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my work
Get down on your fucking knees!
Get down on your fucking knees!
The claim that the world is changing incredibly fast.
What is the speed a bullet has? You won’t feel it once it hits your head.
World of agony is too much to take. Don’t speak it out just hear the bang.
That is what we do not tolerate: truth about ourselves, our deeds, our need to enslave, to humiliate.
Things we do not take if they are not for granted.
Preserving prettiness as something innocent playing as contrast to our cruelty, as a value to sell and be covered by. It is truth we should like, but we kill it, because it is not enough. We do not get ahead fast enough honestly. It even sounds too little, too bold to be alive. The one who speaks the truth and is not believed because it is too much to take. Get down on your fucking knees!
This command is about power used, power liked and loved. Power of ruining innocence of someone, ruining possibilities of someone for a life. This gun is an accusation. It is pointed at you. It is my emotional respond to you questioning me, for you to obey me. It is my belief, my religion, my faith and reassuring my righteousness. Me holding my truth, my path in my hand.
Get down on your fucking knees! Now!
Bow your head. Feel my weapon on you. How cold it is against your skin, against your fear, against your life.
Where are you when you are there afraid?
In the dirt below me breathing.
Me above you looking at you with anger. Looking at you like you were nothing, not even a human. Me with possibility and desire of pulling the trigger. Click. It takes one click.
Openness that is seen as an invitation to invade and intrude.
She is sex. She wants sex. She thinks of sex. She sees sex. She likes sex. She is sex. She invites to sex. She inspires to sex. She is sex. She thinks of sex. She means sex. She wears sex. She looks like she wants sex. She looks for sex. She is the reason to sex. She is her rape. She is evil. She is luring. She is bad, just bad. She is twisted. She is sex. She is for sex. She is to be penetrated and won. She is a prize. She is trash. She is to be owned. She is to be thrown away. It is her sex. She is dangerous. Her sex is to be controlled, tied and bound. It is her idea. It is in her, the idea of sex. My God it’s her.
Heart of an air hostess.
As heart of a waitress, but in air. As a take-off, landing, a journey anywhere, like an ad. Heart of a passenger with a mission of moving ahead going somewhere and coming back, a plan to leave. An experience, something that is more fun, enjoyable, would be enjoyable to remember. It is a beat, a calling, a seduction, a vacation, a job, moving of a body and mind. It takes a lot to make that beating of a heart as it continues, on and on, and why the muscle hits with the rhythm of the same, with pace of similar but individual. We recognize it and think we know it. Beat of choosing, pushing the button of a destination on computer screen. Palm trees and going there, arriving there, exploring it there, learning it. Having a good time there.
Heart as warmth, a symbol of love and strength, a warm bloody gushy sounding organ inside her makes you vomit, it is so profoundly familiar and too close, kindness and hospitality, a smile on her and the blood. For passengers to ask for help, to place trust upon as you paid for it, someone to count on to bring a blanket. Moving on with a cart with drinks and snacks. Sitting down to rest her feet. Hearts of many air hostesses moving back and forth on passages in the air to take care of passengers.
Not adopting any method to be faster, not adjusting myself according to what is, but still I am.
drop something, pick it up
drop something, pick it up
drop something, pick it up
turn the lock, open the door
turn the lock, open the door
turn the lock, open the door
move the chair, sit on it
move the chair, sit on it
move the chair, sit on it
sit on a chair, straighten your back
sit on a chair, straighten your back
sit on a chair, straighten your back
do it backwards, open your mouth
do it backwards, think about your mouth
do it backwards, show me your tongue
2000
2001
Finisterra maailmanloppu the end of the world
It is in repeat, in repetition that is not changed, pattern that is not questioned.
A constant need for something, to be something with that something gained, that needs to be named.
What happens, what will I make happen in this idea of constant, a moment that is moving, a movement of individuals of constant, making moves to make a change that does not eventually end up changing much, or anything.
The end of the world and a world is when worlds of mine and yours come to an end as they were, as we obviously have learned to know them and as we have lived them. To live a world and to end a world as it is a possession and is many worlds simultaneously. World is an it and them, an I, a persona. Worlds as minds and bodies, a body which we penetrate violently without reaching the world we wanted. Because we do not understand our hostility, strangeness of our own which is an obvious part of the world, the unknown. We escape it, because we are afraid of it. We try to possess and destroy strangeness of that other, but never of our own. We just silence it, the it in us, hide it to nonexistence and solitude.
When all one can do is to create. That is quite much, the urge to create, have an idea and act upon it despite whether the urge is melancholy or not, despite the pressure there may be, despite does someone else like it or not.
Without her she gets made, a kind of other, malformation of sex. She needs persona and identity of her own. What does she make of herself, of this lot? Out of these forms of hers. She must build herself.
Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Her reputation precedes her, irregular person, despicable. She is what you heard, you think. What you made of her in your mind via your and other people’s speech. Isn’t she. Talk works like clay. Story of her could be continued in this way unless she would not act for her defense. Get that clay into her own hands. She needs herself to oppose, resist and defend herself. Nobody else does it. Nobody else is interested in her life. Her life what it really is, what she really is like and able to do. Her reality is not interesting to anybody but herself, she lives it, not you and makes it interesting. She makes her life even there is discouragement, contempt, laughter, ill talk, threat, there is so little faith in her that it is unbelievable and unbearable. To accept passively what goes on and on, because others accept it, it suits them and they say there is nothing one can do, for her it is not an option. That is her exceptional quality, active resistance, energy of hers.
Evaluations, descriptions, adjectives, measurements and comparisons, faults, flaws, drawbacks. Qualities we need. Qualities we have made us and what are they worth, how do qualities change. We imagine, make, consume and refine ourselves.
She is not right. Characteristics that is stated as a fact without further evidence than hearsay. Demonizing her to people who listen. Who asked about her. Without her she gets made. As if she died. Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Is this the same world we inhabit? You speak of me, but you do not confront me nor speak to me. How little respect there is, how little trust. She is what you heard as a fact. To think otherwise would be unthinkable. Thinkable pleasure, envious joy of dragging her down speaks mountains. She is not right.
She is not right. To kill is to entertain. It is to better yourself. To paint a picture of malicious woman is to draw a separating line. Pointing her out from above, from a distance, from acclaimed perfection, from accepted shameless perfection undeniable.
To know her is to say what she is. She is loud, she is noisy, she is quiet, she is broken, she is tense, she is irrational, she is shameless, she is lost, she is dead.
Majakollektiivi Timanttimetsä 