what is that? that is that which is not, which is impossible, because it’s not, because it’s thinkable, he’s thinking his thoughts, this schwein, this stinking schwein. oh, I’m suffocating. du schwein you want to drive me into the claws of science, you want to utilise physics, you want to invent physics just so that i have to see you, hear you, acknowledge you. oh, there you are.
(a strikes the man)
you bastard you want to keep yourself here with the aid of gravity! i’ll GIVE you a centre to be grave about! (kicks him to the floor). oh, pile of shit, i’ve given something, assisted in altering his centre of gravity, me helped. i caused something, oh woe, woe, the wrath, the wrathful pile of shit, oh woe, such emotion, woe!
(the man gets up)
the man: you should...
a: shut your face, there’s no should about it, i am not destined for anything. i shall guard against building a future for myself. the future is an unattainable paradise, reeking priest, what i do happens, but there’s no SHOULD about it. it happens. i could not, no, i can. for what i could, i can’t, or else i’d have done it. now. it's stupid to say, do that, for if i do it, i do it, and if i don't do it, then i don’t do it, that is to say i can’t do it either, i couldn’t have done it. don’t tell me my lot, you lying pig, swinish liar, you can have your lies and keep them, because you are your own living lie, perhaps, i don’t know anything about you and don’t want to, that is to say i can’t get to know you for there is ein unüberbrückbarer abgrund des unverständnisses. i don’t want waste, what am i saying to myself? i’m not in the future. i’m here, here. what a pile of shit. i’m rabbiting to myself. piggish wretch. what are you trying to do there, you’re trying to build a bridge. it’s awful. i can’t even tell you that it’s all in vain, is not on, you can’t understand me. you hear SOMETHING OR OTHER and get up to mischief with it, cunt, cunt, i’ll stamp you flat .
the man: seek your true self, stop hiding yourself behind such ghastliness.
a: swindler, i’m trying to snare myself. careful, watch out, me for myself. i want to trap myself! pile of shit. that's treachery. i would betray myself if i tried to seek myself. i would be beside myself. but i am here, here. (strikes himself like an orangutang). that’s me, my true self, me, me! what i shall be, i shall be. i am what i am, that’s it. i am i. that’s the truth, which is a pile of shit. there’s nothing that i should be, for i can do what i can and nothing more, why should i allow myself to be tyrannised by a ghost, by a pile of shit, by a future. a joke of myself. i’m no joke, i am i. in no way. now! that’s just not possible. what a pile of shit. it is as it is. possible or impossible what’s it matter. to say nothing is impossible would prove that you wanted to negate the possible that’s standing right there. don’t be a dreamer, pile of shit shut your face! this might be bad; but might i just say, i should have something better and could have if i just wanted? what a pile of shit! i’ve just got that which i can have and that’s what i’ve got, and that’s what i am and so on. pile of shit! what i have, am, is the only possible! shit accident! i am talking to myself.