notebooks... by A Purple Pig Production.

Koﬁ Boamah — notebooks...

Â© all work courtesy of artist Kofi Boamah 2

notebooks... KoďŹ Boamah

self-portrait like this book, it is a self-portrait of those random thoughts had, and memories of happenings that sometimes fail to even make much sense: laughter in a badly lit room drawing on pieces of paper that I salvage and cherish as if they should mean the world to me... written here are dreams and nightmares, illustrated with a storied hand that negotiates a playfulness and dark humour: at a streetlight lit against a drunkard that falls, the cheerful ramblings of a madman on Kingsland Road, the grandiose dreams of artists thinking they'll be Picasso one day, the protruding teeth of a dubious character outside of Dalston's Oxfam, the taste of a smelly pussy, the gentle reminder of sanity by an author you admire (I love BolaĂąo), the obnoxious schemes of a suit on cocaine, the dashed pieces of papers with lists interspersed with dreams, drawing foods when stuck in a hunger that has enraptured you... mostly within these notebooks were disparate paragraphs of a story I called 'origin of cotton' after a passionate affinity for Basquiat and the myth making that sometimes goes into artistry. the protagonist is strangely "elsewhere"...and the entries are all out of time illustrating my relationship with order and memory... writing these throughout the years kept me somewhat sane... written: 2018, London

Untitled (Madman's Head II) 2014 Oil, crayon on card 50 x 70 cm 5

anxiety disorder 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 6

27/ 02/ 2017 â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Diary Entry perhaps there's too much cookie in my biscuit, you know?

origin of cotton [Ochi Banks, Flatbush Avenue, January 2014] He kept talking about going on a trip, and I just listened. What was I supposed to say? It was obvious what was going onâ&#x20AC;Śat least for me anywayâ&#x20AC;ŚEspecially the day after we came back from Vermont. It was there that we all took LSD and decided to watch Disney movies on the mezzanine, so in and out, he was going in and out of the mezzanine talking about why Ornane would have committed suicide and how he did it. He was just walking in and out of the mezzanine talking about the gun, this revolver like it was some sort of woman, and then when we got back he kept talking about Ornane and this trip.

instigations of Deleuze 2016 Crayon on Paper 8

21.0 x 29.7cm

portrait of my impaired hand ยง2 sudden longings for people you met years ago, the hand (right) reminds me like an exotic trip to an island in your mind: breeding a mental "intrusion" that acts as a remembrance for the resurrection of consciousness and an awakening. the sheer poetry of what may seem ugly is sometimes the melancholic feeling that holds me when I examine my own impaired right hand, that doesn't really have much of an effect otherwise: it's mostly cosmetic... though it makes me feel like there's a rose growing out of my hand, with thorns and petals... or if van Gogh visited me in a dream...

Hand study 2017 Pencil on Paper 29.7 x 42.0cm

homeless me 2015 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 12

for a period of time I was homeless, perhaps 2014 â&#x20AC;&#x201D; 2015, so I was in between places and staying in a hostel outside Manor Park station. in these days I wondered of the purpose of existence in humorous ways: making drawings like that which is opposite, as I was in between sanity. riding tube trains during rush hour periods, and drawing on scraps of papers and a diary I nicknamed Cecelia, after a heartbreaking relationship with a Chinese girl in Shanghai. late night discussions with alcoholics also living in the house, keeping secrets of a Bengali prostitute called Adna...these were times I felt most close to being an artist.

Toro a la Boamah 2017 Pencil on Paper 29.7 x 42.0cm

origini of cotton [Meich Danael, Flatbush Ave, December 2013] Do you know what? It’s like the cost you know, me and my girl been up all night talking about all this shit: How the eye is on the back of the dollar bill and all that funky shit. You just don’t really know what’s going the hell on. I heard from Sven how they all had it in for him and they all wanted to make a quick buck with all that suicide pact shit. All that shit that don’t amount to shit. How does dying at a certain age help anybody, but you know these sick bastards came up with all types of ideas to make money, because I know him from way back. I’m talking early two thousands when we would go to the Tunnel and smoke a joint in the back. Those days. I don’t know all that experimental shit that he was down for, all those meetings and those people he was open to. Blowback Jones types, you know, out for some type of cause. Because I’m just shucking and jiving and doing my thang. I don’t have a clue what most of this shit is about.

origin of cotton [‘Augustina’, Mexico City, January 2014] He spoke to me because I was the only one around that spoke a little English, I think he's the guy you're talking about but you never really know do you? People come and go, and so on; these back alleys take all types of prisoners and strays. That day I had my period so I couldn’t, but I would come out and see friends and do what I do, but there was this big greasy truck driver, he came out of Bar Quebo and started harassing people. You probably have a smelly pussy! He kept saying stupid things before he came over and I told him it was no use in beating the guy up. But in some ways, he reminds me of Tony, there was something protective about him. But he wore a black hat and this long jacket and so I can’t remember his face totally, but I won’t forget how he made me feel you know?

three states with lady in background 2013 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 16

double page spread: Portrait after Basquiat 2017 Pencil on Paper 29.7 x 42.0cm

origin of cotton [Giovanni, apartment Flatbush Avenue, December 2013] He came to my room one night after speaking with another guy we both knew. Something about a couple ounces or something. But I’m not saying that was the reason he came over. Lauren does that all time, I know. He’ll come over and act like he wants to open up. My butt cheeks have yet to taste that, but regardless he came over one night and we talked and talked and talked. We spoke about everything you can imagine. He told me so much that I fell asleep and when I woke up there was no weed and he was gone. So for a minute I thought, O he’s done a Lauren and just come and gone, but really he was sweet and imaginative like a trapped bird, not that he would like to be compared to a Maya Angelou poem, he hated Maya Angelou, but words amount to forming ideas and those are the only ones I can come up with right now, I’m out of cigarettes.

scared of being born again, if it's in this form again 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 21

existential meltdown 2015 Pencil on Card 29.7 x 42.0cm

lady on back with man 2017 Pencil on Card 29.7 x 42.0cm

origin of cotton [Candela French, New Mexico, January 2014] We saw Rosa in this old 1980’s blue movie where she held spoons into her vagina, and he kept speaking about how legendary the movie was because of this whole spoon incident. It was called Busto de Mujer. And so that’s when we decided to try and find her as we heard from Blowback Jones that a friend of a friend of Rosa’s had said that she only had one breast after an accident with cutlery on the shoot of Busto de Mujer two. He was obsessed with Rosa after that, and so we ended up going to Texas; we had to take Greyhounds and it was on this long journey that I really got to know him. But we finally met Rosa, Blowback Jones eventually got us an address. And he coerced me along to this small house in the middleof nowhere. We arrived and knocked on this rickety door and a woman with purple hair answered the door like a living ghost, all timid and gingerly. But it was actually Rosa with the purple hair now and she was surprised to see us. He kept talking about his friend that had committed suicide and she, funnily enough, listened and tried giving him advice. We ended up eating Lunch and when she picked up a spoon to eat the croutons, who eats croutons with a spoon? I don’t know, but she started to cry and I had to get him to leave.

pussy eaters 2016 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 25

Gombrowicz 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 26

origin of cotton [Dean Withers, Chinatown, New York, New York, September 2013] He was on something the last time I saw him, but so what? Does it make a difference? All I know was that he was hitting on Alex and I didn’t appreciate that. He kept saying that he wanted to take long walks in a Mongolian desert and they’d be perfect for long walks across a Mongolian desert. He kept repeating Mongolian desert and to be honest it started to get on my nerves. We left him just before Times Square as we had to go and see another Friend who was visiting from Perugia who, funnily enough, kept talking about the whole Knox affair and that situation and it seems odd now, but then it was just that we saw him, he hit on Alex and this fuckin’ Mongolian desert. I don’t know.

origin of cotton [Sven Erik, Central Park, New York, December 2013] It's no surprise; the guy was everywhere; the birds knew his name. But I don’t remember where we met, I’m sorry, I can’t say Benjamin Franklin doesn’t know but me… [for the purpose of the recording: he mumbles this last sentence] Look I don’t have time for this.

Portrait of Roberto BolaĂąo 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 29

War 2017 Pencil on Paper 29.7 x 42.0cm

origin of cotton [Bobito, Mexico City, Bar Quebo, Mexico, January 2014] The guy would come into my Bar, buy one drink and you know the girls liked him. They thought he was cute and so I let him buy his Rum and Coke or whatever and sit in the Bar. Even when it was you know thirty-five degrees out heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be wearing that jacket talking about all that shit. He reminded me of them old style drifters.

el shadi 2016 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 33

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AA

[Cathy Crumson, 125th Harlem, New York, January 2015] I found it laid on a bench. I remember this day specifically, not for the usual reason to retain information, no, it was for the occasion of Cecil passing that the day brings back a stronger memory that accounts for me calling it ‘La Danse’. It wasn’t just a case of being in a mood, but the mood was one that can be termed morbid-brilliance and somewhat a synecdoche for a myriad of thoughts and feelings that interspersed with one another. I am absorbed by these thoughts as the day wore on. The telephone call arrived at 15:24. The call only lasted one or two minutes, but the news hit me like a backhand to the face. Reinaldo had said that Cecil wouldn’t be meeting me at four that day as she had taken a fall on a ladder and broken her neck in two places, which resulted in her passing away. His voice trembled when he said those words, passed away, and so for a few minutes I wasn’t sure what he meant. It seemed too gentle a phrase to news so catastrophic, and so I asked him to repeat himself and he said it again—passed away.

After I received the news and hung up the phone, I was rendered cold. I began walking around my apartment, even though Mr O’Shea lived downstairs and complained numerous times that the wood floors creaked when extensively walked over. Regardless of his complaining I began walking. From the window to the kitchen and back again,

deep in thought of what had just occurred. I concluded that she died an Artistic Death as the only ladder that she could have used was the one that she had bought from a store next to China Town to paint large canvas. I remembered the ladder and thought about what she could have been painting at the time?

It could have been the abruptness that hit me, as the time was nearly four, which meant that we would have met to discuss life, that mostly consisted of a long discussion of us and Paulho. La Danse was of course the topic that our meetings would have been centred around but unfortunately this couldn’t occur.

I took a walk to clear my mind, I walked towards 125th Harlem, which is where Paulho had decided to move to. I ended up sitting on a bench and there it was. The ends of the book were crumpled and worn. The cover: navy blue pin striped with white writing on the front: ‘Origin of Cotton’.

Maybe the fragility of the occasion bore much of what became of it. I opened the book and started to read to change the channel in my mind, if it can be understood in this way. It had been written in pen though some of the handwriting was a bit scratchy that told me that it had been written hastily by an Author I quickly became enamoured with.

Suit Man's PLight 2017 Pencil on Paper 29.7 x 42.0cm

origin of cotton [Derick Tony, stood outside 7th Avenue Manhattan New York, August 2012] Dude had it coming to him, he’s a jerk. And I can’t act like I didn’t buy it at first, or that I didn’t think it was what I soon thought it was, because it all seemed legit. This is New York people are just all types of strange. Look at that guy over there, you see the one with the pink rain coat on, woolly hat mumbling. It’s god damn thirty degrees out here! But then again you’ll see a guy like that wearing a suit, that’s probably an Armani suit probably walking up to one of his many many bitches. And you know he’s got some, because this city is heaving with action, from the junkies, like our missing man, to the suits, every body is in on something. I tell you that much. But if you’re asking when I first met him, fuck it I can’t remember. You journalists think like that I’m just out here trying to make a buck, I barely have time to think all analytically and as if there’s something stuck in my butt cheeks -- this isn’t a Sunday night and I don’t keep a diary. I've got work to do.

after a random fuck 2016 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 40

origin of cotton [Mr Ramanasi, Hamptons, New York, February 2014] They came to see me one rain soaked day, this tall American woman and this guy turn up at my place talking about we are the people you have been messaging about this piece or article. And listen I know how things may seem but in actuality things are rarely how they seem nor are they otherwise. It was just, for me, slightly annoying as this American woman came over acting like Lois Lane. I will talk about Syria, I will talk about how the Americans are funding Israel, and I will talk about oil, but the minute you start with all the anarchy this and anarchy that is the very minute I switch off. Because Anarchy is not throwing fire into the pit, totally, as if that is your prerogative and it doesn’t hurt anyone to a certain degree than that is fine, but anarchy is about anti-capitalism and the states duty to see wealth distributed more fairly, not just simple random nonsense. So no I was not amused with her and I didn’t see the point as the guy she was with was a great guy. Funny, witty, quick. The woman was a real bitch, and I don’t mean to take that back as that Article that she wrote was as I expected garbage not even worthy to wipe my ass with, I wouldn’t even put that paper on the rim. She had this long neck that was just getting on my nerves and if anything, I could see that he, had her wrapped around his little finger. She acted cool, but she was as in love as the daisies to sunshine. She kept asking why the Clown school was built on the Mental Hospital? I don’t know lady, do I look like the Mayor? I’m a God damned Londoner for God’s sake.

origin of cotton [Joe Auden, Brooklyn Bridge, New York, June, 2013] He always said he would disappear someday. To say he was obsessed with Machiavelli is an understatement. I would see him reading pages at a time you know. Sniffing a little coke, reading a little, sniffing a little coke, reading a bit more. That and Atrocity Exhibition. I think wherever he would be he had a copy of at least one of them. Which reminds me of the way that he would speak you know this mish mash or deluge of long words. And then just down right potty mouth. Fuck. He could do it with the best of themâ&#x20AC;Ś I think the last time I saw him he was with Alex...

Sketch for Hotel Lucid Documentary 2014 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 43

Origin of Cotton

[‘Bone’, Trader Joe’s — Harlem, New York, January 2014] He kept saying, I’m gonna cut you down to the white meat. I’m gonna cut you down to the white meat. So what was I supposed to think? That he wasn’t serious. He had crazy eyes, for me anyway. I know all these bitches can’t get enough of him, but he had these eyes that pierced you, lacerated you. And it was what I noticed most the last time I saw him. Going on about the stuff like his life depended on it, and I assumed he owed someone as he would never be this worked up usually but this time he was.

three states after crack cocaine 2018 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

origin of cotton [Big D, outside McDonalds, Harlem, New York, January 2014] Yeah I heard about the whole situation with the whole thing. I just see it like this, big cookie eats little cookie and never is it the other way around. It’s not as if he gave me no money. Nada, zip. But I don’t wish nothing on the man, would I mind if he got a little roughed up? Probably not. Shit the way he plays he’d probably enjoy himself, moisten his cheeks, if you know what I mean?

origin of cotton [Louis Santiago, a hotel room at the Plaza New York, January 2013] A gaping hole, of course he left it open to everyone. His thing or his heart had that type of disposition. The last time I saw him was with Candela and we rode the train all alone, just us on the train talking about deserts. There is something beautiful about walking through a desert, he said whilst tilting his head as if to say that he was in his own world. Candela hated the conversation and wanted to get off the train and walk, kept giving me the eyes. But there was something romantic about our guy, I will say that, I think there is only one way to look at the situation and to me it’s like this.

the fancy alcoholic 2017 Crayon & Pencil on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

after Picasso 2016 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 48

MusĂŠe Picasso Visit 2018 Picasso is the master of all arts, for me. he encourages observation, thoughts, analysis. this is my second time at the MusĂŠe Picasso and perhaps even more devastating than the last. his objects and sculptures were particularly of interest on this visit. mostly held by Dora Maar until 1998 when they were put up for auction. they're particularly revelatory in terms of highlighting Picasso's playful spirit -- a pilgrimage!

origin of cotton [‘Coldtrain’, 145th & 96, New York, December 2013] I didn’t sell him the last stuff after he came back from where ever the hell he came from. Mongolia? Talking about Mongolian leathers and all types of shit I never heard of. That day I saw him I told him I had an ounce of weed, a few duchess and that was that. I didn’t have all that shit that was all over his apartment. I aint no murderer. Shit son, I got kids to feed, talking about poisoning... Fuck outta here with that shit... Besides, I heard he was with Lisa later that day, not that I’m snitching on Lisa but truth be told, I don’t like that bitch anyway.

Kurt Vonnegut 2016 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 51

self portrait becoming fat from Aripiprazole 2016 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 52

origin of cotton [Danny White, 145th & 96, New York, December 2013] We would talk about the big J, and how you live thirty-three years and you aint have one erection? Not near one lustful thought? And you say you about them women and you aint get spicy once? Come on son, I can’t believe in you at all, there’s no way that that is happening. I think that’s why he may have been interested in all this cult stuff, but I say may. Anyway, you know he was a real soulful dude, I’m bothered no one can find the man and I hope things resolve themselves as soon as possible.

origin of cotton [Maya ‘Blowback’ Jones, outside Studio 54, October 2013] Well they don’t call me ‘Blowback’ for nothing. I know all the indigo people around. Those are the guys that are usually on the scene, moving around, you know? Well I will say something because it was Bruce that told me about him and that he is wild. Or was wild, I’m not an English teacher, there’s not moth balls up my vagina, I use mine, I gets it in. But anyway wild is the word to describe the man mostly because of what happened the night we met. I came up to speak with Bruce and he was sitting there just quietly and innocently. I mentioned some white and his eyes light up, turned out to be a crazy night. But I don’t know where he’s gone and if I did why would I tell you?

Distillations of Electricity 2015 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 54

After Coltrane 2018 Acrylic & Crayon on Card 40 x 60 cm 56

origin of cotton [Quido, apartment 125 Harlem, January 2014] You just went to see that Lisa girl, well I will say something about her, I know she likes these types of men, I know but I really don’t know what type of person she is. Because she’s into some pretty freaky shit. He would come over and really blow her back out, and you would think there’d been a murder or something. And then next thing you know he’s gone. She’s not all there, my woman tells me stuff all the time. O Quido she came into the apartment block carrying this, O Quido she came into the apartment block carrying that. Quido nothing. Quido only knows about his keeds and nothing else. I don’t know about all these white witchery stuff. That’s what they call it right? Well, there’s one rule for minorities and another rule for the rest of these weird ass people.

double page spread: December Portrait 2014 Pencil on paper 50 x 70 cm

origin of cotton [Lisa Frank, apartment 125 Harlem, January 2014] The coffee was warm, there were two needles on the coffee table and a blood drip next to the television. The window was wide open but it only leads to a big dumpster and then what? Though there was a bit of broken glass and the thing I told you about, this black and blue sculpture thing that I know he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do. That was all that I saw in his apartment.

Me & Warhol (time doesn't exist) 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

Sokal Affair II 2016 Pencil on pastel Paper 60 x 80 cm

Plan IV 2016 Pencil on Card 60 x 80 cm

Kidnapping God 2014 Crayon on paper 100 cm x 80 cm

origin of cotton [Ernest Paw, Midtown Manhatten, July 2013] I tell things how they are, slap my willy against my ankles and call me bananas. He was one of those pseudo intellectuals sprouting pointless anecdotes about this and that as if the world is waiting for them to open their mouths. The week before he went missing we played cards over at Jay Street with the rest of those spooks, mostly just broke and talking about gold in words or paint or whatever the hell those guys do. We got there and the game quickly began after he told us of some chick called Rosa and some spoons. He was going on about it and I just wanted to play Poker and get on with the thing at hand. Gion and those guys get on my nerves: talking in gobbly goo and with no harness of sense to call on, just whole sporadic… enchantments… that’s the word, enchantments. It’s not a surprise, to me, that he may have thrown himself off the Brooklyn Bridge or something like that.

sketch for muse IV 2013 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 66

the next famous negro 2015 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 68

origin of cotton [Gion Joh Jay Street, New York, May 2013] Catachresis–like a word soup; words tumbling out like marks on old ancient stones, as if wounded leather. He was a fellow poet, and so we discussed things as poets should; in a fashion that doesn’t stipulate a certain type of understanding. Ayahuasca: a way to a new mental environ, Art: a way to see the obvious or even science: as if poetry. The weighted rites of passage–I have thought about him a lot so these sentences make more sense, I can tell. An enigma doused with fire and in need of something. I just didn’t know what that something could be, though bountiful ingredients of energy he had. It was him that fathomed the idea of Lucid Documentary, as cliché as it sounds he was the biting force of the manifesto, though his hand was often removed. That trip to Vermont was his doing, for example. If I piece things together and look through the keyhole. You’ll have to catch me another time, my poodle needs a walk.

it's funny how sometimes the aroma of tuna sparks the memory of hunger and a man I only knew as Gambi. he would usually spend days bumming around Manor Park, watching drug deals, bothering kids on skates, reading old newspapers, and take long pisses up against railings alongside the park across from the station. o memories.

food shortages (tuna) 2014 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

double page spread: Portrait IV (schizoidness) 2014 Pastel & Acrylic on card 60 x 80 cm

A Brothel in Ghent Damntor 2016 Pencil on Paper 50 x 70 cm 74

a semblance of madness 2016 Crayon on Card 50 cm x 70 cm

origin of cotton [Alex Federeci, Central Park, New York, Janaury 2014] It’s no surprise that they took her in for questioning. Lisa always strikes me as the type that is a little over the edge, but I really won’t say anymore. I just hope he’s somewhere in Mexico, lost or something. It’s pretty strange how and a person can really go missing in this technological age, but there’s been sightings or possible sightings I should say. All I remember was him arguing with Sven about baseball. They had this altercation outside Chinatown about something to do with Baseball, and Sven, who is not some kitten like figure, he’s done time, and a lot of it, well he was about to smoke his ass. He looked so mad. Apparently Sven had a bet on and lost or something like that, and so it took about three or four of us to pull him off him and that complicates things somewhat, as Sven is not type to fuck with whatsoever.

origin of cotton [Marialan Ferelli, outside Carnegie Hall, New York, January 2014] I was writing the piece on Alfredo Ramanasi and he kept asking if he could come with me, and so after initially saying no, I agreed that he could come on the basis that he would help me record, primarily. And so we got to Ramanasiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place in the Hamptons and he was cordial at first but I will admit not particularly forthcoming about his role in the whole anarchistic approach taken to the riots a little while before that. Ramanasi was very evasive about questions relating to anarchy and the anarchy that he himself had written about in his own books. 'God, Anarchy and Sausages'. Practically a polemic against Islam, practically. But as I kept asking my questions the more introverted he got. The man was basically scratching his white beard and insinuating that he knew nothing about what I was talking about. I merely mention that I was with the guy, of course, that did a lot of the graffiti around the riot and all of a sudden he is happy as Larry. I had no idea that they would get along, and I think it irritated me, along with the fact that he was a nobody and I was writing this piece and Ramanasi was merely going along with what I was saying to avoid sending me home. I was annoyed and eventually after a night of them drinking, him and Ramanasi, we left after I told him that he was out of line. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it this way, of course, but for me, it was quite simple that he was there in order for me get answers for the questions on the piece and instead he took the opportunity to do what he did. I told him he was a jerk after we slept together that night and I never saw him again.

Untitled 2016 Pastel & Pencil on Pastel Paper 40 x 60 cm

Portrait with big back of head 2018 Pencil on Paper

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA

60 x 80 cm

origin of cotton

[Charles Chinaski, Sing Sing Correctional Facility, New York, December 2013] Running through my mind: Kill that Mickey Mouse! Kill that Mickey Mouse! And it was justified. We walked alone; the night time only hears the rattling heart, the loose strands of sordid glare… Car lights sparkled through the petrol station’s window as I bought a few chews and some smokes... I smoked a pack a day and at that rate death should be granted sooner rather than later. Does that deter me from smoking? no it heightens the feeling and saturates the thoughts, as if a prayer like of Genet’s Thief’s Journal – an inverse of personification. He was not smoking at the time, just sniffing a little snow. In some ways the justice of the situation bears no real fruit, just action after action, revealing nothing. A poet in prison. The wholly important notion of the situation (as it came to be) is bleeding like wine, and castigating a seemingly endless pursuit of abyss. I say that but anger does persist if undirected and governed. It consumes doesn’t it. Rolling out the petrol station with less change in my pocket than I could foresee altering anytime soon, the night had led us along the road towards Norma’s, but even allegorically speaking that road was not as straight as its physicality. Norma breeds those thoughts doesn’t she?

She obliterates the hemisphere of my mind. And its these very thoughts that slither the grey matter as a spherical figure is cast against a backdrop of trucker lights, the figure moved slowly but towards the entrance where we stood. It dawned on me that the figure was dressed in a Mickey Mouse suit. We walked towards the light and into the figure walking. I am sure, I thought, that he is staring blankly at my face. And by this I was affronted. I walked and without much more perception than this I don’t aim to move out of the way for this large suited man to pass me by. I found the whole episode nauseating and intoxicating that a man, as I heard his voice, walk into a petrol station wearing such a thing. We bumped into each other and the words that came out of his mouth were disgusting. All the thoughts I was deep within came to the boil, I guess, and as this Mickey Mouse pulled away I picked up a petrol bottle and began attacking him with it. Kill that Mickey Mouse! ... He said he would visit me, but I didn’t want him to. I remember the last thing that he said to me: See you real soon! In that Mickey voice, Goddamn funny bastard.

notebook: 16/ 07 /2016 "... definitive days that turn my nights into fiction" — Blu 82

cerebral 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

after Kafka's Trial 2014 Pastel on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 84

facial recognition 2016 Pencil on Paper 60 cm x 80 xm

sketch for Alteristos 2017 Pencil on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

Don't gimme so much face 2016 Pastel on Card 40 x 60 cm 87

stealing on the Bandit Picasso ยง2 2016 Pencil & Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 88

stealing on the Bandit Picasso 2016 Pencil & Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 89

Axe 2016 Pastel on Card 40 x 60 cm

portrait screaming 2017 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm

origin of cotton [Inspector Morino, New York City Police Department – 32 Precinct, January 2013] The missing files have been in for a little while. If you ask me this guy is still out there, probably somewhere we haven’t thought to look, as the clues are everywhere. Though there is the possibility that he is...and I’m being what’s the word? sensitive...that he’s probably sleeping with the fishes. Some of the women he was dealing with were a strange bunch.

origin of cotton [Estelle Caliguago, China Town, New York] I decided to run my hands through the nape and then the hair. I saw how that made him feel, that sensual feeling within him. And then he pulled away and said he would be back in fifteen minutes, and so I waited outside the Bodega reading Rimbaud for one hour. I started to think that he did these things all the time, and that I am hung on a string like a yo-yo. And so when he came back smiling and changing the subject I gave him a piece of my mind. I really told him about himself and the disregard for the opaque way in which he decides to move about. And can you believe he got mad at me and said I looked like Dora Maar, you know the painting where she is biting her nails; all shrill and violent. He was acting like a donkey, so I hit him and that’s when the police officer came and tried to arrest him. I could have got him arrested if I wanted to, as he made me wait an hour. A whole hour for my fine self. Eventually the officer put his gun away and he stormed off shouting: You’ll remember this, you’ll remember this!

African Mask 2018 Crayon on Paper 21.0 x 29.7cm 92