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talking to yourself is more of a listening.

someone said that. i don't care who. except it wasn't me.

I thought this thread was gnangle's internet performance art.
















..oops, interrupted the show.

Chapter two posted, then deleted his posts, thus leaving me to "talk to myself". boy arent i a fuckin geek.

gnangle wrote:Chapter two posted, then deleted his posts, thus leaving me to "talk to myself". boy arent i a fuckin geek.

That's weird. I've never heard of this forum allowing you to delete a post if anyone has replied to it. If it's the last post on a thread, then sure. Which is what makes it so funny when someone gets a double-post, and then they edit one to say "double post" instead of just deleting the second one. But as far as I knew, up until ChapterTwo figured out how to do this for this very thread, it was always impossible. I'm gonna go try it now...

Yeah, it still works like it always did. Maybe ChapterTwo found some black magic that lets him break the rules of the way this forum is programmed.

Or maybe you're on more drugs that you thought.

I actually did post to say that if I was any of the afore-mentioned artists I would be really, really honoured to be touched by your shrunken, drunken lame-ass penis. I hid the post behind a veil of shadow as I thought it terribly impolite of me. But really... haven't you seen the signs? Do not poke the art with gnanglecock.

uh whatever guys. I see the spider on your breast scott, where did you find it?In the trash?how long were you in the trash mound?

Chapter Two wrote:

I actually did post to say that if I was any of the afore-mentioned artists I would be really, really honoured to be touched by your shrunken, drunken lame-ass penis. I hid the post behind a veil of shadow as I thought it terribly impolite of me. But really... haven't you seen the signs? Do not poke the art with gnanglecock.

judgemental.nice guys real nice. you never know what somone is feeling, or why they do things, and sometimes you might not really get it.

anyway the thing i like about art is how it teaches you about other people and your self, i think that is why people lose their lives to it.

When I worked at the National Archives, one man was thrown out for asking for a particular mediaeval manuscript, taking it over to the table and having a wank.

Another was thrown out for tearing out the pages and eating them. Imagine a fourteenth century monk, painstakingly devoting a year of his life to create the minutely detailed pages of a book of hours; imagine those pages outlasting the reformation, the civil war, all the bloody history of the British Isles, and housed finally in a building designed to preserve these works for a thousand years. Now imagine a man walking into said building, using his right as a British citizen to handle these pages, taking them to a table, turning on the lamp, and committing those pages to finally end their days being digested in the guts and shat out of the arse of a mentally ill man.

Or perhaps he was an artist?

Gnangleberries in pants, please.

All things must pass. it is the will of the universe and the role of entropy. Preservation is a compulsive urge when taken to an extreme, I dont rub my cock on a painting it to harm it, or gratify my own artistic merit for doing so, there is none. It is pure entertainment, the very soul of art. Anyway this thread isnt about me rubbing one out on a painting, its about something else.I do that for the idea of being on another level interacting with "the art" whatever it is.If i drove a nail through my penis and did it , it would mean something else entirely. it becomes part of the history of that object, yet it remains hidden. that is compelling on some level

I dont have to imagine any of what you just spoke of, i have dedicated my life to things and had them destroyed. Even worse is when you are working on something that breaks from its own process of creation, now that is a travesty, but still its also a humbling experience which is pretty signifigant too in terms of motivation.

Chapter Two wrote:Another was thrown out for tearing out the pages and eating them. Imagine a fourteenth century monk, painstakingly devoting a year of his life to create the minutely detailed pages of a book of hours; imagine those pages outlasting the reformation, the civil war, all the bloody history of the British Isles, and housed finally in a building designed to preserve these works for a thousand years. Now imagine a man walking into said building, using his right as a British citizen to handle these pages, taking them to a table, turning on the lamp, and committing those pages to finally end their days being digested in the guts and shat out of the arse of a mentally ill man.

Christ. That man should have been drawn and quartered.