We are not interested in the mysterious, difficult woman, the femme fatale, who wears elegant underwear, with lace, and she is sad, and somehow mentally filthy. The Playboy girl has no lace, no underwear, she is naked, well-washed with soap and water, and she is happy.
“You know his arm. His limbs. I’m just thinking like when you get chicken all the meat comes off the bone.”
“Yeah but there’ll be a bit more connecting tissue or whatever on him still.”
“Maybe.”
I ought to know more about anatomy. I looked him in the eye (his eyelids had burnt off). No signs of a struggle. No clothes about the place either. He entered the room naked.
Never mind. None of my business really is it.
We put gloves on, the long ones, and lifted him onto the towels. A couple of bits did fall off, but he held together. The oil sucked, heavier than water. A fresh stink as we laid him out. The meat did come easily off the bones, although that wasn’t what we were aiming for. Just dismember him really, make it easier to take him away. The batter slaked off as we pulled at him, and sinews cracked. It was quick enough with the saw. Just the smell.
Luckily, we had enough bin bags. Janine was worried earlier in the day that we’d run out. Not a big deal obviously, I’d have just popped down the shop, but it would have been a bother changing clothes and everything. Especially with this, wouldn’t want to go anywhere now that smell's in my hair. It’s raining as well. We wrapped all the pieces of him and made a pile, head last. His cheek disintegrated as I pulled up the plastic round it. Spongy.
The towels were for chuck, obviously, and we loaded them along with the bin bags into the van.
“Be finding grease for days after this,” said Janine.
“I know. And it always turns up in places you don’t expect. Like glitter.”
We were bringing some of those tanks you get from water coolers for the oil. I’d told Janine they’d come in useful.
“We didn’t need to worry about his arm coming off did we.”
“Why’s that.”
“Well when you get chicken, the meat doesn’t actually just fall straight off the bone does it, you have to tear at it.”
“Good point,” she said, as we came up the garden path, “Good point.”
We got rid of all the oil, after a few goes. Had to dig a hole in the garden and pour it all out. Would have been easier if we could have put him in there with it, but we’re not supposed to do that. He was already in the van anyway. Would have been more effort to get him out. We filled the hole back in. Probably no one's going to come here for a while. And if they dig and find it, they're hardly likely to jump to the right conclusion.
We cleaned every inch of that bathroom. It was quite a nice room actually, if a bit small. Black and white tiles, no mould, surprisingly high ceiling as well, for a room that size. Must have been partitioned off from the one next door. Anyway, we bleached the toilet, wiped down the cupboards, had a go at the toothbrushes with a cotton bud. They even had a soap dish. Can’t remember the last time I saw a soap dish. Bit of dried vomit by the loo. Awful when you can’t quite reach, isn’t it.
I find the set up of this clip very odd - Mable wearing barely anything with all those people in the background just sitting and watching and smiling. They're so static.
I was going to have a rule for this blog that any fine art I posted would be created by women. Look at me breaking it already, but I've just remembered this and it's so astonishing.
It's a cow's eye in the close up. Seems obvious once you know.
We should point out here that all these individuals – the disabled and the ecstatic, the peddlars, hawkers, jugglers and neurotics – actually form different kinds of social classes. They possess magical powers... as a consequence of society's attitude towards them and their kind.
The same may be said of women. They are everywhere recognised as being more prone to magic than men, not so much because of their physical characteristics, but because of the social attitudes these characteristics provoke. The critical periods of their life cycle lead to bemusement and apprehension, which place them in a special position. And it is precisely at periods such as puberty, menstruation, pregnancy and childbirth that a woman's attributes reach their greatest intensity. [...] However, even outside these critical periods... women are the butt of superstitions and jural and religious taboos, which clearly mark them off as a separate class in society. They are made out to be more different than men than they are in fact. They are said to be the font of mysterious activities, the sources of magical power. On the other hand, since women are excluded from most religious cults – or if admitted, reduced to a passive role – the only practices left to them on their own initiative are magical ones. The magical attributes of women derive primarily from their social position and consequently are more talked about than real... The curious result is that on the whole, it is the men who perform magic while women are accused of it.
I suppose this is from The Artist is Present at MoMA. One of my tutors at university, who was a very strange and reserved person, went to MoMA while this was on. He said he didn't take part and when we asked why, he didn't answer.
Half female, half male.
Bilateral gynandromorphism is a rare genetic disorder occurring in insects, arachnids, crustaceans, and birds, where a strange combination of genetic material splits a creature perfectly in half, with one side male and one side female.