The vessel grew closer still, rolling with a steady thud each time it turned on itself. The sound it made was hollow but deep, it must have been empty inside, carved out by unknown hands and carrying something closer to gas than flesh, bodies, concrete or sand. Its surface was uneven, both in colour and texture and it glowed slightly, reflecting shards of light off of its rugged skin. They imagined it to be cold, maybe even wet or a little clammy like a beached rock at low tide. If one was to lick it, would a salty sting rush across the tongue? Many wondered whether it had its own voice, whether it spoke in a low, heavy growl or sang a high pitched lilting chant. Had it once been soft, and was moulded into this shape? Did it grow its six legs in an organic manner, one after the other or rather all simultaneously? The followers were curious to know the vessel's origin, they were not ready to accept that it came into existence ex-nihilo. They themselves had no knowledge of this kind of construction, but it seemed ridiculous to assume the object, this thing, this six legged vessel had built itself from shards of glass and grains of sand. Perhaps it was a wavy plant that had solidified, or a crazy tree whose trunk was emptied out and whose branches grew haphazardly. It was empty after all, most of the time, as with its rolling momentum it filled itself with the gritty soil upon which it travelled, only to spit it back out at the next turn. It proceeded thus, inhaling and exhaling dirt almost like a living thing would breathe the earth's air. It spat out its contents in disgust, only to scoop up the same mouthful at the next rotation. Perhaps it was filtering, sifting for gold, for metal, or for a hidden sign, an unknown, sticky, muddy, dirty message deep down in the soil. It rumbled past and the onlookers stood on tip-toes to peek inside. It was cavernous. It threw back a beautiful and deep echo of the shrill cries of its admirers. Did it contain the answer to its genesis? Was it aware of its DNA? It was strange to imagine it had a memory, one that wouldn't be a projection of our own desires. Its circular structure, the rotund often construed with eternity, infinity. If only one could get inside it, perhaps there was a panorama in there telling the story of the Juggernaut - a gigantic panoptic story told in images or simply in the marks left by its maker's hand. Like a panoramic painting, it would travel over the world, speaking in a universal tongue, distributing knowledge.

It was made in Colchester around 1980.
It is fired clay.
It was hand built.
It shows marks or what could be described as a pattern made with a tool - the tips of a fork or a fettling knife.
It has travelled through time.

Juggernaut, Publication, Perfect-bound book, edition of 15