You must be an image to survive.
It’s like swimming.
That’s what we like about them.
I look through the city for a protagonist. But maybe it is too soon to think about that.
What they thought art was.
What should an image be an image of?
Reluctant to go forward, reluctant to look.
So step and step and step. Each one vanishing.
There are possibilities and there are practices.
As in rehearsal, of course; as in the instrumental.
Failure, and the same of failure. Whereas error is free.
Free to follow, or not to follow.
Nevertheless, every action, every image is duplicated, echoed, refracted.
Sometimes by imitation, but more often arising from similar sources – those sources also duplicated and reduplicating.
“It loves to Happen.”
Soon we will be asking, what was this time?”
Those moments when you seem to exist.
[I always thought it would begin with a death.]
[And so it has.]
And then, an interruption.
[An empty apartment. Changing the locks.]
Life becomes intimate with you.
“Consciousness is…fundamentally public, not private.”
All waiting has the form of this waiting, moving backwards in time.
“Time is a sort of liquid that pours out of hatpins, underground trains, salt crystals”
[It was not unexpected.]
[But now there is a before and after.]
Events cause future and past to switch places.
“The presence of the past in a present that supersedes it but still lays claim to it.”
“The possibility of a polyphony, in which the virtually infinite interlacing of destinies, actions, thoughts and reminiscences…”
“…would rest on a bass line that chimed the hours of the terrestrial day, and marked the position…”
“…that used to be (and still could be) occupied there by ancient ritual.”
Another airport. A hotel, a town, a bar at 10 AM. Three men are arguing in Russian or Ukrainian.
Out the window, a bank building from the seventies, concrete and panes of orange mirror glass. Parking meters and bare trees line the street.
Days which are no days.
You can hear your footsteps in this town.
Once a story has ended it starts rewriting itself.
Downstairs in the old anthropology building, a plexi vitrine of bison bones, going unseen on display.
Unraveling and unwriting.
There’s a smell to old buildings, dry, hushed and wooden: the smell of patience, of time expanding.
[There will be a performance.]
Performance without spectacle.
Subterranean offices, silent, no one in sight.
A tall bookshelf holding bound journals going back in time, dark green buckram, a white row of library tags along the spines.
How long has it been since anyone opened one?
Texts are written to travel forward in time.
Wanting to sit in one of the green leatherette swivel chairs, to open a volume from 1903, to lean forward and breathe in.
A hitch in the forward momentum.
To sit, to site, to drop a pin on the map.
At the foot of the stairs, a large laminated poster: Distribution of Folsom Artifacts in Nebraska.
“Excavations at the Folsom site in Colfax County, New Mexico between 1926-1928 uncovered finely-made fluted points…”
“…lodged between the ribs of a giant species of bison (Bison bison antiquus)…”
“…that became extinct at the end of the Pleistocene approximately 10,300 years ago.”
The long future becomes the long past: a flip turn in a pool.
A short corridor, a doorway into a room painted blue; in the blue, a trash can and a mini-fridge, a black backpack sitting on it.
Unknowing rather than knowing.
“Hello?” says a male voice.
Echoing in the narrow hallway.
“It’s nothing!” A quick retreat.
[ Something happened, but not here, not now. ]