Case II – PAGES OF MY DIARRHEA or ‘the revealing of some shitty character traits’

EXHIBITION by Hind Souri


OPENING: Friday 16/05 at 17.00

16-05-2014 – 16-06-2014

No. 2               THIS IS MY HOUSE!


All I needed was the piece of mind to concentrate on this YouTube video in which Marina Abramovic and James Franco were discussing the differences between performance and acting. But then, ..the intrusion! The hideous intrusion of these four flies teaming up to spite me! They were getting ready for it, yes, it was obvious. Looking at them carefully you could see them rubbing their nasty little shit-covered legs together in preparation of the attack. And so they took off and started violating the skin on my hands, my hair, my face and James Franco’s face. I was annoyed now. Especially the buzzing sounds they made while flying toward my face and almost entering my ears were unbearable. I realized that my waving gestures alone wouldn’t cut it. And so I decided that the best defence was a good offence.

I grabbed a household cloth, wettened it so that I could strike faster, and started my killing spree.

After killing one of them, the remaining three came at me with even more physical ammo. They started circling around me, which was surprisingly intimidating. I was completely outraged at this point! ‘This is my house!’ I tuned into a wild woman. My face turned deep red with anger, my adrenaline level went through the roof, my hands were shaking and my heart was thumping as if I were in actual danger. ‘Enough, this ends now!’ And so it did.

I prevailed. I brutally ended the lives of the three remaining flies. I remember screaming at one of the flies that he could go fuck himself. I can’t remember which one because of course, superior as I am; they all looked the same to me. It could’ve been the one that now lay dead in the garbage bin on top of a piece of orange skin, or the one that lay dead under the table, or the one that landed on the stove next to a single dried out piece of cooked rice, or the one that I couldn’t track down and lay who knows where in the kitchen.

After it was too late, self-consciousness suddenly kicked in. It dawned on me that I was the only one playing this murderous game. I bitterly laughed at myself. I needed a picture of myself in that state as a reminder of what I had done and how incredibly stupid I looked doing it. And so I photographed myself right after the massacre. I reenacted the way I probably looked while fighting the flies, a little reminder of who my real enemy was.

…“Even now, so many years later, all this is somehow a very evil memory. I have many evil memories now, but … hadn’t I better end my “Notes” here? I believe I made a mistake in beginning to write them, anyway I have felt ashamed all the time I’ve been writing this story; so it’s hardly literature so much as a corrective punishment. Why, to tell long stories, showing how I have spoiled my life through morally rotting in my corner, through lack of fitting environment, through divorce from real life, and rankling spite in my underground world, would certainly not be interesting; a novel needs a hero, and all the traits for an anti-hero are expressly gathered together here, and what matters most, it all produces an unpleasant impression, for we are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less.



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