The artist confesses a contempt of the flesh

I have a fractious relationship with my body. In this age where packaging is everything, this inherited meat is a poor medium to convey my massages.

I am quicksilver. My body is a hypertext network, its edges are blurred, archival moments tumbling into interactive arenas where those who perceive me may re-write my histories. I live behind the screen not by choice but by design.

My domain is my media meat, and I am so attuned to it that when the server crashes I become physically ill, a phantom limb generating phantom pain.
It's all too real for me.

My digital coming out was not a sudden fire from heaven conversion on the road to Damascus. It was a glacial procession of "real" events, a chain of painful moments edging me towards my current virtual identity. I was adopted; gay and raised in a red necked country town fed on catholic guilt and the tyranny of distance. I escaped that barbed wire breeding ground of self-contempt, fleeing to the emerald city but lost my magic glasses and ruby slippers when I was pack raped by a group of college freshmen. Each moment pushing me further from this clay footed vessel. Then there was the moment, like conception, quiet and after the fact, when the festering inside turned cancerous, and my face began to bleed and the wound opened and I remember smashing the bathroom mirror with my fists and falling Until
Like so many of my exiled siblings

I woke from the darkness in the arms of the net.

For a year and a day my body decayed in a stained glass tomb. Wilting white limbs in the half light of the screen glare, laptop and modem grave goods and a loyal husband to guard me from the ravages of the outside world.

and I forgot them all because I was reborn in this digital world of shining darkness where I could be myself for the first moment. Free from the assumptions when you looked into a wounded face, free from your fists when you tied and gagged me and left me for dead after fucking me with broom handles, free from expectations other than those I decided to give you.

MirrorWound is my current interface. Over the last few months the MirrorWound virus has been progressively re-wiring my website into a representation of my mind. The vector based flash animations are retina burn eyecandy, superficial flesh that hangs around like a somnia animalia of my gay existence. "Episodes" one through to five are linear in so far as they play sequentially, six and seven are the first of the MirrorWound "spaces", and explore notions of non-linear navigation and interactivity (via a variety of Cgi scripts which adjust the spaces real time in response to user input). The real art behind MirrorWound is in the source code, in the ways I have linked the content signifiers (library images in the flash animations, textual memory rooms, intersecting storylines) so they function as an autonomous model of how I experience.

This is not a gay body, perhaps its not even a queer body. It is still in the messy stages of construction and is yet to be named.

Several years ago I was lucky enough to score a coffee conversation with Stelarc, and between manic laughter my cyborg uncle exclaimed he lived for the day when He looked into the mirror and didn't recognize the alien before him. I am a disciple of doubting Thomas and cannot help but slip my fingers into glassy wounds.