“Narrative is an algorithm,” he said.
I wanted to know more, but he wouldn’t explain, or rather, his explanation was merely a repetition.
A black box.
Inside the box, time expands, contracts, reverses.
Waiting for something to catch.
Waiting for sensation.
Drifting is answering. Yellow leaves whirling in the air above wide streets.
Fall is blowing in in the southern hemisphere.
The body moves too fast for the story.
The story can’t catch, can’t catch up.
In a corridor, talking to someone, then continents away in an unfamiliar city.
Untethered. Come loose.
Delayed in an airport, practicing the ukulele.
Places are states of feeling.
In non-places, feeling skitters or stutters.
But this skidding is a kind of freedom.
“Ring of Fire.” “I Should Live in Salt.”
skein of yarn
the word skein
stick maps of the marshall islands
grasses in a sidewalk planter
mounted impala & wildebeest horns
Reaching down to touch the airport carpeting.
“…there are spaces in which the individual feels herself to be a spectator without paying much attention to the spectacle.”
“As if the position of the spectator were the essence of the spectacle…”
“… as if basically the spectator in the position of spectator were her own spectacle.”
Then, a month later, coming back through the same airport.
Listening to the airport sounds.
You must be a text to be found.
River of voices, the click of heels on airport terrazzo, bang and clatter, a shout.
There is no silence in an airport.
the creak of a door
The pull between withdrawal and participation.
What is landing? What is taking off?
Stitching back and forth across the sky.
In the copilot seat of a seven passenger Cessna, Suspended in a hazy sky. Hummingbird flight.
The aesthetic as unreasoning desire.
lost at sea
“A body’s structure is the composition of its relation.”
After the war, she said, Giacometti made his sculptures smaller and smaller until they were the size of an almond.
What did they look like?
He destroyed most of them.
succulents (collection of)
western hat in the rain
pockets deliberately inside out
cement factory in the rain
Take it back. Don’t take it back.
They were made of plaster.
He didn’t cast them?
It was the war.
[A dossier. A file.]
I slips in.
& there is music.
We were at that time in Philadelphia, sitting outside after dinner on a warm night in early July.
She was wearing a loose silk dress, caught between black and gray.
“To imagine that the concept of the text captures all that is or may be written is to deaden writing.”
But what did they look like?
One, she said, looks like a woman seen from a distance.
A young woman, she said of herself, several times.
I is everywhere.
a letter, a correspondence
a mistaken identity
a taxidermy bird
a visit to the country
a book in which one reads a story
a bus or a car
a drink, three ice cubes
“Writing can be produced as text but need not be.”
“Thinking and writing stutter into and past one another; writing is always at once one or more steps behind thinking’s pace…”
Present and past rewrite each other.
Late. The restaurant empties.
She is going to walk across the city.
Read forward or backward.
The distributed self.
“The artist arrived in Zurich well in advance of the opening of the exhibition.”
“A man in charge of installations told him that a truck was ready to go in the railway station to fetch his sculpture.”
“Alberto said, ‘There’s no need. I have it with me.'”
“From one of his pockets he produced a largeish matchbox and took from it a tiny plaster figurine not more than two inches high.”
“The architects, including Bruno, were surprised—unpleasantly.”
“Look at the small sculptures on the right, how distinct and correct they are next to the bottles on the table.”
“And to the left and rear the small female figure… the scale is great , these are not figurines in any sense.”
I walk the other way. A hotel room.