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Monday, 31 July 2006
Outlines.
How do you draw yourself when given a pencil, what margins do you sketch? Charcoal grins and blackened finger tips prevail, but for all the muggy smiles, there is no work here
This space, the passing of ships, is a total bore. The wrench to actually press keys and engage brain overawes. I can barely walk let alone spell. Immediately, now with urgency, I want to finish.
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Saturday, 29 July 2006
Referee.
Apparantly 1.8% of all my referers (that is to say links from external pages), arrive from disney.com. The toons are onto me.
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Intermittant.
The mechanics of forced writing pull slowly, sorry, sorry and sorry although only apologetic to myself; I have expired reminders and goodwill. I am always nearly leaving.
So you find an abandoned lifeboat, and posit reasons - laziness stretched out at the top. However, there is more, and we all are always nearly leaving.
The house above has seen its walls straightened and coloured, dynamic blueprints, cups of tea thrown across a ragged carpet and the bleach bleach bleach smell of newness.
In here there is nothing but boxes. Out there, early heat.
The yard is fat with colour, reminding me that I need to photograph the plants. I should like to make some money from these photographs, I should like to make to some money at some point of my life. I am tiring already.
Kafka spurs me though, Blanchot just behind, screaming and whispering about the process of reading. For me, that damn process takes too long and just won't stop.
Visit elsewhere.
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Tuesday, 25 July 2006
Time and again.
See what happens?
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Wednesday, 19 July 2006
Dust.
List upon lists upon the wall, these walls still covered by scraps of paper and postcards, dog-ear slides of adhesive staining the plaster. Upstairs, no such thing. After hours of priming and scouring, sunshine streaming in through the north window, the room is prepared, white and straight.
Of course the focus must be dual now, rising to both challenges. The first is the very physical, that is to say packing into cardboard and rearranging and transporting out of doors and indoors, upstairs and down - the movement process, of changing a house once again. It is eleven in five years.
The second is much the same but with books - infinite regress, the impossibility of finishing, and the internalisation of the external act, the externalisation of the internal act.
It is all very unsettling.
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Wednesday, 12 July 2006
Don't fix it.
On returning to an empty home:
The letter of apology and the broken object, removed.
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Vamos!
The incontinuity of the event, being - as it is - miraged by pain. Today's wakening was like yesterdays times ten. I ache for the math of it. Jawline electricity, the ripped thud of every beat through a face's tired vessels, the tender gauges in the fleshy gum. I am driven to the pharmacist.
Of course illness has become a theme, has become a urgent comma desperate for the next clause. But this is not illness per se, but pain.
Yesterday in the schoolmaster heat of the Lit & Phil, we verged on a debate between two writers from the Dominican Republic. Diaz with sharp-lined suit and occasional 'fuck' pitted against Valerio-Holguín's deeper, more insistent voice - no contest. As one friend said, Diaz was the charmer, he had the stories of the 'hood, the contact with the youth, the adopted "y'all"s and the swift rise into intellectualism that audiences love. The true loss of the evening was that we rarely heard from Valerio-Holguín and that the two rarely engaged.
Valerio-Holguín's refusal to write in English, his self-imposed economic exile, his demands for reappropriation of the American canon were never explored. I wanted to hear more about distinctions between diaspora and immigration and I wanted further definitions of his violence of alterity. Postcolonialisms for sure, but from a vantage point.
After the lecture, we lost the crowd and avoided the sponsored bus, later spotted from our quiet, unassuming bar parading around town like a gross fairy-lit lemon.
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Tuesday, 11 July 2006
One careful owner.
Page ninety-seven of the second-hand book heralds the beginning of his resistance towards interrogation. What is the most important aspect here? Which sentence provides a vantage point from which we might look forwards and back, towards and against? The circumference of sight puts paid to linearity.
Perhaps the aspect is approached through character, the naming of people, the titles given within greetings? Could it be the physicality of food and drink, the sheer beauty of imbibed alcohol inked out upon the page? Architecture though, what about architecture? The buildings are covered in snow, as too are the courtyards. Here there are surely stories?
Perhaps, however, the real narrative of the page is not to be found within the text, but in the slight smudge of blood that trails from the centre to the deep crease in the far corner.
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Monday, 10 July 2006
Flip to centre.
So what of these empty rooms, their bare walls and unhinged doors dominating all thoughts of cityscape? As all slowly comes together, like a relapsing universe, ideas upon ideas, we begin to wonder. One begins to draw structures, another teaches about psychogeography, another roots up the flaneur and leaves it to dry in the sun. Things do not fall apart.
In the meantime, I boldly stack records, case upon case, sleeve upon sleeve and rotate my listening hours. So much new material, so much genuine excitement in the music of today. Yesterday, the heat and murmur of internalised South-American anthropological musician made my limbs go. My head has not fully returned. I feel like a reversed photograph, the difference going unnoticed unless you saw me the first time.
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Sunday, 09 July 2006
S'avant.
The Avon lady, with her case of tiny lipsticks, lives in a transitive state. She goes from house to house.
I rarely open the door these days, but there is hardly ever a need to. Reams of paper flood the carpet in the dim hallway daily. The aftermath of the weekend's events continues, slowly, a stalker beyond a timeframe. These are echoes.
Today, hopefully, I'll witness something anthropological, the sourced within music. Ramifications of a desire to become more engaged, more belittled, more of a witness to extraordinary events leads my journey somewhere untold.
Finding the end is like finding the end.
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Saturday, 08 July 2006
Last night she said.
Boundaries laid and forgotten; last night's performance held this uncomfortable position, the drugged halfway house for poetic vagrants in a cobbled back lane. Divisive remainders, confront and admonish, the room offered pearls for thought, a brief exhortation, the sense of anonymous alcoholics circled, encircling and seated. Terrorist acts represented and drawn apart, corrupted at seam and juncture, torn limb by limb until the evidence was destroyed and rows upon rows of people had backed away. The lights went out and then up, filmic blasts with intermittent word arrangement, the click of noise.
Then into town for milkshakes.
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Tuesday, 04 July 2006
Been doing.
Absence makes the heart grow fat, like a pig.
I have been;
i) Editing NOISE blog.
ii) Making fierce music.
iii) Organising EA.
iv) Looking like a dork whilst self-publishing in Hull.
Good, then.
12:41 Posted in Promotional | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this
I am enveloping you.
To begin the day writing letters, a man of correspondence, sketching out paths and remedies within copied lines and remittent advice. So many points of focus these days, the locus of things spreading like ink. Root it in an physical movement, return from the non-figurative to the representative. Think concrete.
So those walls look like they wish to crumble, as much resolve as foundation. The squarecircle blurs. My resolve however, does not. Visitations and hauntings, splurges and retrievals, polyphonic foldback, the drop of voices, torn pages - all are there, held in pages and pages of application. Return to focus, circumference and aperture, move in upon the idea, stake it all upon the idea.
Possibly over to warehouses again later, not the one on the constant looping video but at the top of the hill. To photocopiers and postal revenue, the petit smudges and firmed watermarks not held within the tonal rendition but the organised frame of words, poems are paragraphs without punctuation, we present an argument.
Meanwhile, summer continues and the true sound of July continues unabated, urging in through the window crack. Men are digging the road.
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