We’ve got a few vacancies here at Expressive Egg. If you feel you’ve got what it takes to work here with us, send in your CV here.
NOSTALGIA PROCESSING OPERATIVE
Evolia’s warehouse teams are at the heart of what we do. Our world class nostalgia-processing operation is what enables us to deliver on our commitment to being the True Earth’s most ecstatically beautiful production node, where customers can reform stray memories, which pass unbidden through their idle moments and cause their hearts to leap in hollow rapture, where they can take the past, that golden place where girls behaved differently, and old paths still ran through wastelands, and lost-forever fires burnt on lost-forever shores, and work it into something Actually New, where all the regrets and pleasures that sand-slipped through smooth fingers, where all that once was now is, can be, at the hands of our trained operatives, refined, worked, re-worked, shaped, moulded and caressed to a firey Phoenixy rebirth back into our world, where we, you and the world entire can warm ourselves again.
You could be working in the memory-files, massaging raw nostalgia into new forms, a picker or packer helping dispatch parcels of new experience into the hands of the mind-lost middle-aged or a furnace-shovelling gut-wisdom loader, obliterating the past entirely, so that the naked now slaps the world awake.
KING OR QUEEN, OF SORTS
Are you a King or Queen, of sorts? Do you like the idea of democracy, but find, in practice, that it tends to resemble mob-rule? Do you find explicit wrangling over decisions to be the activity of culturally-retarded literalists? In Evolia we’re only really interested in the silent speech of UNIVERSAL MONARCHY, whereby all are, at some point or another, RADICALLY RESPONSIBLE and collective decisions are reached by blending the unspoken otherself into the groupmind, where what must be done is as obvious as clear passage through a clattering cloud of branches is to a finch.
TRAINEE ORGANIST & BUTTERFLY ENTHUSIAST
We have an exciting new position available for a trainee organist and lover of butterflies at Shipley Parish Church. You need to have some musical taste, particularly in cross-genre masterpieces, and can ‘bash out a few chords,’ either on a guitar or keyboard, but we’ll take responsibility for training you up, fitting you in with our early-punk barbershop quartet and giving you Lindy Hop lessons. You will be responsible for adoring our butterfly garden. Live in or out, as you like. Salary negotiable and includes a range of exquisitely tailored grass suits / electric-sissy dresses that you’ll need for the role.
POET OF HORROR AND LOSS
Are you at the bottom of the pile, going nowhere, with nothing? Are you a paycheck away from the street? Does your horizon extend from the ring-road business estate where you occasionally do a day’s work selling advertising space for a used-car magazine all the way over to the multi-storey car park where Blaine’s Boys deal horse-tranquillisers? Do you live in a rotting council estate in Dover, neighbour above skinny foul-mouthed dipsomaniac lesbian, neighbour to the left old fella dying from sanctions, neighbour to the right ‘massage’? Husk life? Baked bean life? Qualification for cleaning life? Seriously contemplating a career as a hit-man?
And yet, and yet, do you yearn for the unspeakable? The untweetable? The unpostable? The unshown and unknowable? Does your heart struggle to rise into a place where nobody around you, nobody you have ever even known, can follow? Do you hear music coming out of the ground? Do quiet things speak to you in dreams? Are there not merely undreamt but undreamable dreams down here in the mud; undreamable because they are real…?
Well, step right up! We at Expressive Egg Industries need you to let go of your rage, disgust, horror and loss, feed it into the cold sun of the bellymind, and let a new art radiate worldworlds; a poetry of nowhere for the theatre of collapse. We need you to tear yourself open to the ugliness and the futility, and reveal the MORE THAN HUMAN. We need you to use your dead time to dig nail-splintered into the lost ground of culture, and pull up the burdock roots of BLACK JOY. We need you to contemplate the unthinkable. We need you to USE this vile prison, this mountain of filth, for something which the grotty, predictable-all-too-predictable nightmare of heavenly-clean, can never fathom; art that means something, that cannot be printed, that cannot be exhibited, that cannot even be seen.