About a perfect a day as I can have

Aside

Waking up singing “I was a Teenage Anarchist” and “Gone Mad”, lazy 11am breakfast reading a new book, afternoon of grinding and roasting spices, prepping roe deer meat from the local Wildfleischhandel, shopping for dinner and the week, baking a pile of banana energy bars, murdering up a Baltistan curry while chatting with Gala, eating said curry while returning to book, bit of sci-fi telly with cardamom chocolate, the apartment soaking the whole day in rich scents and cooking, and now all that but 2 hours of the day done. I just want to remember about a perfect a day as I can have.

Reading: C. Riley Snorton — Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity

C. Riley Snorton — Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity
C. Riley Snorton — Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity

Reading: John Baily — War, Exile and the Music of Afghanistan: The Ethnographer’s Tale

John Baily — War, Exile and the Music of Afghanistan: The Ethnographer’s Tale
John Baily — War, Exile and the Music of Afghanistan: The Ethnographer’s Tale

Reading: A. David Lewis, Martin Lund — Muslim Superheroes: Comics, Islam, and Representation

A. David Lewis, Martin Lund — Muslim Superheroes: Comics, Islam, and Representation

Reading: Lui Xiaobo — No Enemies, No Hatred: Selected Essays and Poems

Lui Xiaobo — No Enemies, No Hatred: Selected Essays and Poems
Lui Xiaobo — No Enemies, No Hatred: Selected Essays and Poems

Gallery

Gala & Michael Headcasts Portraits

Three Australians in Wuppertal, by way of Brussels, Madrid, and Berlin. Last time I was in Wuppertal it was for The Vase, one of three banging works I’ve seen this year. This time, Friday evening, it’s snowing to whiteout, Gala and Michael are talking about the headcasts they’ve had done for their upcoming work, New People. They want photos. Guess who brought their camera? Saturday morning, after a lazy breakfast and before lunch hamburgers, still snowing, the falling-apart printer’s workshops behind Michael’s apartment having their roofless concrete floors jackhammered by the owner, one of those old socialist tradie types who ends up with a bunch of properties and maintains them all himself. It’s proper winter cold, slush and snow and wetness, and he’s hauling shit around like Sisyphus. We bail into the one building with a roof. Milky glass-paned, rusting windows along one wall fill it with just enough light for us to get away with photography. There’s a temporary scaffolding floor erected, we tall ones are nearly smacking our heads on bits of pipe and beam. Their busts go on the ground, then on a plank, I photograph them like I would mediæval art.