Design Vs Literature

The title Sanguinary Creeps has been taken from an Of Montreal song, meaning bloodthirsty creeps. Im interested in the interesting, I dont have an obsession with minimal design, I dont spend hours illustrating type, I dont have a mundane obsession with food; I have an obsession with people and behaviour. Design doesnt solely exist to make other designers excited, it exists so that common interests can be shared and celebrated. This publication is a pocket sized excerpt from my brain, it wouldnt be as special if it made any sense.

Design Vs Literature

We are living in a time where people can communicate and express themselves with ease via a plethora of devices and webtools. Why do you feel it is still important to encourage a culture of creating and sharing independently published works?

Design Vs Literature

The ability to publish work digitally is often held up as a cure for publishing in print - if you can satisfy your hunger for expression digitally, you wont need to snack on print. But actually I think the opposite is true - I think digital publishing just whets the appetite for print. Were very used to expressing ourselves in blogs, tweets, etc, but that leads to the desire for another outlet; these days were all content creators, and it makes sense that some of us want to create in print. Creating and printing a magazine is much harder and more expensive than posting on a blog, but thats part of the appeal - it gives us pleasure to struggle, especially when theres the promise of a real and tangible reward at the end.

Steve Watson Stack Magazines

Design Vs Literature

American Psycho Girls The Rules of Attraction Will Self My Hero How the Dead Live Greetings Satanic Feminism

This publication will be in two parts, the first part being literature. I have selected the main figures who have influenced me and deal with the themes that are prominent within my design practice. I am most interested in human behaviour and language, and there are certain writers that choose to write on the subject of our supposed enlightened society. 9

Design Vs Literature

American Psycho is a psychological thriller and satirical novel by Bret Easton Ellis, published in 1991. The story is told in the first person by Patrick Bateman, a serial killer and Manhattan businessman. The books graphic violence and sexual content generated a great deal of controversy before and after publication. The book was originally to have been published by Simon & Schuster in March 1991, but the company withdrew from the project because of aesthetic differences. Vintage Books purchased the rights to the novel and published the book after the customary editing process. The book was never published in hardcover form in the United States, although a deluxe paperback was eventually offered. Ellis received numerous death threats and hate mail after the publication of American Psycho. Set in Manhattan during the Wall Street boom of the late 1980s, American Psycho is about the daily life of wealthy young investment banker Patrick Bateman. Bateman, in his late 20s when the story begins, narrates his everyday activities, from his recreational life among the Wall Street elite of New York to his forays into murder by nightfall. Through present tense stream-of-consciousness narrative, Bateman describes his daily life, ranging from a series of Friday nights spent at nightclubs with his colleagues where they snort cocaine, critique fellow club-goers clothing, trade fashion advice, and question one another on proper etiquette to his loveless engagement to fellow yuppie Evelyn and his contentious relationship with his brother and senile mother. Batemans stream of consciousness is occasionally broken up by chapters in which he directly addresses the reader in order to critique the work of 1980s Pop music artists. The novel maintains a high level of ambiguity through such devices as mistaken identity, and contradictions which introduce the possibility that Bateman is an unreliable narrator. Characters are consistently introduced as other people, people argue over the identities of others they can see in restaurants or at parties. Whether any of the crimes depicted in the novel actually happened, or were simply the fantasies of a delusional psychotic, is deliberately left open.

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Tonight an infuriating dinner at Raw Space with a vaguely ditzed-out Courtney who keeps asking me questions about spa menus and George Bush and Tofutti that belong only in someones nightmare. I utterly ignore her, to no avail, and while shes in midsentence - Page Six, Jackie O - I resort to waving our waiter over and ordering the cold corn chowder lemon bisque with peanuts and dill, an arugula Caesar salad and swordfish meat loaf with kiwi mustard, even though I already ordered this and he tells me so. I look up at him, not even trying to feign surprise, and smile grimly. Yes, I did, didnt I? The Floridian cuisine looks impressive but the portions are small and costly, especially in a place with a dish of crayons on each table. (Courtney draws a Laura Ashley print on her paper place mat and I draw the insides of Monica Lustgardens stomach and chest on mine and when Courtney, charmed by what Im drawing, inquires as to what it is, I tell her, Uh, a watermelon). The bill, which I pay for with my platinum American Express card, comes to over three hundred dollars. Courtney looks okay in a Donna Karan wool jacket, silk blouse and cashmere wool skirt. Im wearing a tuxedo for no apparent reason. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about a new sport called Dwarf Tossing. In the limousine, dropping her off at Nells, where were supposed to have drinks with Meredith Taylor, Louise Samuelson and Pierce Towers, I tell Courtney that I need to score some drugs and I promise that Ill be back before midnight. Oh, and tell Nell I say hi, I add casually. Just buy some downstairs if you have to, for gods sake, she whines. But I promised someone Id stop by their place. Paranoia Understand? I whine back. Whos paranoid? she asks, eyes squinting. I dont get it. Honey, the drugs downstairs are usually a notch below NutraSweet in terms of potency, I tell her. You know. Dont implicate me, Patrick, she warns. Just go inside and order me a Fosters, okay? Where are you really going? she asks after a beat, now suspicious. Im going to Nojs, I say. Im buying coke from Noj. But Noj is the chef at Deck Chairs, she says, as Im pushing her out of the limousine. Noj isnt a drug dealer. Hes a chef! Dont have a hissy fit, Courtney, I sigh, my hands on her back. But dont lie to me about Noj, she whines, struggling to stay in the car. Noj is the chef at Deck Chairs. Did you hear me? I stare at her, dumbfounded, caught in the harsh lights hung above the ropes outside Nells.

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I mean Fiddler, I finally admit, meekly. Im going to Fiddlers to score. Youre impossible, she mutters, walking away from the limo. There is something seriously wrong with you. Ill be back, I call out after her, slamming the limos door shut, then I cackle gleefully to myself while relighting a cigar, Dont you bet on it. I tell the chauffeur to head over to the meat-packing district just west of Nells, near the bistro Florent, to look for prostitutes and after heavily scanning the area twice - actually, Ive spent months prowling this section of town for the appropriate babe - I find her on the corner of Washington and Thirteenth. Shes blond and slim and young, trashy but not an escort bimbo, and most important, shes white, which is a rarity in these parts. Shes wearing tight cutoff shorts, a white T-shirt and a cheap leather jacket, and except for a bruise over her left knee her skin is pale all over, including the face, though her thickly lipsticked mouth is done up in pink. Behind her, in four-foot-tall red block letters painted on the side of an abandoned brick warehouse, is the word M E A T and the way the letters are spaced awakens something in me and above the building like a backdrop is a moonless sky, which earlier, in the afternoon, was hung with clouds but tonight isnt. The limousine cruises up alongside the girl. Through its tinted windows, closer up, shes paler, the blond hair now seems bleached and her facial features indicate someone even younger than I first imagined, and because shes the only white girl Ive seen tonight in this section of town, she seems - whether she is or not especially clean; you could easily mistake her for one of the NYU girls walking home from Mars, a girl who has been drinking Seabreezes all night while moving across a dance floor to the new Madonna songs, a girl who perhaps afterwards had a fight with her boyfriend, someone named Angus or Nick or Pokey, a girl on her way to Florent to gossip with friends, to order another Seabreeze perhaps or maybe a cappuccino or a glass of Evian water - and unlike most of the whores around here, she barely registers the limousine as it pulls up next to her and stops, idling. Instead she lingers casually, pretending to be unaware of what the limousine actually signifies. When the window opens, she smiles but looks away. The following exchange takes place in less than a minute. I havent seen you around here, I say. You just havent been looking, she says, really cool. Would you like to see my apartment? I ask, flipping the light on inside the back of the limo so she can see my face, the tuxedo Im wearing. She looks at the limousine, then at me, then back at the limo. I reach into my gazelleskin wallet. Im not supposed to, she says, looking off into a pocket of darkness between two buildings across the street, but when her eyes fall back on me she notices the hundred-dollar bill Im holding out to her and without asking what Im doing, without asking what it is I really want of her, without even asking if Im a cop, she takes the bill and then Im.allowed to rephrase my question. Do you want to come up to my apartment or not? I ask this grinning. Im not supposed to, she says again, but after another glance at the black, long

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car and at the bill shes now putting into her hip pocket and at the bum, shuffling toward the limousine, a cup jangling with coins held in a scabby outstretched arm, she manages to answer, But I can make an exception. Do you take American Express? I ask, switching the light off. Shes still gazing out into that wall of darkness, as if looking for a sign from someone invisible. She shifts her stare to meet mine and when I repeat Do you take American Express? she looks at me like Im crazy, but I smile pointlessly anyway while holding the door open and tell her, Im joking. Come on, get in. She nods to someone across the street and I guide this girl into the back of the darkened limousine, slamming the door, then locking it. Back in my apartment, while Christie takes a bath (I dont know her real name, I havent asked, but I told her to respond only when I call her Christie) I dial the number for Cabana Bi Escort Service and, using my gold American Express card, order a woman, a blond, who services couples. I give the address twice and afterwards, again, stress blond. The guy on the other end of the line, some old dago, assures me that someone blond will be at my door within the hour. After flossing and changing into a pair of silk Polo boxer shorts and a cotton Bill Blass sleeveless T-shirt, I walk into the bathroom, where Christie lies on her back in the tub, sipping white wine from a thin-stemmed Steuben wineglass. I sit on the tubs marble edge and pour Monique Van Frere herb-scented bath oil into it while inspecting the body lying in the milky water. For a long time my mind races, becomes flooded with impurities - her head is within my reach, is mine to crush; at this very moment my urge to strike out, to insult and punish her, rises then subsides, and afterwards Im able to point out, Thats a very fine chardonnay youre drinking. After a long pause, my hand squeezing a small, childlike breast, I say, I want you to clean your vagina. She stares up at me with this seventeen-year-olds gaze, then looks down at the length of her body soaking in the tub. With the mildest of shrugs she places the glass on the tubs edge and moves a hand down to the sparse hair, also blond, below her flat porcelain-smooth stomach, and then she spreads her legs slightly. No, I say quietly. From behind. Get on your knees. She shrugs again. I want to watch, I explain. You have a very nice body, I say, urging her on. She rolls over, kneeling on all fours, her ass raised up above the

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water, and I move to the other edge of the tub to get a better view of her cunt, which she fingers with a soapy hand. I move my hand above her moving wrist to her asshole, which I spread and with a dab of the bath oil finger lightly. It contracts, she sighs. I remove the finger, then slide it into her cunt, which hangs below it, both our fingers moving in, then out, then back into her. Shes wet inside and using this wetness I move my index finger back up to her asshole and slide it in easily, up to the knuckle. She gasps twice and pushes herself back onto it, while still fingering her cunt. This goes on for a while until the doorman rings, announcing that Sabrina has arrived. I tell Christie to get out of the tub and dry off, to choose a robe - but not the Bijan - from the closet and meet me and our guest in the living room for drinks. I move back to the kitchen, where I pour a glass of wine for Sabrina. Sabrina, however, is not a blond. And standing in the doorway after my initial shock subsides, I finally let her in. Her hair is brownish blond, not real blond, and though this infuriates me I dont say anything because shes also very pretty; not as young as Christie but not too used up either. In short, she looks like shell be worth whatever it is Im paying her by the hour. I calm down enough to become totally unangry when she takes off her coat and reveals a hardbody dressed in tight black peg pants and a flower-print halter top, with black pointytoed high-heeled shoes. Relieved, I lead her into the living room and position her on the white down-filled sofa and, without asking if she wants anything to drink, bring her a glass of white wine and a coaster to place it on from the Mauna Kea Hotel in Hawaii. The Broadway cast recording of Les Misrables is playing on CD from the stereo. When Christie comes in from the bathroom to join us, wearing a Ralph Lauren terry-cloth robe, her blond hair slicked back, looking white now because of the bath, I place her on the couch next to Sabrina - they nod hello and then I take a seat in the Nordian chrome and teakwood chair across from the couch. I decide its probably best if we get to know each other before we adjourn to the bedroom and so I break a long, not unpleasant silence by clearing my throat and asking a few questions. So, I start, crossing my legs. Dont you want to know what I do? The two of them stare at me for a long time. Fixed smiles locked on their faces, they glance at each other before Christie, unsure, shrugs and quietly answers, No. Sabrina smiles, takes this as a cue and agrees. No, not really. I stare at the two of them for a minute before recrossing my legs and sighing, very irritated: Well, I work on Wall Street. At Pierce & Pierce. A long pause. Have you heard of it? I ask. Another long pause. Finally Sabrina breaks the silence. Is it connected with Mays or Macys? I pause before asking, Mays? She thinks about it for a minute then says, Yeah. A shoe outlet? Isnt P & P a shoe store? I stare at her, hard.

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Christie stands up, surprising me, and moves over to admire the stereo. You have a really nice place here Paul, and then, looking through the compact discs, hundreds upon hundreds of them, stacked and lined up in a large white-oak shelf, all of them alphabetically listed, How much did you pay for it? Im standing up to pour myself another glass of the Acacia. Actually, none of your business, Christie, but I can assure you it certainly wasnt cheap. From the kitchen I notice Sabrina has taken a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag and I walk back into the living room, shaking my head before she can light one. No, no smoking, I tell her. Not in here. She smiles, pauses slightly and with a little nod slips the cigarette back into its box. Im carrying a tray of chocolates with me and I offer one to Christie. Varda truffle? She stares blankly at the plate then politely shakes her head. I move over to Sabrina, who smiles and takes one, and then, concerned, I notice her wineglass, which is still full. I dont want you to get drunk, I tell her. But thats a very fine chardonnay youre not drinking. I place the tray of trues on the glass-top Palazzetti coffee table and sit back in the armchair, motioning for Christie to get back on the couch, which she does. We sit here silently, listening to the Les Misrables CD. Sabrina chews on the truffle thoughtfully and takes another. I have to break the silence again myself. So have either of you been abroad? It hits me almost immediately what the sentence sounds like, how it could be misinterpreted. I mean to Europe? Both of them are looking at each other as if some secret signal is passing between them, before Sabrina shakes her head and then Christie follows with the same head movement. The next question I ask, after another long silence, is, Did either of you go to college, and if so, where? The response to this question consists of a barely contained glare from each of them, and so I decide to take this as an opportunity to lead them into the bedroom, where I make Sabrina dance a little before taking off her clothes in front of Christie and me while every halogen bulb in the bedroom burns. I have her put on a Christian Dior lace and charmeuse teddy and then I take off all my clothes - except for a pair of Nike allsport sneakers - and Christie eventually takes off the Ralph Lauren robe and is buck naked except for an Angela Cummings silk and latex scarf, which I knot carefully around her neck, and suede gloves by Gloria Jose from Bergdorf Goodman that I bought on sale. Now the three of us are on the futon. Christie is on all fours facing the headboard, her ass raised high in the air, and Im straddling her back as

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Design Vs Literature
I have always favoured Bret Easton Ellis, because of the way he chooses to highlight the terrible nature of humans. Someone once commented on the subject matter of my work in a way that suggested it was dark and controversial. Theres nothing controversial about human nature.

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Life is a typographical error: were constantly writing and rewriting things over each other. - Bret Easton Ellis

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if I was riding a dog or something, but backward, my knees resting on the mattress, my dick half hard, and Im facing Sabrina, who is staring into Christies spread-open ass with a determined expression. Her smile seems tortured and shes wetting her own lips by fingering herself and tracing her glistening index finger across them, like shes applying lip gloss. With both my hands I keep Christies ass and cunt spread open and I urge Sabrina to move in closer and sniff them. Sabrina is now face level at Christies ass and cunt, both of which Im fingering lightly. I motion for Sabrina to move her face in even closer until she can smell my fingers which I push into her mouth and which she sucks on hungrily. With my other hand I keep massaging Christies tight, wet pussy, which hangs heavy, soaked below her spread, dilated asshole. Smell it, I tell Sabrina and she moves in closer until shes two inches, an inch, away from Christies asshole. My dick is standing straight up now and I keep jerking myself off to keep it that way. Lick her cunt first, I tell Sabrina and with her own fingers she spreads it open and starts lapping at it like a dog while massaging the clit and then she moves up to Christies asshole which she laps at in the same way. Christies moans are urgent and uncontrolled and she starts pushing her ass harder into Sabrinas face, onto Sabrinas tongue, which Sabrina pushes slowly in and out of Christies asshole. While she does this I watch, transfixed, and start rubbing Christies clit quickly until shes humping onto Sabrinas

face and shouts Im coming and while pulling on her own nipples has a long, sustained orgasm. And though she could be faking it I like the way it looks so I dont slap her or anything. Tired of balancing myself, I fail off Christie and lie on my back, positioning Sabrinas face over my stiff, huge cock which I guide into her mouth with my hand, jerking it off while she sucks on the head. I pull Christie toward me and while taking her gloves off start kissing her hard on the mouth, licking inside it, pushing my tongue against hers, past hers, as far down her throat as it will go. She fingers her cunt, which is so wet that her upper thighs look like someones slathered something slick and oily all over them. I push Christie down past my waist to help Sabrina suck my cock off and after the two of them take turns licking the head and the shaft, Christie moves to my balls which are aching and swollen, as large as two small plums, and she laps at them before placing her mouth over the entire sac, alternately massaging and lightly sucking the balls, separating them with her tongue. Christie moves her mouth back to the cock Sabrinas still sucking on and they start kissing each other, hard, on the mouth, right above the head of my dick, drooling saliva onto it and jacking it off. Christie keeps masturbating herself this entire time, working three fingers in her vagina, wetting her clit with her juices, moaning. This turns me on enough to grab her by the waist and swivel her around and position her cunt over my face, which she gladly

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sits on. Clean and pink and wet and spread, her clit swollen, engorged with blood, her cunt hangs over my head and I push my face into it, tonguing it, craving its flavor, while fingering her asshole. Sabrina is still working on my cock, jacking off the base of it, the rest of it filling her mouth, and now she moves on top of me, her knees resting on either side of my chest, and I tear off her teddy so that her ass and cunt are facing Christie, whose head I force down and order to lick them, suck on that clit and she does. Its an awkward position for all of us, so this only goes on for maybe two or three minutes, but during this short period Sabrina comes in Christies face, while Christie, grinding her cunt hard against my mouth, comes all over mine and I have to steady her thighs and grip them firmly so she wont break my nose with her humping. I still havent come and Sabrinas doing nothing special to my cock so I pull it out of her mouth and have her sit on it. My cock slides in almost too easily - her cunt is too wet, drenched with her own cunt juice and Christies saliva, and theres no friction - so I take the scarf from around Christies neck and pull my cock out of Sabrinas cunt and, spreading her open, wipe her cunt and my cock off and then try to resume fucking her while I continue to eat out Christie, who I bring to yet another climax within a matter of minutes. The two girls are facing each other - Sabrinas fucking my cock, Christies sitting on my face - and Sabrina leans in to suck and finger Christies small, firm, full tits. Then Christie starts French-kissing Sabrina hard on the mouth as I continue to eat her out, my mouth and chin and jaw covered with her juices, which momentarily dry, then are replaced by others. I push Sabrina off my cock and lay her on her back, her head at the foot of the futon. Then I lay Christie over her, placing the two in a sixty-nine position, with Christies ass raised up in the air, and with a surprisingly small amount of Vaseline, after slipping on a condom, finger her tight ass until it relaxes and loosens enough so I can ease my dick into it while Sabrina eats Christies cunt out, fingering it, sucking on her swollen clit, sometimes holding on to my balls and squeezing them lightly, teasing my asshole with a moistened finger, and then Christie is leaning into Sabrinas cunt and shes roughly spread her legs open as wide as possible and starts digging her tongue into Sabrinas cunt, but not for long because shes interrupted by yet another orgasm and she lifts her head up and looks back at me, her face slick with cunt juice, and she cries out Fuck me Im coming oh god eat me Im coming and this spurs me on to start fucking her ass very hard while Sabrina keeps eating the cunt that hangs over her face, which is covered with Christies pussy juice. I pull my cock out of Christies ass and force Sabrina to suck on it before I push it back into Christies spread cunt and after a couple of minutes of fucking it I start coming and at the same time Sabrina lifts her mouth off my balls and just before I explode into Christies cunt, she spreads my ass cheeks open and forces her tongue up into my asshole which spasms around it and because of this my orgasm prolongs itself and then Sabrina removes her tongue and starts moaning that shes coming too because after Christie finishes coming she resumes eating Sabrinas cunt and I watch, hunched over Christie, panting, as Sabrina lifts her hips repeatedly into Christies face and then I have to lie back, spent but still hard, my cock, glistening, still aching from the force of my ejaculation, and I close my eyes, my knees weak and shaking. I awaken only when one of them touches my wrist accidentally. My eyes open and I warn them not to touch the Rolex, which Ive kept on during this entire time. They lie quietly on either side of me, sometimes touching my chest, once in a while running their hands over the muscles in my abdomen. A half hour later Im hard again. I stand up and walk over to the armoire, where, next to the nail gun, rests a sharpened coat hanger, a rusty butter knife, matches from the Gotham Bar and Grill and a half-smoked cigar; and turning around, naked, my erection jutting

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The Rules of Attraction is a dark comedy and satirical novel by Bret Easton Ellis published in 1987. The novel focuses on a handful of rowdy and often sexually promiscuous, spoiled Bohemian college students at a liberal arts college in 1980s New Hampshire, primarily focusing on three of them who find themselves in a love triangle. The novel is written in first person narrative, and the story is told from the points of view of various characters. The book was adapted into a film of the same name in 2002. Ellis himself has remarked that of all the film adaptations of his books, The Rules of Attraction came closest to capturing his sensibility and recreating the world he created in his novels.

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Sean Bateman Sean is a twenty-one-year-old student from a wealthy family. He is very promiscuous and a heavy substance abuser, as well as a drug dealer in the employ of Rupert Guest. He becomes romantically involved with Lauren, a relationship he considers to be true love. It is also implied that Sean is bisexual, as he apparently becomes involved in a sexual relationship with Paul Denton. However, whether these encounters are real or simply a product of Pauls imagination is left ambiguous; Paul narrates sexual incidents between himself and Sean, while such incidents are absent from Seans own narration. In March 2012, Ellis stated through his Twitter that Sean is, in fact, gay. Sean is very bitter and cynical, and is prone to self-loathing. He is also somewhat suicidal, as evidenced in a scene in which he attempts to commit suicide first by hanging, then by slashing his wrist with a dull razor, and then by overdose after a falling out with Lauren. A major subplot in the novel is Seans debt to Rupert, a violent townie drug dealer who often threatens to kill him. The character is the brother of the notorious Patrick Bateman and has also appeared in Elliss other novels, American Psycho, The Informers and Glamorama.

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Lauren Hynde Lauren is a painter and poet who has sexual relations with several boys on campus, all the while pining for Victor, her boyfriend who left Camden and headed to Europe. She is often depressed and very emotional. She is in her senior year at Camden. At the beginning of the novel, it is revealed that Lauren lost her virginity at a party during her freshman year at Camden, where she got so intoxicated that she passed out in bed with another student, and woke up not knowing who she had slept with. She becomes romantically involved with Sean Bateman halfway through the book, even though she holds Sean in contempt and considers the relationship nothing but a way to pass the time before Victor comes back from Europe. She was also in a relationship with Paul before the events of the book take place. The character reappears as a main character in Glamorama, in which she becomes reacquainted with Victor after having become a successful actress with mysterious political connections.

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Reading My Idea of Fun by Will Self has forced me to assess my interests, the prologue of the book introduces us to the main character who is asked at a dinner party about his idea of fun, to which he has an unsavoury reaction culminating in stress and confusion. There is a quote at the start of the novel that I will take with me wherever I go. I have told myself a thousand times not tobe shocked, but every time I am shocked again by what people will do to have fun, for reasons they cannot explain. - Isaac Bashevis Singer

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MY HERO JG BALLARD Tomorrow, on what would have been his 79th birthday, family and friends of JG Ballard will gather in London to celebrate his extraordinary life and still more extraordinary literary achievement. I dont really do heroes, and Jim Ballards whole outlook was antithetical to the notion of the great man (though less so, I suspect, to that of the great woman), but if I were in search of an antiheroic hero it would have to be him. When I was stranded in the doldrums of my early 20s, desperate to write fiction but uncertain that there was any way to yoke my perverse vision to any recognised form, Ballards luminous short stories and minatory novels showed me a way forward. Then theres the man himself. I was just one of the scores of journalists who went out to sleepy Shepperton to beard its seer, and no matter how many times wed already been told not to expect some drug-crazed weirdo, we were all surprised to find the genial, rather bluff Jim Ballard, happy to discuss anything from the wilder shores of futurity to the pinched parochialism of Englands greening.

Over 15 years I got to know this intensely private man a little. It was difficult for me not to look to him for advice and he showed me the respect of never providing any, save by omission, the real advice being: think for yourself. Early in life, during the Japanese occupation of his natal city, Shanghai, Ballard had learnt the vital lesson that anyone can descend effortlessly into barbarism, and so he eschewed all state-sanctioned morality and the mock heroics that bolster it up. Ballards contribution to literature, to the visual arts, to architectural theory and even philosophy will, I feel certain, be increasingly acknowledged in the decades to come. His writing life straddled the period from when censorship meant that commonplace thoughts could not be set down to the current era when anything can be said but hardly anyone bothers to listen. He thus stands as the last great English avatar of the avant garde heroism enough for anyone.

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EPILOGUE APRIL 1999 We old women are easily erased from the picture of the last century. Were an entire demographic grouping of Trotskys. Like the once dapper Jew, we too stand with nonchalant unease at the base of that wooden pulpit, hastily erected on the platform of the Finland Station. Shorn of moustache and goatee our collective chin is rounded, awfully vulnerable, already anticipating the cold smack of the assassins steel. Deprived of pince-nez our eyes are squinting into the limelight; what a mistake it was - we seem to be entreating future historians - to dress down for posterity. If only wed kept our Trotsky costume on, not loaned our shoes to Lenin, then we wouldnt be facing this airbrushing out, this undeveloping, this eternal bloody deletion. Where, oh where are the old women of the twentieth century? Where have we all gone? So few films, photographs and television pictures include us. Even when we were featured, the real intention was to emphasise the props: see how old that coat is/bulky that sack is/worn out those shoes are. And next to the great men of the age we were merely mothers, or women-old-enoughto-be-their-mothers, or women whose age made us childlessness personified, as time turned tail and our old vaginas, like ancient vacuum cleaners, sucked up the unformed, the unbecome, the unborn. Im not saying there havent been exceptions, many many exceptions, crowds of exceptions like babushkas picking coal from the slag heap of the century. A legion of remarkable individuals humping hobo bundles down the road to where the einsatzgruppen were hard at it. Notable personalities grasping small, knobbly-haired heads between our withered dugs as the Interahamwe rampaged through the garden death-

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burbs of Kigali. Yes, we have been there. And I suppose, given our invisibility, our uselessness as anything but extras or crew - the gaffers, key grips and best boys of history - its worth remarking that we were in fact there already. Yes, there before the director stopped shtupping his latest underage lover. There before the principals had any motivation, or the location had even been spotted. Like a herd of oblong-eyed goats, or a palisade of dead grass, or an enfilade of streetlamps, we were there. We old women - waiting for something to happen.

And if there are drifts of old women blowing across the fields of the living, why be surprised that the same is true of the afterlife? You look at the cityscape and see us tottering about in our insupportable hosiery. Look again and realise that while many of us are clinging on to the ledge of life, many more have let go already. As the living grow older, a sterile wad of humanity blocking up the generative drain, so we, the dead, accumulate like pennies on the ledges of a cascade game. When the young die theyre full of beans. Life hasnt exhausted them-why should death? Anyway, there are always vacancies in the provinces, or even abroad, for the morbidly mobile. Many young and middle-aged British dead work in the Gulf, the States, or even fucking Germany. But dead old women? Who wants us? In death as in life, we are the pavement-strollers, the window-shoppers, the bored, bunionhobbled boulevardires. Were there waiting for something - anything - to happen. So we can be photographed, or filmed, or videoed, a backcloth of hysterectomies, in front of which events can be played out again, yet never exhausted. History is never in the round - its always on a stage; and while the curtain may be death, why is it then that so many scrutinising eyes stud the proscenium, peering into the dimness of the stalls? Are they tragic or comedic masks - or not masks at all? Earlier this evening - if this still is evening, weve waited so bloody long - I, Lily Bloom, picked my way down Old Compton Street. Yet another dead old woman patrolling the West End on a misconceived mission. My lithopedion scampered between my ankles, my Rude Boy was prancing in the road. Ahead of us the snake-hipped figure of Phar Lap Jones moved in and out of the gay throng. He may be old, but hes black, hes slim and - of course - hes a karadji, a mekigar, a wizard. Full of buginja power, possessed of miwi magic. With his finely corrugated matt skin and his thriving restaurant business, he might, its often occurred to me, be the ultimate leather queen. When I was alive I made it my business to zero in on my fellow biddies. Given a street scene like this - full of young people hurling themselves into the puppetry of lust, tying rubbery abandonment to their ankles and wrists before bungee jumping into orgasm - Idve been taken by the tweed-wearers, the bearers of the capacious gusset and the porters of the nylon bag. The granny guild. Id strike up conversations with these widows, spinsters and bints. I suppose I saw myself as a kind of reporter, researching a long article on the world, which turned out to be a profile of myself. Id interview these old women, interrogate them as to who they were, what they were doing, where they were going, why they fucking bothered, and when theyd give it up. Later, Id write their replies down in a notebook:

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1. A Mrs Green, the widow of a minor civil servant. She lives in Hornsey in the house she owned with her husband, in a basement flat knocked out by the son and daughterin-law who cannot wait to inherit. 2. Shes going to the Old Bailey to sit in the public gallery. Its good, cheap, wholesome fun. 3. Her basement is hot in summer, cool in the winter; its good to get out. 4. Its not a question that can be answered at her age. She understands that life is not so much a journey from one horizon to the next as a survey of the world all around.

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Greetings, Ms. Leigh: Frankly, the texts and graphics on our web site are copyrighted and you should have asked for our permission to use any of our materials. Fair use allows for brief quotations, but appropriating essays and graphics is clearly a violation. While this may be a class assignment, such things tend to get out there on the Internet and such a book project cannot legally be released even for free as it could potentially be a violation of numerous copyrights. It is wonderful that youve found meaning in aspects of our philosophy it is intended as a tool for creative, responsible and intelligent individuals, but we cannot give you permission to do this. Additionally, posters - while you intend them as a means for iconoclasm, shattering pre-conceptions - they also can be interpreted as proselytizing, and we are firmly against that. We appreciate your positive intentions, and imagine that you may have the skills to make such a project interesting, but wed rather that you did not do this. Sincerely, Magus Peter H. Gilmore High Priest Church of Satan

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SATANIC FEMINISM by Blanche Barton 1997 The smartest, most passionate, most beautiful women Ive met have been Satanists. I dont mean beautiful on the inside where it really counts; I mean gorgeous, vibrant, curvy women. Most non-Satanic men find Satanic women intimidating - too intelligent or too pretty, or worse yet, both at the same time. It takes a special woman to be a Satanist. Only the most truly liberated are summoned to Satans legions. Up until quite recently, the ratio of Satanic men to women had been about 10 to 1, but that seems to be shifting. More and more young women are going through the process of exploring feminism and Wicca, seeking feminine pride, identity and power, and discovering only impotence, limitations and puritanical selfrighteousness. Wicca and feminism share a flaccid, lackluster attitude and presentation. Satanic women like drama/adventure and know how to conjure it for themselves. Satanists have an innate complexity of mind that hungers for uncompromising examination and speculation, not superficially-comforting pap. We dont need to be comforted; we prefer the invigorating, bracing winds of truth and terror. Our culture has been influenced enough by Anton LaVey and his books so that its now cool for young women to dress like Satanic witches and think like the Devil Himself. Camille Paglia and others now get honorifics for challenging traditional feminism, defending womens rights to wear heels and makeup. Those who study such trends are calling this lipstick feminism (from the more honest lipstick lesbians), nontraditional feminism or antifeminist feminism. Big news. So The Satanic Witch came out 26 years ago, girls. Did you just get around to reading it? To me, its still the same old game of cribbing from Anton LaVeys books, catering to the new Satanic generation, but not wanting to acknowledge those blasphemous philosophical roots. Jayne Mansfield recognized that, for the first time in her life, she had found a philosophy through which she could be a businesswoman, an intellectual, a mother and a sexpot all at once. She wouldnt be criticized for committing the ultimate sin of reconciling irreconcilables. Satanic women dont want to gain their strength by castrating men, or by making themselves out as victims. Whether theyre providing healing and inspiration to those under their roofs, cracking the whip in corporate circles, managing their own home-based businesses or maneuvering whatever they need to survive, all are applying and increasing their power - not whining about why they dont have any! We dont need feminism on our sleeve as our primary identity. We have our identity as Satanists. Satanic women are fierce; fierce defenders of their men, of their children, of their ideas and values. Wiccans understand the female archetype in a completely different way than Satanists do. We know that Woman is Nature - Darwinian law as well as peaceful, awe-inspiring sunsets. Women can be conniving and ruthless, plotting and vengeful. Mother Nature isnt loving and all-embracing. Shes selective, cruel and unyielding. Wicca is trying to keep up with Satanism by sprinkling in Valkyries, the

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Dark Goddess, and other more menacing images of the Mother Goddess. But it still remains lackluster and uninspiring because its isolated dependent on internal references and icons. It becomes shallow, stilted and flaccid. By trying to ignore or deny the authority or existence of great men, theyre disconnecting their religion from ennobling music, poetry, literature, art, architecture, science and philosophy. Satanists recognize that the force of Western civilization has always been a masculine, heroic, Promethean drive toward adventure and exploration. Feminist/ Wiccan cant is ultimately soul candy, like the term thats evolved for pop-science and psychology - this is the equivalent. You may seek it out when you need bolstering up, thinking that youll be inspired and spurred to greater achievements, lured by promises of unique feminine perspective and strengthening. But ultimately its not satisfying. The illusion of strength is superficial; the nagging victimization becomes insulting. Not like reading Dostoevsky or Will Durant, Wuthering Heights, or Jane Austen, or Platos Dialogues or Erasmus The Praise of Folly, or, obviously, The Satanic Bible. I refuse to limit my role models only to other women just because I happen to be one. I gain power from the metaphors and heroes I choose, regardless of their gender. Our decisions are based on real-world concerns, not in defense of an inadequate ego. When a Satanic woman and her mate decide if theyll have children, or who will work in the outside world and who will stay home with the kids, its a pragmatic question - who has more earning power? Whos invested more money and time developing their career? Whos more capable of earning money at home as opposed to in the workplace? Whos better able to have the patience and other attributes necessary to raise a child? The Satanic woman doesnt need a job to define her capabilities; nor does she need to have children to feel fulfilled. She reserves her nurturing for those who deserve her help and encouragement - namely: herself, her mate, and those few she chooses to call friends. She finds a man who can express her Demonic or she conjures up a Lover for herself; she isnt desperate for love, vulnerable to ploys from fast talkers. Many young bottom-of-the-clock women who are looking for gothic strength in a man, cant find it in the simpering she-males around them - so they manifest their Demonics themselves, dressing in black leather, black stockings and carrying a big black whip. A compleat, Satanic witch can best spend her time in constant, intimate spiritual and sexual contact with her strongest Demonic archetype - Satan Himself. In practicing her arts of enchantment, manipulation, inspiration, and protection in the real world, she strengthens both herself and those she chooses to love. She becomes a direct line to our Source. Thats why a powerful sorceress must be cautious about aligning herself with, and transferring power to, unworthy men. Identity and stimulation. Dr. LaVey has pinpointed these two elements as primary commodities. Satanism provides us with both. I dont need to be pigeonholed as a feminist, or any other convenient label. None of us are so charitable to the weak-minded that we allow ourselves to be so easily categorized and dismissed. I am proud to call myself a Satanist, thereby aligning myself with the strongest minds, bodies, and Will on Earth.

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Marcroy Valdemar Lamego Eye Bodega VLF Tissue Jung und Wenig Zak Jensen Sanguinary Creeps

The second part of Sanguinary Creeps deals with people and places.47

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I am a graphic designer / illustrator / printmaker based in London, England. I am the founder of peopleofprint and I am currently studying MA Printmaking part-time at University of Arts Camberwell. I enjoy what I do.

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Very good bottomless pit of work here by Portugese designer Valdemar Lamego (i.e K--n-g Design) showcasing his praise-worthy ability to produce not just beautiful magazine spreads, but also fun typography and very cool book covers.

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K--n-g is art director for the brilliant Parq magazine which, without his magic touch, could just be another fashion magazine, but is in fact brought to life by his very enviable skills and looks like a joyous publication. Fantstico!

The studios methodology is built on the goal to communicate the intrinsic attributes of each commission through well-crafted, thoughtful and direct solutions. A grounding on conceptual thinking and a distinctive typographic approach is essential to the studios practice. kng work reflects its time and is often personal informed by the curious observation of contemporary culture. Collaboration with other designers is a constant source of renewal and inspiration.

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kng is a small, independent graphic design bureau based in Portugal, consisting of one person: Valdemar Lamego.

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EyeBodega is the collaborative work of multi-disciplinary designers Rob Chabebe and Joe Perez. They create intuitive, inherently kinetic work in a variety of visual media ranging from print to video. They work to challenge themselves and their audience with experiences that have been flatteringly described as post-apocalyptic modernism.

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Their work has been seen on Pitchfork and Vice, in the Clocktower Gallery and at Neon Marshmallow Festival, among others, to create art that is a world of invisible things. Welcome to the world of invisible things.

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Since 2005, Antoine Roux and Thomas Cristiani have been making books and posters, taking photos and designing web stuff together. Theyve also been experimenting with things plants, rocks, jpegs just so they can create things together which is very nice. It means both their art and design has the same thoughtful sangfroid and is based on not a little mutual play. New work and a satisfyingly navigable website was reason enough for us to ask a couple more questions by way of an introduction to the duo. What kind of experiments do you guys do? Are these design or art experiments? We dont think in terms of design or art at this point, its just raw work. We choose to work with a particular material (plants, rocks, jpegs), so we get as much as we can and then just play with it. Sometimes its a combination of medias or even really simple things. It goes from very random to very precise, depending on the subject were interested at the moment. For example, once we decided to watch movies with the wrong subtitles, creating new movies like Men In Fiction (Men In Black with Pulp Fiction subtitles) or Stranger Than Translation (Stranger Than Paradise with Lost In Translation subtitles), it didnt get us anywhere for the moment but it was really fun and we got some nice screenshots. What came first the design or the art work and how does your process change in approaching each one? Design came first in the context of our school. We became more and more interested in the content and naturally started to produce with artistic perspectives. Later we had the occasion to focus on art work in a fine art school and assumed it was possible to do both. As we were students we had trouble making the difference between art and design, they were connected, dependent on each other. We still dont know how to approach either. Are you commissioned to do the artwork? No, our artwork is based on personal research but every collective exhibition we participate in is an opportunity to produce something new and interact with a curator.

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itsnicethat.com/articles/vlf

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From sexed-up to sex-ed, its an amalgamation of everything sexy. Women, men, horses, architecture, fire-breathing and porn paraphernalia all contributed by only the most talented artists.

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In other words: TISSUE is a magazine full of oversexed newcomers and the shaky old hands of erotic photography taking sex to the unsexiest of places. TISSUE is the new magazine by Uwe Jens Bermeitinger and Hans Bussert.

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Superb design work from Zak Jensen a.k.a Little and Often

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zakjensen.com

We were thinking about it hard tonight, we got the basics of thought down for how you would establish a form of thought via association using probability flux something or other using multiple stimuli to calulate similarities between various correlating sets of data, but past that we couldnt figure out how to apply those connections to anything tangiable. - Anonymous

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The language of the frost lobs dead balloons over ruins today In view of wan wordless crowds that chase waifs to spires with fiery plumes And incite the firmaments portrait of A Drowning in Styx That gives impotents kicks Boredom murders the heart of our age while sanguinary creeps take the stage Boredom strangles the life from the printed page Masking vapor trails from Mercury for a killer on Umbria Who crippled birch mares now briars replace their old cotton limbs Who will tell? I mean would it make a difference? Look metal flower petal tears do not even appear in the Myopic Mirror The moon was sagging in the sky as I held her face to mine All our thoughts were coming in so clear beyond the Myopic Mirror We were darting from the place where we just couldnt fit For away from all the violence safely flying in our own orbit Why do I always have to tell you forget about the present signs Forget about the life we knew May we never be stripped of anything we love May we grow so gentle never go mental May we never go go mental May we always stay stay gentle What was my number? 114395? I dont care.

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Of Montreal Forecast Facist Future

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Conceptual, research driven design for independent publication with a focus on human behaviour and language.

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Amy Leigh Sanguinary Creeps Context Publication