I am a potter. It is a stupid, old fashioned, manual job that I have become attached to somehow and now i’m stuck making strange things all day and all night with mud. Neglecting my wife and my kids. Losing touch with friends. As a child I was never a shit eater. Some kids are, it’s true, so I can’t explain how it happened or I don’t want to yet but suffice to say that I am a potter enough in that it devours my life for better or worse and I have nothing else to write about. So this will be the leaves of my life as they fall or a mirror that I pop ripe pimples in. I am writing this down because I like writing. I am a wanker like that. Freestyle fuckhole flips beefy bacon through hidden homos. Apian aviary sores wild birds beyond bent Brickell. I rest my case. I am starting a new project with the Auckland gallery Object Space. I was supposed to contribute some sculpture to a group show and I will but I can do better than that and I’m bored with my last project and the borders are closed and its raining so I cant fuck off to Bali and behave like a beautiful prince. The exchange rate between countries usually allows me to flutter about the slums like a peacock pissing rupees on the poor. Inequality is awesome. Sugar kills. Black lives matter. I am not so much proud of this as aware and quietly grateful for my glorious privilege and blind fortune to have been coughed out into relative affluence. My luck is blind and you are as guilty as I am. Flies and mice. Made in China. Rice Vagina. Climate change. You're to blame. Life is interesting because it is difficult. The exhibition is called Deadweight Loss and after several false starts due to fucking Covid it's seems set to begin at the end of July. I had hoped to be in the tropics this winter as I've become a terrible weather whinger in my old age. A Weather Whinger is one of the worst insults I can bestow upon a person and describes a person whose default conversation is the weather. I am pro death penalty for Weather Whingers so when I catch myself whinging about the weather I feel like a dirty disposable nappy - a stinking worthless shit in need of incineration. I have almost finished three big pots for Deadweight Loss and am shifting into making some pseudo domestic merchandise to support the show. I love the term 'merch' because it's so cheap and nasty. I also love the idea of making stupidly labour intensive handmade merchandise that isn't easy to make, isn't mass producible and isn't even particularly profitable. I want to flip a myth and expose the belly. Maybe the exhibition proper should just be cheap Chinese t-shirts printed with images of the handmade merchandise? The bastard child of arts and craft is hungry. Judas eats the ivory tower, an unexpected shift in power. Today I am a fat fly on a dying bird, waiting for my current project to finish so that I can begin again. Soft feathers fall away, carrion carry me, come what may.