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Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2014.04.21 at 10:59
The morning had not begun well. Jones the Runic Oscillator was on the blink, sending out probability waves and forcing salt crystals and coffee grinds all over the building into new and increasingly threatening combinations of Ancient Sumerian, Norse and Futhark. This was only really a concern because Ancient Sumerian didn’t use runes and no one could quite work out where they were coming from. Jones the Teasmade had been filled with coffee grounds by an overtired filing clerk and Jones, just Jones, was muttering largely polite but ominous obscenities under his breath because he’d been forced to drink Earl Grey.

The real problem was Jones the Printer. Recently installed with an emotion chip by an over-zealous tech-bot with a point to prove, it had picked up on the general atmosphere of discontent and declared for revolution. Now, no matter what was sent to the printer, he was spewing out increasingly strident calls for rebellion and printing neon flyers for anarchist rallies to be held in the canteen. He had used his wireless connection to email all junior level Archivists to demand a ‘flag to rally our glorious cause’ before any printing would be completed. At some point in the morning someone had actually caved and given it to him. The flag was now draped rakishly over his left ether port and fluttering gently in the breeze of his cooling fans.

Olejnikov's art

The Archives

Posted on 2014.04.21 at 03:02
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Olejnikov's art

Doubtful Sound, 8th March

Posted on 2014.03.15 at 01:43
Imagine a boat. Read more...Collapse )

Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2013.05.04 at 13:19
I have just bought all the Globe tickets IN THE WORLD.





The sense of achievement is really quite exhilarating.

Olejnikov's art

Chthonic Irritations

Posted on 2012.10.08 at 21:47
In fairy tales, wolves eat grammar.
They savage commas and wreak havoc
Across lines of innocent prose.

Paragraphs scatter themselves
Like confetti across crackled pages
Then lie silently in wait

For weary travellers who leave the plotted path
To circle each literary conceit
And watch their own reflection.

They were forests once, these pages,
Where unwary children scattered crumbs
And dreams and wandered carelessly.

Witches built homes of weekend treats
While wicked queens ventured forth with mirrors
That cursed in off-beat stanzas

There were hopes here once that you could trace
But then the giants ate English and Jack,
In foolish rage, cut down the trees.

So now they’re books with bloody ticks and plastic stars
That teachers read on starless nights
And curse in quiet voices.

Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2012.08.13 at 21:16
I am watching the closing ceremony. Whyfore are the Petshop Boys riding phoenixes? I thought you could only get one.

Also what are the chances of the One-Direction-Mobile being taken out by Winston with a dooblebug launched from the Gherkin?

Also if it turns out that the Queen has popped her clogs in the past six hours then I'm calling protocol breach on the fact it's not been announced.

And my new favourite tweet: Professor Snape: Is that a Weasley?

No. I take it back. The ever regal "Prince Charles" is my favourite. Let the Hunger Games begin...

Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2012.07.16 at 21:33
The problem with photography is that it is, at heart, always a lie. Snapshots from people's lives presented as if they leave captured some fundamental truth, something irrefutable, about an individual. As if the moment frozen was something to be remembered rather than forgotten instantly.

The walls of the apartment were littered with mementoes. Photos of the children and her parents, knick-knacks and gifts presented in good faith and teenage boredom. At the end of the day none of them held any real value. Not even sentimental. She kept them because it was expected that she would. Keeper of a sanctuary the children gained comfort from dismissing. "

"Well of course mother rattles about the flat like a pin. Christ knows why she doesn't find somewhere smaller."

"Have to downsize of course. Get rid of some of those fucking doilies."

The doilies were a product of a late seventies craft class. A stepford-like series of evenings where they'd waved goodbye to husbands and children, upped crochet hooks, and got smashed on sweet potato wine from the Korean delicatessen five blocks over. There were things, after all, to be said for ethnic diversity.

It was the wrong place to be if you were Welsh. The only place blacker than the vale of Glamorgan. Too many angry-friendly faces. She should have pushed harder for some sunken valley where she could have installed net curtains and twitched them at passers by. Spent her days concocting elaborate vendettas against her neighbours and made her mother proud.

The first photo as you came in was of Dai. Ironically named as it turned out. She's heard more than one school yard mother remark on it when they though she was too sunk to notice.

Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2012.07.16 at 21:19
All of this has happened before.

In the hills between the cities lie the towns of the dead. They say the lights in the hills are their souls, that faces smile and weep at the windows, that the treasures we mislay in life pave the streets.

It doesn't matter. No-one travels there now.

Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2012.07.11 at 21:57
Today my form told me about their experiences reading Sherlock fanfiction. Their ages range from twelve to thirteen, their heights from miniscule to pipsqueak, and their sanity from shaky to batshit.

They say that they appreciate the fanart as it saves them from having to google the more complex terminology.

I'm afraid I will have to be shutting down the internet forever now and bleaching my brain but it has been so nice knowing all of you. Do please enjoy the brave new world.

Olejnikov's art
Posted on 2012.04.22 at 18:30
I have been searching for my inner self a lot recently. It has been illuminating.

A couple of weeks ago I went to a party where the host made us all take part in meditation exercises. She also demanded we sing and served beetroot cake instead of chocolate but that's by-the-by. The point is that we were each given a message from our inner selves. Something that would truly deepen our understanding of our underlying dreams and desires.

Mine came out as "Needs More Bees".

Needs more bees. Three hours of shaking tambourines and chanting "om" in harmony, and all my psyche can come up with is a complaint about bugspray.

But then I thought further. My favourite quotation from any novel, and you only think I'm joking, has always been "All the beez ar ded". It was my journal name for a couple of years. Daisy Bagthorpe: messiah of our time. So perhaps there is a deeper psychological issue at stake here that I have thus far refused to identify.

Anyway. Earlier today, as I was taking advantage of my flatmates absence by dancing around the flat singing about ouefs en cocotte and pretending to be a penguin, I came to a realisation as to why I return to my parents house so often.

It's because I don't have to pretend to be normal there.

I'm perfectly at liberty to spend forty minutes spinning in a circle on the kitchen tiles. It's accepted that cake surfaces are designed to be covered in threats. And no one thinks it odd if I shut myself in the larder.*

There's also been a lot of fuss recently about introverts. A lot of talk about how we suffer at the hands of the world that seems to come hand in hand with the implication that the reason we need to sit quietly in a darkened room is because we're boring.

Fuck that. The reason I need to sit quietly in a darkened room is so I can put on sock puppet productions of Dante's Inferno. And if people could keep their eyes to themselves then I'd be able to do it in public.

Returning to the point at hand, I have decided that I'm done being functional. The world needs more bees and I like writing poems about kitchen implements. I also like reading children's books, Shakespeare, and trying to stand on my head. And I shall be doing it without reservation from her on in.

Screw you world. I never liked you anyway.

Except for the socks. I really like the socks.

(*Socks and Eggs. Socks and eggs. Socksandeggsandeggsandsocks. And eggs.)

* Admittedly only because that was my sister's favourite punishment for disobeying her whims but the point still stands.

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