It's hard to know, i suppose, if a sound can be confused with a thought when a window is left open. Passing through thought like stumbling out a window, braced against the pane, one arm holding the frame, trying to answer a call from just beyond the glass. Only the call was bird, a pretty parakeet, whispering gangsta rap as it pecked sunflower seeds and dribbling bits of resonance into the dirt. Birds are sounds, something like phones in a garden. --i didn't mishear or mistake, but the parakeet had cut the cord when no one was on the other line.
I will soon be entetaining a habituation where i'll have to write and read a lot. I need to make my thoughts simpler and my language flow more easily. I would like to create a daily exercise with three typewriters. The first would have the word "Complex" above it, the second Simpler, the third Simplest. I'd move down the row applying 15 minutes of thought directly to each machine, repeating the same thing on each but in different formulations.
Soon i'll read and write a lot. I need thoughts to flow simply. I would like to create a daily exercise with three typewriters. Above each, I would post the words "complex," "simpler," "simplest." Moving from one to the next i'd write the same thing differently.
i will read. i will write. thoughts simply exercised on typewriters will flow in three variations.
haven't been here in a while. maybe i'll come by sometime soon.
Singled spaces taken from the point perspective of a lean. My head lays down on the pillow and hands move in a trusty fashion even though the letters fall solidly beside their own turf. Here is the piece of the puzzle, here is where the idea lies just behind a sulking stone, here is when stars find their...stars are an unfathomable concept. i regret to write about them. Nothing more incomprehensible than entire galaxies bending like reeds to a moving sphere. how intolerable that we are them. Cities like spotted constellations, sun spots with thoughts spread by her napkins. "no one cares" they say, a surprisingly un-sophisticated statement by a star, "not us nor them." Celestial ecologies sound like an intake--of breath, of distance between the lens and the pupil, of the space around the elbow facing the (hear)t, something like the sound of that farce. Have you ever been driving and you think to yourself that you are like them and they are you and you think, but moreso you shiver, the reception of your own thought. Shiver or thought, which offers itself as a symptomatic offspring? Intuited ideas or ideas form intuition?
signals are to their importance as suddenness is to its caveat.
--spoke
Symptomless poses falsify the outer layer of an indescribable garment. She sheds its shoulder strap and the unreconciled comes falling off. Steel beams are left squandered in a puddle, singular and millions. Tub ducks are in tow, little quackers sparking away in yellowness. Stolen in a glow of yellow haze left in a sun loft between temple and moonshine. Funny how the color yellow sparkles the death watch like a twink in the eyes. Seems to brighten the world in an unreasonable scurry of ghostly turmoil. Singular dubbed duplicitous is the yellow way. A smarting incisiveness driven by an artificial seedling. Drop the pail spill the water, the sound tempts the most godly. Each opera sparks and the dog chases, tail pointing northward. Each turn bounces off the overburdened horse and skips tracks like a spun away train.
Well a grand opening for a grand trip. I can't quite say that the great Empire is here, though it certainly derived from this spot, and the cobble stones now seem to blend perfectly with the LCD flat screen monitors that cover the fancy facades like Time's Square. Too many bags, and as I'm sure Steph will note, the attendant that fell down in the plane.
There is a small competition going on as to who is the most professional traveler. A point tally system such as not having a pen you lose a point, operating two luggage bags at once plus two points, having to take a cab--minus 1 point and about 36 pounds (yikes).
Anyway, we meet the Elsewhere London crew tomorrow at a place called The Approach. will be nice to see everyone. Saw some bad art school art tonight--hopefully are going to see some interesting art tomorrow.
Things I'm thinking about and wanted to note: a city co-exists with the displacement of Being which is in fact a being-with as a matter of discourse (a singular individual thus defined by always already in community)--thus originary and plural- a being in the world which is the meaning in communication about/with being/consciousness according to Nancy---what does this mean? Simply the city is a space of displacement and as Foucault would carry it out, the City becomes a model for the State (town square is to the capital as a police is to the Army) and in that manner the city becomes the displacement, the place holder of the State.
What to do with these thoughts? I'm beginning to work out questions of play and alternative discourse between people that moves beyond or displaces identity toward a communication in the imaginary.
More later
PS. Non of my cloths were dry when I packed so I can't help likening this trip to leaving egypt---having to pack cloths that had yet to rise!
Collections amass within and beside themselves, at the edges of each periphery like so many a-tonal fragments propagating like fractals. The collection of knowledge adds to each species an inner and outer link to its common mass, simultaniously self-referencing itself and editing itself, vortexes within explosions. The collection of knowledge, only references its necessity for more, alludes to its addictive side without embracing it fully and thus produces a tolerence that weighs down the sole, and for those who begin the quest at the question of the sole as an addicted fiend spinning in the patterns of its own life, finds the "only," an all too well distrubuted thing. But the collection of sheer massivity stung or struck or sent into the abyss and frenzy by the possibles of an "art of possibilities " (a post-concept concept in that it is not logocentrically oriented toward an internal or external continuity) gives shape to the fragments as a pattern of arrangement and organization, reason and recognition. The person creating within is captured by the organism which they recognize in the too personal, personal, the hyper-personal that cannot escape its own being a factor of an invention and intervention by the creator and the context construction within which the creator is working and playing. The multiple possibilities, collected from the scattered duality of being without and within, are not "only," like some found object discovered, an object uncovered in an archeology, an object related to a memory, a tactile, visual, linguistic experience, but an object moved from place to place--"What have you been up to? We're just moving things around"--that constant location and dislocation, here and there as an interrupting trajectories of thought, idea, intent, an interruption at the very fabric of inside and outside---a free radical of space--that scoop up the 2D past and presents it in a projected future all awhile watching tumbling piles of happenstance overturn the very boxes that contain them.
