For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

few boxes of some Jacob’s Creek red, a bushel of rosemary, a
bucket of bladderwrack, samphire, a wet brick of tofu, sweet
potatoes, lots of tea (green in particular), a few of those
pupae-like cassavas, tomatoes on the vine, turmeric, turnips.
Collapsing in through the front door, slouching toward the
kitchen – a quick glance at the clock – and it starts preparing
dinner. Chopping everything up roughly, flinging it into a
slate-coloured cast iron oval Le Creuset casserole. Slathered
in olive oil and the majority of the red wine. The tumour then
devouring the lot as is, then throwing it back up into the pot
and putting it on the hob, bringing it to the boil, turning it
to a low heat to simmer for the next forty minutes. Radio 4,
distortedly loud from
a Roberts radio, the
tumour sat massive
and oozing under
the kitchen table,
waiting. The cat
seems to like it.
[...]
(And every one
of these words
spiralling into
feedback, infecting
to the point of nausea
to UPCHUCK that
toxic slough – though not all of it, some residue remains to
baste and bolster the tumour, which seems to act as a sort of
magnet for that kind of shit – the meatier, bloodier end of
things – the ragged, in-season behind of a put-upon ape. A
raging, throbbing red light to illuminate every inch of your
innards, flooding it all with a stultifying, sordid light to connote
depressed and stricken sex, lumpen weight, splintered
taxation. This month, here. This month: the month after the
previous month that was CERTAINLY free, clean, demonstrably
clean. Softcore, soft-focus, nubile, RIPPED. BUFF.
Picture lens-flaring morning light (mid-morning, importantly),
white, Egyptian cotton sheets, perfect, dumb specimens