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Trudeaupia; or, on a dark night I left my silent house.

Matthew Purvis

November 9th - November 27th, 2016


"I really believe in the idea that we’re hicks and we ought to stick with it, cultivate it."
- Joyce Wieland

After Canadians masochistically sold themselves into the machinic-emo-slavery of the imperialistic second Trudeau regime, it was no longer possible to stay, at least in English Canada. Making things worse, my barn burned down in the winter. I guess this can be described as post-redneck art in the age of Beyoncé imperialism.

This isn't fiction. Fiction is bad ideas like emotions. No one needs to suspend their beliefs because no one has ever believed anything. There are only attitudinal positions, the possession of bodies by images that manufacture space. Warring space systems set up dissimulations, vector by vector, in order to aggregate the raw meat ground out by images and reconstitute them as the delusional subjects of praxis. Unlike fiction, which is the politics of the ideological-empirical state apparatus, images are privative rather than subjective and primitive insofar as they are the state of nature itself. This is where the potatoes are grown.

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