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!
Generous swabs of Barbra Streisand, with or without a Gibb brother, interpretations by Mantovani of everything, journeys via strings to Paris, Rome, Austria and Hawaii:
Radio FM has trawled through the lot of it and is ready with a 24 hour launch broadcast-a-thon.
It’s off season, but James Brown’s Christmas plea, ‘I'm begging you Santa Claus,
Go straight to the ghetto’ sounds more soulful than ever, just as saccharine promotional jingles by Lesley Gore and Roy Orbison for Coca-Cola will leave you with a furry tongue.
Join us 0900 till 0900 aboard the good ship Radio FM where such cargo is yielded from the Elsewhere collection.
There’s a handsome new display unit full of 45s. This is where the treasure is that makes up our unique playlist:
The best of Stax, some with great chunks bitten out, but mostly just as scratchy as an old jukebox demands. Just fabulous. Donna Summer on the hour, Melba Moore’s album tracks, the Pointer Sisters’ solo efforts (Bonnie) are all here.
It’s a family show, folks. Not a parental guidance explicit lyrics warning ruining the LP covers to be seen. We just have to hope that our highly prized disc jockeys keep it strictly PG-13.
What better way to move from those stolen remnants of Saturday Night (well Sunday morning) to Monday morning? Have us in bed with you at 9 – and don’t feel lonely that it’s just Radio FM and your breakfast under the sheets. And if you’re entertaining – we’ve got the love songs to keep you under the covers.
Still lonely? Stay with us as we move into the Heartbreak Coma hour, playing the splintering anthems that you crave when real life isn’t enough to make you cry.
Hungry? It’s Lunch Club between 1 and 2 at Radio FM, we go off air and leave you to listen to the best food anthems, uninterrupted for an hour.
We catch up with singing stars who have defied trends and continued throughout their lifetimes recording - how could Andre Williams comeback I wanna be your favourite pair of pajamas be in the top 10 alongside Cher’s Believe? And Lee Hazelwood’s Cake or Death is our featured album. We’ll politely skim past the Eddie Izzard references, so do stay with us.
After midnight, slip into something red, shiny, lacy and synthetic because we have Sexy Bad Music hour. Might last an hour, might be considerably less – who’s to say?
Let the music, fun and chat keep you company until the Monday morning rush to work.
Don’t forget your sandwiches, your bus pass or some anecdotes about your weekend to share at the water cooler. Can’t think of any? Why not tell the temp on the front desk about a great new radio station…
Radio FM: a case for radio, a place for radio, a face for radio.
16th September 2007
THE SET
A REHEARSAL SPACE for an audition the day after tomorrow, in a former thrift store turned museum.
The action takes place within the library amongst a paper-thin set, which hangs from the ceiling in a complicated web of fishing line.
The set and props (most do not move) are entirely hand-drawn in newsprint – piles of books reach the ceiling, hung in front of real shelves, a record player and typewriter are on stage, as is a hand-mirror in front of a large poster, sheet music is on the floor towards the front of the stage and a few hand-drawn records are laid out by the record player.
On the right hand side is a typewriter that hangs from the ceiling.
A clock hangs high in the library; it is just after eight thirty on a late summer’s evening.
Toward the front of the stage is a sign with movable vinyl lettering (made of Monoprints) hidden behind it.
On the left hand side of the mirrors, on the back wall, is a frieze/poster of an AUDITION NOTICE.
I just blew in from the windy city
The windy city is mighty pretty
But they ain't got what we got, no sirree
They've got shacks up to seven stories
Never see any Morning Glory's
But a step from our doorway
We got 'em for free
They've got those minstrel shows
Pretty ladies in the big chapeaus
Private lawns, public parks
For the sake of civic virtue
They've got fountains there that squirt you
I just blew in from the windy city
The windy city is mighty pretty
But they ain't got what we got
I'm tellin' ya, boys
We got more life in Deadwood City
Than in all of Illinois
You should-a seen me a-windo' shoppin'
A-windo' shoppin' with eyes a-poppin'
At the sights that you see there, yes sirree
Press a bell and a moment later
Up you go in an elevator
Just as fast as a polecat a-climbin' a tree
I heard claim hundreds came
To a thing they call a baseball game
Cigar stores, revolving doors
They got new inventions coming
'Stead of outdoor, indoor plumbing
I just blew in from the windy city
The windy city is mighty pretty
But they ain't got what we got
I'm tellin' ya, boys
I ain't a-swappin' half of Deadwood
For the whole of Illinois
*******************************
