I gather
around me, a veritable wall
a grand array
of cheese variations. 

The feast is atomised but available; stacked high, and yet hand sized, mouth sized, fist to bite size; this rotovation is the mighty mastication of plenty. 

Cream cone crenellations are erected and all too soon digested. This immaculate defence is thus internalised. 

Although some have asked if I am pregnant, in fact it is that I, by steady accretion of adipose tissue, become impregnable. 

To carry this much weight is to be the greatness of a visible and confident storehouse. My barns are the brag. My feasting is bravado. Surely one must be royalty in order to drag along the street so vast a weight; I do not need to run away. I cannot run. My societal wealth is immersed in this fatty connective tissue, my vast round is on show and certain.

Tradition demands that such bounty be returned. 

My uncanny stature must, in due course, be returned to the ground. 

Instead of my wobbly royalty it is suggested that we gladly sacrifice obese children; other children. The future is only ever a threat, after all. So to sustain my stature hereby welcome the suggestion of how the cheapened excess of neglect can be squashed under a shopping stampede. 

In the central person, properly defended, this great breadth of person, who is after all an entire system, the sovereignty of fat is a candle. This corpulent burning cannot today be extinguished. Too big to fail; such is my belly. In this long night one must not snuff out the individual largess, which we have now agreed to call light, for otherwise it will prove difficult to raise the bowl to one’s mouth.

It is a little odd to see a series of events, a set of relationships, a barely collected set of works being re-inserted into the cultural life of a whatever cultural life there is – albeit in a most small manner. 

Odd, yet inevitable I presume. Clothes I have not yet thrown away are apparently returning fashionable. No, one really must not take any notice of such no sense none sense nonsense.

There they are, Inventory, a collaborative project. The journal was, and is. Inventory: finding, losing, collecting. 

My intention is to revisit my own contributions. To make new versions – perhaps new – available in the charcoal pit which is Grilled Fish.

About Inventory? These are some bare scrapings gleaned from an internet which, when we started, was barely there at all. Perhaps we would never have made a journal if it was possible to make a website? No, we would print, most certainly. Our conversations had circled the possibility for so long.