sometimes (even if the wine is free) you would be happier saying “no.” agreeing means shit films, irritating conversation, someone else ashing in your bed and hours of internal turmoil regarding how much socializing is necessary to disguise the fact that all you wanted was the wine.
je n’ai pas encore parlé de disparition ni de vocabulaire c’est trop vaste et la solitude tu t’en souviens elle gratte le fond de la mer et de l’alphabet afin que la nuit traverse l’invisible arrive jusqu’à nos cahiers d’indocilité
I haven’t yet said a word about disappearance or vocabulary it’s too vast and you remember solitude it scrapes the bottom of the sea and the alphabet that night may span the invisible right up to the notebooks of our indocility
à propos : les étoiles nous en avions l’habitude nous les regardions avec détresse et précision car l’univers pouvait soudain se transformer en avalanches bris de verre et de voix. Musique ou adieu de perfectionnement
by the way : we were used to stars would observe them with distress and precision for the universe might suddenly spill down in avalanches shattered glass and voices. Music or farewell of perfecting
être là toute une vie dans l’espèce flexible avec ce réflexe qui persiste à vouloir tout représenter de l’ivresse et des gestes les morsures, les chambres avec leur creux d’ombre et de souplesse, les fronts soucieux notre fragilité bien sûr que nous sommes sans réponse à chaque baiser
to be there a lifetime in the flexible species with this reflex that keeps wanting to depict everything about pleasure and gestures bites, bedrooms with their shadowy, supple, hollow spaces, knotted brows our fragility of course we go unanswered with each kiss
des idées de chute et de labyrinthe comme si au bout de nos bras tout ce qui existe était fait pour un jour déplacer l’aube lever le rideau sur le règne animal
alors je veille parmi les canifs et la poussière
ideas of falling and labyrinths as if at arm’s length all that is was made to shift dawn one day reveal the animal reign
breath deeply and sing a low note. hold it, gradually changing the shape of your mouth. you’ll hear different vowel sounds, but listen more carefully and you’ll hear other, higher notes, too (overtones). you’ve become an oscillator - your vocal cords producing the main note - and a filter - changing the mouth shape to emphasise particular overtones.
(instant electronic music… and cleanliness as an added bonus)
Let the rain kiss you Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops Let the rain sing you a lullaby The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak
I do not need To hear a word.
In your silence Every tone I seek Is heard.
Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy-mercy! I’s frustrated!
Their story begins on ground level, with footsteps. They are myriad, but do not compose a series. They cannot be counted because each unit has a qualitative character: a style of tactile apprehension and kinesthetic appropriation. Their swarming mass is an innumerable collection of singularities. Thei intertwined paths give their shape to spaces. They weave places together. In that respect, pedestrian movements form one of these ‘real’ systems whose existence in fact makes up the city. They are not localized; it is rather they that spatialize.
It is true that the operations of walking on can be traced on city maps in such a way as to transcribe their paths (here well-trodden, there very faint) and their trajectories (going this way and not that). But these thick or thin curves only refer, like words, to the absence of what has passed by. Surveys of routes miss what was: the act itself of passing by. The operation of walking, wandering, or ‘window shopping,’ that is, the activity of passers-by, is transformed into points that draw a totalizing and reversible line on the map. They allow us to grasp only a relic set in the nowhen of a surface of projection. Itself visible, it has the effect of making invisible the operation that made it possible. These fixations constitute procedures for forgetting. The trace left behind is substituted for the practice. It exhibits the (voracious) property that the geographical system has of being able to transform action into legibility, but in doing so it causes a way of being in the world to be forgotten.
I am particularly interested in the ways that this problem gets imagined by writers and artists in the late 60’s and throughout the 70s. Take, for instance, Vito Acconci’s work “Service Area,” which was his contribution to the seminal conceptual art exhibition, Information, at the MoMA (1970). Combining Lefebvrian concerns with a Wittgensteinian emphasis on the strangeness of the ordinary, Acconci had all of his mail forwarded to the MoMA and then placed in a transparent receptacle in the center of the gallery. Each day, Acconci would enter the museum, collect his mail and leave. Like his other works from this period, this piece is concerned with the collapse of the private (here, clearly, privation) into the codified space of the public. If mail is the instrument whereby the circulations of capital stitch the public and private together, then perhaps this is Acconci’s attempt to render unto the public what is already public, and thereby secure for himself a freedom outside of the institutional gaze. Or we might think of this as simply a cynical maneuver, a way of contributing to the museumification and administration of the everyday, its penetration by sociologically-enhanced commodity forces. My sense is that both readings are true, and that artists like Acconci—or, for instance, Joseph Beuys— are intersected by impulses running in both directions.
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I’ve taken account of everything, there you have it. I’ve made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some others; I’ve distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I’ve kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don’t keep a reasonable account of them; I’m alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes (underline passes). You don’t know this man? It’s Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don’t know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I’ll change at X. Provided I don’t miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God’s perpendicular.