The transport speaks.
The signal sent into restless circulation.

A privilege of being a pedestrian is to be continually set within story time.

Two vans drive by in livery proclaiming: Freedom.
Immediately behind follows a van whose bold letters proclaim: Sanctuary.
Quickly then, a fourth van pulls alongside and its signage says: Cinderella.

Ah, El of the cinders, phoenix divinity; my mind and heart arise in consonance:
You shall go to the ball.

The harmony of the night will ring out through the world; the star of love shall resonate and re-shape all forms.

We take another step and another. A sign by the junction proclaims:

How long does it take to reform the psyche?
In an instant.

How long is an instant sufficient to make itself known?

The psyche may be considered as a task.
Its task is to be unknowable.

This impossible psyche is adaptable and flowing even in its most rigid structures.

persisting and elusive, 
this is the presence of the task.
The task permeates and supports each moment of the person.

Each moment of the person is a tasking of personhood with the transport of the psyche.
Psyche as the moment in its glimmering mode, a vehicle and the track.

There is a traffic jam, and the expression on every driver’s face is readable unreadable, unwarranted, masks of a terrible testimony.

When the task fails it becomes visible psyche.
When the moment cannot be adapted, flooded, folded, run with and ran around, so does the psyche’s structure become obvious. We rage against its charlatanism.

The road is never more obvious as when nothing moves upon it and, throughout the snarl-up, all questions are refused. Know one knows why there is a hold-up. No one knows why they are even attempting to travel in this direction. 

Psychic entertainment will be deemed an illness.
Your fuming bile sets like concrete.

Estate map

The map of the estate is an eulogy for Utopia (which retreats with each brick laid down and yet might nonetheless exist, beyond the design, in some lived proportion not yet detailed and never quite imagined). The map of the estate is an epitaph (that architects and planners will habitually erect before some others’ tombstone while never once suspecting how they designed it for themselves). The map of the estate is an epiphany of symbols and silence in the long _ alarmed _ night.

Sorry, copyright restrictions prevent us from showing this artwork here

 In ven to ry  (founded 1996)


Estate Map
DaSte19u99mmInventory is a group of artists, writers and thinkers formed in 1995 as a 
coMleledicumtiAvcreyliwc paoinrtkanidnmgarikneripnenteonradluimsicniiupmlinary spaces. These 
include published text, pDeimrfeonsriomnssaupnpcoret: 1in835pxu12b2l5imcmspfraamcee: 
1s9,33flxy1-3p25oxs9t0emrms pasted on the streets, an on-
Coglloecitinong research initiative called Inventory Survey Project and finished art-
works in sculpture, photography, collage, photocopy, graffiti, video documen-

tary, soAcuqunisditioanPnudrchpasierda20t0e2 radio. Since 1995 they have published an experi-
Tm078e3n9 Otnadlisjpolauy artnTaatel,BIrintavinentory, in which cSoomrrym, 
ceonptyarrigyhotnrepstorpicutiloanrscpurletvuernet, umsefdroimta-shoSwihngatrheis 
tionsExhoibnitiounr: RbuainnLulstife and arcane literary and philosophical issues jostle with di- 
verse texts found on the streets and an ongoing glossary of ‘phenomena’. In- ventory operates from 
a global standpoint expressing goals and at-

titudes ary
Every tree dreams
Every tree dreams of being a forest. We are that dream. We are that tree, dreaming a forest. The wood is felled and hewn into the side of a great ship. The ship is launched quietly, in the night. And now the ear waits for a wind to rustle, the nose tests for drift of a new scent, and while the boat languishes there is a child on the edge of the woods. The child follows bloody paw prints in amongst the roots, a sticky trail whose redness becomes confused with a promise of cherries.

A difference between the destined and the delivered and a difference between divination and design, it is the chasm. There is a market on the other side with solid earth beneath its stomping boots (once upon a time) and hung somewhere above the middle the Icarus of our salvation. (Once upon a time) slippery nostalgia skips out of sight like a fairy heading for their bolthole beneath moist liberty caps. Market: a place of smells. It harbours trickery; it raises a flag and signals, for sure, but the money is a mist and it cannot now be prescribed as virtue. How could a world be market led when the market itself was (once upon a time) a meeting place for the world?
A deflated void has an impossible weight.
The mute language of onion skins is trying to tell me things.
Can two infinities be equal? Are eternity and infinity coterminous or can a third term be extended, everlasting, from out the tangent of two to create a distinct entity which nonetheless, being forever, will subsume these two original points – singularities though they be?
In a universe overstressed by meaningfulness one desperately seeks out pockets of meaninglessness. Nonsense was invented for it, the pocketing action which relaxes meaning. This nonsense was invented for it. When the trivial relationships in which one dwells – elaborated by vanity and desperation – becomes understood as ‘The Universe’, so do our clothes become over signified and over written, too tight, uncomfortable. When meaning is simply meaningful we must wriggle out of this stretched tautology, this shallow space, and thus one is forced into the ridiculous garb of an escapologist.
Nonsense is something of a revolving door.
An infinite tide of greener grass on an equally infinite retreat, this is the astonishing art of catching up.
A maze may contain a labyrinth yet a labyrinth will be destroyed if it contains a maze.
Teach yourself exile: To portion out the oblivion of one’s life.
Sinuous sputum, spectacular spatula; ornate interiors and the mirror below.

A forest is not destroyed by a wooden hut – nor will it be harmed by a gingerbread hut – it is the path to that hut which wounds. And if the sugared prison is broken apart by a savoury woodcutter, then the trees will begin to tremble. 

A definition of a maze 
is a calling to amaze, splendid design, architecture of wonder.
One wonders why.
Secular labyrinths functioning through trickery and bluff;  the maze is false starts and dead corners.
In the dull protocol of problem solving the maze will seek to absolve a body of its darkness and confusion.
The night implied by the ordeal of choosing just a single path and following it into its bowels, into its end; that one would be propelled beyond a merely personal fate. This is the labyrinth.
Or, one could say, if the labyrinth is of the umbilical cord connecting its walker to primeval mystery – which might nonetheless strangle – then the maze has the patriarchal certitude of a caesarean. A bloody imposition.
The maze is topiary denied its surrealism, horticulture as pure technology.
To emerge from out a maze is to receive due congratulation. A rat will have its pleasure centres electrically stimulated; will get to sup at some sugared water.
To follow the line of a labyrinth in and to then emerge again, even in the most prosaic of settings this has about it a frightening whiff of rebirth.
Go to Hampton Court, explore its maze. There is joy be to observe how the whimsy of royalty is being worn away by the dull, fractious democracy of tourism. This is mere resentment however; no change, no cause for celebration.

The city is built as a maze, not a labyrinth, and here is your definition of the contemporary maze: Trickery, bluff, dead ends. The flailing gesture of institutions kept alive by invested interest and for mere convenience.
We look not for the erosion of tourists but the considered steps of pilgrims, the orgiastic rush of a mystery dance. We are sure that the labyrinth is lying close by, only a step or two away from one’s daily repetitions.

Did you know that you take, within ten or twenty, the same number of paces every single day of the week?