204: Between jazz parping and Earth Song

I’m sitting in the office at Blank Space struggling to put a thought together due to the confusing jazz parping out of the speaker at one side of the room, and the random sound elements and occasional crescendo of Michael Jackson’s Earth Song rousing up from the conceptual video art on the other side of the partition wall.  The sound clash, combined with the revolting pasty I just endured, have created unease in both mind and stomach.  My fingers shiver from the cold and my back burns from the electric fan heater.  But, I’m in an office; feeling all important, n that.  Like a professional or something.  Clearly I’m not a professional, nor am I behaving like one, as you can plainly see.  I’m spending my time writing this pap.

Let’s talk some more about the pasty I mentioned.  I can’t remember the brand, but it was some sort of Caribbean company, and the flavour was curried beef.  I still have a curried lamb one at home; not lucking forward to it.  The flavour of the sauce was ok and the texture of the pastry was acceptable, but the minced beef was almost entirely comprised of inedible chewy squares of rubbery whitish matter.  The sort of weird stuff you can’t imagine which part of the body it could have come from, and what it might have been doing when in situ.  Even more of a worry is how it made it into the pasty in the first place.  Just one piece would have been a worry, but every mouthful contained at least two pieces of the retch-inducing filth.  Never again.  Must remember the name of the company so I can slander them, and accuse them of all sorts of malpractice.  Underpaid wage-slave falling into the mincing machine and being covered up by the management?  Definately.  The chewy stuff wasn’t even from a cow; it was from the wellington boots and protective gloves of the poor unfortunate minced-up factory worker.

We’ve just had a delivery of paintings.  They are the pieces for Blank Media’s forthcoming curation of the wall space at Green Room.  They are sat across the room staring at me, tightly bubble-wrapped and taped shut.  I have to restrain myself from tearing them open to satisfy my curiosity.  Once open I may be startled by the originality and haunting beauty of the images which touch my soul and speak to me as I have never been spoken to before; or, I may sneer derisively and dismiss with a pfft before casually putting my foot through one of them before wandering away, humming to myself.  It’s probably best if I stay away from them.