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[25/11/15 21:07:46] liz allan: Gooieavond?
[25/11/15 21:08:21] Rachel O'Neill: mooning
[25/11/15 21:08:35] liz allan: mooning scribe!
[25/11/15 21:10:02] Clare Noonan: Woop
[25/11/15 21:10:19] liz allan: yuss!
[25/11/15 21:10:30] liz allan: Call started
[25/11/15 21:35:14] liz allan: http://www.michaellett.com/exhibition/?show=254&s=Implicated+and+Immune
[25/11/15 21:35:33] Rachel O'Neill: http://www.newzealandpainting.co.nz/
[25/11/15 22:12:58] Rachel O'Neill: http://woahmanchesterstreet.blogspot.co.nz/2015/11/from-handkerchief-code-to.html?zx=7769d0faecf3fabd
[25/11/15 22:18:00] liz allan: my road was built for a certain kind of activity that no longer takes place
[25/11/15 22:18:24] liz allan: I am a road that no longer takes place
[25/11/15 22:19:03] liz allan: Im recovering from a post-internet context in real time
[25/11/15 22:19:58] liz allan: I'm an exposure method
[25/11/15 22:20:42] Rachel O'Neill: It's not an urban movie it just has a building in it
[25/11/15 22:21:54] Rachel O'Neill: cement is very intense
[25/11/15 22:23:05] Clare Noonan: Its less about the street and more about the footpath
[25/11/15 22:24:49] liz allan: where doesn't the street stop the footpath's intensity
[25/11/15 22:24:50] Clare Noonan: Broadsheet broads
[25/11/15 22:26:31] liz allan: I'm waiting for celebrity
[25/11/15 22:27:06] Clare Noonan: Is she like b grade or is she like f+ grade
[25/11/15 22:27:35] liz allan: I want my cover!
[25/11/15 22:28:13] Rachel O'Neill: A pussyfoot stole my computer
[25/11/15 22:29:40] Clare Noonan: Then I just realised it was wind in the willows
[25/11/15 22:29:54] liz allan: My thinking is Christchurch or bust!
[25/11/15 22:30:03] Clare Noonan: Cunting down the avon
[25/11/15 22:30:35] liz allan: My drive for coherence
[25/11/15 22:30:43] Rachel O'Neill: I was on drugs at the time but I trusted reality
[25/11/15 22:31:25] liz allan: Where the street ends I begin
[25/11/15 22:31:49] liz allan: I'm stuck in the middle of my own meeting
[25/11/15 22:33:17] liz allan: I am begging to google my denouement
[25/11/15 22:33:33] Clare Noonan: Well need some road coads for the middle
[25/11/15 22:34:32] liz allan: where's my trailer ??
[25/11/15 22:34:49] Rachel O'Neill: Orgy in the middle?
[25/11/15 22:34:50] Clare Noonan: I parked it in Mel's garage
[25/11/15 22:35:27] liz allan: make-up ain't gunna cover my character flaws
[25/11/15 22:35:42] Clare Noonan: Secret silence broken. I only just joined social media yesterday
[25/11/15 22:35:51] liz allan: for real?
[25/11/15 22:36:12] Clare Noonan: Begins with I ends with gram
[25/11/15 22:36:20] Clare Noonan: I gram
[25/11/15 22:39:18] Rachel O'Neill: regionalist my property, says outsider
[25/11/15 22:40:14] liz allan: Salacious headline wraps fish and one scoop
[25/11/15 22:41:44] liz allan: My leading ladi is 1980's Chch
[25/11/15 22:42:33] Clare Noonan: There's nothing straight about the Avon
[25/11/15 22:43:22] Rachel O'Neill: take a bow, dudebros
[25/11/15 22:43:49] liz allan: rubble be my wardrobe, city planning be my confessional
[25/11/15 22:43:53] Clare Noonan: SOMETHING OUT OF A CAR WINDOOOWWWW
[25/11/15 22:45:24] Rachel O'Neill: Dust on the cusp
[25/11/15 22:45:44] liz allan: I was a straight road that longed for more
[25/11/15 22:46:13] Rachel O'Neill: More is my middle name
[25/11/15 22:47:47] Rachel O'Neill: the models are not post street they just seem to be over street
[25/11/15 22:49:20] Rachel O'Neill: Less is my middle name
[25/11/15 22:50:02] liz allan: the extras are carefully cast road cones and they're hi vis
[25/11/15 22:51:14] liz allan: I was cast asunder and I came out a leading ladi
[25/11/15 22:53:29] liz allan: I was cast as under and I came out on top

Testing confessional mode alonside a narrative/spatial twist of pre-flight 'birdshit architecture'

I'll cry at 20,000 feet.

Liar.

I'll cry and my tears will fall and form perfume bottles.

More like ordinary boring stupid containers.

Then, I'll walk and cry but that's different.

Sir, you'll look ugly. 

What a relief?

The hills behind the city are puffy. 

Puffy, puffy, effing puffy. Blah.

When I hear you crying I'll want to cry but I won't feel deep enough, really.

You will never.

No, Sir. I will never. 

I will never, too. I know less about nothing than you about me. 

They're boarding seats 1-10. 

Fark. Don't laugh.

These are sad sounds, Sir.

Whatever. They're my tears?

They're not mine, I can tell you that.


Note: testing confessional mode with a narrative/spatial twist of 'birdshit architecture' . I first heard of this term via my friend Rosie Evans: http://journal.enjoy.org.nz/love-feminisms/urban-form-and-the-gendered-lens