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.

#Finger Clipping#

A functioning and thriving Press

#10 4:00 PM
Last night's engagement tested the new function of Elsewhere's Press Office.  The morning began with a revelation produced by editor in Chief noop that allowed for the development and implementation of a stage of events.  Visitors upon arrival were issued a ticket at the store, upon which, a ticket number was written.  Patrons proceeded into the hallway after their bags were thouroughly checked with an elephant wand that squeaks.  Having recieved the document the people recieved no further instructions, and heading down the hallway, turned the corner toward 608 as 606 was evidently blocked (ROAD CLOSED).  The motion, designed to pass into 608 was countered by a boarder patrol officer working for the station.  No uniforms were worn, yet this patrol officer was easily identified by her sharpie drawn mustache and a gun. 

    Side note conversation (Second floor landing, Carolyn, Pritika, and George): "wouldn't it be interesting if people, guys or girls, tattooed mustaches above their lips so that they would need to shave to show it off"---then this morning I read this from Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, "In the thirties balance of power thinking was still quite strong, the diplomats were all down with Balkanosis, spies with foreign hybrid names lurked in all the stations of the Ottoman rump, code messages in a dozen Slavic tongues were being tattooed on bare upper lips over which the operatives then grew mustaches, to be shaved off only by authorized crypto officers and skin then grafted over the messages by the firms' plastic surgeons...their lips were palimpsests of secret flesh, scarred and unnaturally white, by which they all knew each other."

This marauder signaled people to halt, looking for the validation of their ticket and the signing of proper papers.  Once hey had given their name, email address, street address and phone number, on which was assigned another number which corresponded directly to the number listed as a photograph on the camera.

People then proceeded to the press office where a form was given to fill out, a photo taken, etc.  A big thanks to Shalin, Bing, Sarah Lee, RJ, Jessica, Brian, and Mike for making the night go so smoothly on the downstairs end.

This blog has run long, I started it two hours ago and have lost my way along the way.
I'll end it here and post it now...but I want to wish you all well.
-love ya mean it.
 

We have hit a new pace and the jumble is beginning to settle.  Cohesive encounters have since passed and everyone is in the turmoil that is production process in phasical containers.  People are stratified upon indistinguishable levels of reflection, work and desires, diversified small groups identified as larger people.  No one has gotten drunk yet which might be why we are all askew.  There are some here who I would be quite pleased to know drunkly--some parts steady in other parts frantic.  It is hard to feel out the altitude of the pathways.  I've begun to spin in the ile thought I sense the rising line echoing a standing plateau, set apart from its own alignment of developing fluctuations in smaller, internal intervals.  As of now there is a great sea of boyies without any larger ships docking.  Elsewhere is in a phase that soon I might find my opportunity to retreat to the upstairs archive.  As yet I am down here having just finished a massive orientation.  There are some things here that I am strongly drawn to, but there is little response that is appropriate.  The test of patience is one that knaws on all bones and treats.  I await the arrival of some old faces that will implement a return to certain dynasties.  Happily, everyone has a place in the linage and everyone is inserting their place into the space.  Well here is an image to keep all the glancers happy.