As expressed in panmetallism, metal is coextensive to the whole of matter, and the whole of matter to metallurgy. Even the waters, the grasses and varieties of wood, the animals, are populated by salts or mineral elements. Not everything is metal, but metal is everywhere. Metal is the conductor of all matter. —Deleuze and Guattari
“A story must be judged according to whether it makes sense. And ‘making sense’ must be here understood in its most direct meaning: to make sense is to enliven the senses. A story that makes sense is one that stirs the senses from their slumber, one that opens the eyes and the ears to their real surroundings, tuning the tongue to the actual tastes in the air and sending chills of recognition along the surface of the skin. To make sense is to release the body from the constraints imposed by outworn ways of speaking, and hence to renew and rejuvenate one’s felt awareness of the world. It is to make the senses wake up to where they are.” ― David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World
“I want to note something related here. If you ever come across a really old (e.g. ~2000 years old) coin, which appears to be made of gold – whatever you do – do not bite it. Biting is likely to dent such coin, and in the process will both devalue the coin (since the value is historic rather than the metal’s value) and damage an irreplaceable piece of history. Biting found gold coins is a real problem in areas with a long history of gold coin usage.”
At the Centre Square, one of the bus stop glass walls glitters with the mood of the season. Here. Look at me. You are thirsty for real gold, aren’t you? The real gold thing is little more that the name, though. Straight Up. How do you turn the cinnamon flavoured drink in the temptation of pure glamour, the ultimate gesture of covering, lining your own human inside with real gold? How do you turn the pit, the miners, the toxic chemicals, the metal, the prices in the stock market, the dirt, in a buoyant dance of hypnotic golden specks? Drink me, whispers Jewellery.
Frozen negotiations, instructions out of reach. Commands to organize leisure.
Is this Pub the place where the Bank was before? Its doors remain there to prove it? Not. Not exactly. Every working morning I walk along these doors in 42 Albert Road, in my way from the train station to our office at Teesside University. I’m not sure about the special alloy of bronze they are made off, but their patina, colour, and tactility have a magnetic effect on me. I find myself secretly greeting them, come rain or come shine, every time I pass by. It took me a while to figure it out what were these great Greek signs and imaginery doing in the entrance of Bar cuda Pub (previously Barracuda Pub, before a letter fell down). It happens that they were not always there, these doors. In a given moment they were the entrance to the Cleveland Club, in a different building. Someone, then, took the doors from one building to another. Why? How? I like to imagine the physical journey of these magnificent bronze objects through the streets of Middlesbrough. Now, …