Where to begin…with the good or the bad. I needed leadership. I needed the role of a dad to be leader. Financial supporter wasn’t enough. Bread winner wasn’t enough. The money created opportunities but look at how those opportunities were treated without leadership! I know we’re all just doing the best we can or could, but dad…he was absent, he was not the leader…there was no leader. Brother fell suit. Mom wore so many hats. Hats that couldn’t have ever fit. The role of the father is, as I’ve been reading, to the child & to the family, the leader. No greater opportunity of leadership will pass a man. For the child, for the family, no greater possible leadership figure will exist, compared to that of the dad. And like, all those hours I spent in my room sleeping. Sleeping off the time. Punished in there. Time traveling…Maybe it was good for me though. Maybe having no direction allowed the kind of room that no exists: spaceless, timeless, & unlimited-ness. All that sleep… All those games…. Both are still a part of my life though I’ve made conscious efforts to put a stop to it. The only game I play now is soldat.pl; sleep I still try. But its embedded. It’s removable. Maybe after lots of therapy. But like I almost mentioned…maybe there is good in it. The way the opportunities of childhood were blown off; the way those teachers had no influence. My creativity protected. My freedom internalized. No one to follow. No one to disagree with… it might have been a blessing. And we’re talking about myself too, now that I’m a Dad. Maybe the real blessing will be seen in my child. It will be irrefutable: the blessing. I don’t know completely how but I know why, where, when, & what. And it’s not about retribution. Or making anyone feel bad. It just is. Detached. I’ve forgiven. I’m just really trying to anticipate how. Because I know how important I’m about to be. And not to use my example as what not to do, but in terms of leadership…We shared moments though. Like when we would go to the charlotte checker’s games. How I’d fall asleep on the way home. The basketball games…But when I got cut from the 7th grade team where were you? Where was anyone? I don’t know the smallest things are so to big to the child. And the child needs that leader. I’m going to be that leader. I might not have money. I don’t. But I will have leadership. Of the house. For this is my house. And for me and my house, we will be spiritual, we will create, we will support each other, & we will advance our collective nest. Collaboration. Involvement. Trust. Creative outlets. Positivity. Intention. And who is to blame? I’ve haven’t asked but I bet that leaderless life began before me, before you became an adult. When you were a child. Did you have a father figure leader? I have never asked. I don’t blame you. It’s the chain. It happens to so many & it’s so hard to break. Generation after generation. But, maybe with all of the financial support, you created an opportunity for me to break the cycle when or if I recreated. You caused an awareness. You allowed that space. And what of the other 50%? Of my DNA. I’m whole brain dominant, that’s how you shaped the way I work, mechanically. To balance out that creativity with logic. It’s a real beauty of a blend. It’s hard sometimes to assimilate with society. And to follow the rules of others. To follow at all. To obey. I see it right through it. It’s taken time and lessons but I’ve learned how to do it. Because of the abundance. Now as we discussed I am much less the potential artist than mom. That’s because of the logic. But, again, as discussed, she chose something else. I’m not choosing something else. Creating, leading, inspiring through prolific abundance of words & visuals & family. Making magic out of thin air with our hands. And our voice. And the way we do things. It’s no one’s fault. I forgave a long time ago. I forgive. I forgive you. And I love you. I will always. I appreciate everything you’ve done & sacrificed. And how you tried your best. Thank you. Now it’s my turn. For the hive!
Antoine reaches for a smartphone from his back pocket. As he reaches and twists his right shoulder he says: “I don’t know why, I don’t know…why, but for the past ten minutes I’ve been thinking about survival…in a way I’ve never thought about it before.” And more so than the thought itself, Antoine, after sixty years, wonders where or why the thought never thought before took so long to be thought. All of a sudden; ten minutes ago. For the past ten minutes and for next 83021 hours he will think in this way about survival. A semi-permanent shift; until the next shift occurs. “Survival,” he says while reaching & twisting, “survival…for some people survival is food & water, meal to meal, and shelter. But for us, the highest privileged, survival is getting that time to read a new book… for the people who live in ready abundance, survival is the possession of infinite choices & not-talked-about-limited-time to spend however they like. In a way, a large population living right now has transcended the needs & requirements of life, because of the abundance, and will either live to advance the universe’s knowledge by creating or live to detract from the universe by dispersing their life’s energy over time through a short but full series of breaths in the pursuit of take take taking from the earth & each other for luxury & benefit by All The Things. Twisting, “It’s incredible, really..”
Follow the money, it will lead to the lies. Follow art, it will lead to the truth.
Follow money to the lies. Follow art to the truth.
Lies will be lead by money. Truth will be lead by art.
Follow money, it leads to lies. Follow art, it leads to truth.
Where there is money, there are lies. Where there is art, there are truths.
Money changes the intention of art. Art does not change the intention of money.
During the move from there to here the k120 fell apart. The ‘Ctrl’ key, bottom left location, fell off & locked its ability into permanent engagement. Thus when I tap the letter A the k120 responds ‘CtrlA’. And I get it, I get what it’s saying & meaning. K120 knew I had backup keyboards: the 700 & T3A002. It knew of my attachment, to it, to k120, and it knew in such times of radical change–these times– control must be lost, & the one who forgoes control must be okay with losing it, must adapt. I’m not sure if the story of k120 has been written yet so I will go ahead & carve out this piece of non-fiction for the first or second time. So you understand. First, where does the name “k120” come from? It doesn’t come from being crazy. Sorry to disappoint. k120, as with most other things I name, is the model name. And so you know, for the other things when the model name doesn’t exist, or if the model name exists but it’s deemed unsuitable, I look for a sequence or pattern & create the name based on my findings. Sometimes there is a gap of interpretation. To mean I at times, with meaning, draw connections & make conclusions to bridge it, to, for example, notice a damaged corner unmasking the material underneath, then to draw the connection between the way the damage splinters in sections of 3, & then to complete the process by detecting the name through an intuitive, at times blind, tapping movement of finger ends against key heads. So, as it rests, k120 is the model name. It is printed in the top right hand corner. White letters against a black surface. Now how did k120 gain significance? Prior to August 2013 it was just a keyboard. No name, no significance. It had use & purpose, as a keyboard attached to my main computing rig, but this is all. It worked through The Chronicles and 44v1 and the things. I do not remember how it was acquired. Or when it was acquired. Now, for the significance piece, & I apologize I am running out of time. There’s only eight or so minutes left before I must put this down & abandon. Only three minutes now. The shower must be fast. The significance of k120: in middle school I acquired a flask of holy water. In the day of August, before I began the divine translation I opened the flask for the first time and dumped its holy contents onto & into the soul of k120. It was a direct pouring, right into the keys, & with an ecstatic euphoria the keyboard was blessed. And in blind style, I put my fingers down onto the wetness & viciously translated for minutes as the holy channel of god.
We created space. To how much each requires space, is it dependent or universal, this is the question not to be answered at this time, on this day of days…on The Status of Things. Larry packs his socks. He folds them first in halves & presses them with an aged right hand. The deep blue worms just beneath his thinning skin move to the adjustments of pressure along the ends & folds of his socks. As he quietly packs them. And pauses, to stare off. He reengages the socks. He pauses to stare off. And just like this Larry spent his morning, all two hours before, “I must leave soon. I am leaving…I must go soon, I must go to work.” His teeth, now unbrushed, to be brushed soon. Cleaned for future stains. Breath cleared. Disheveled describes his hair. Lost is his demeanor. We find him at the intersection of intense presence & abstract absence. He comes forth & leaves just the same. He is here but then he is not. This is The Status of Things for Larry. Weeks ago he left the hair of his head behind, to be flushed–& it was–and it will clog a future resident’s drain. He is the ascending part of a rollercoaster; he is the descending part of a rollercoaster.
When it comes down to it the interview is about two things: first, belief in yourself, second, convincing the panel or interviewer to believe in you as you believe yourself. You make them believe by believing. You believe in yourself, and through this unshakeable belief, you believe in them, the company, the person or persons, because when you are hired or brought on you know things are good now but they are going to be even better when you come in and mix things up, positively, collaboratively. It all comes down to belief. It really does. Everything else is a distraction. All the things. First find & focus on the belief. Second, have it with you during the interview and use it to convince them to believe as you believe. You convince by believing. That’s it. What you say is a byproduct of belief, whether or not you possess it, and if you do have it, what you say will be what they need to hear. And look, not all jobs are right for you. Not all environments are either. With the kind of belief we are talking about–the kind that knows– it’s like this irrefutable thing no one can actually argue against. The interview turns into something else, when someone walks in with belief. They don’t always get the job. You won’t always get it. But, now listen but, but I promise you after you’ve left the room those eyes of theirs will tell the story. It will be a look like, “wow.” Hey, after all, they are as desperate as you. Their last hire sucked, did you know that? This is actually the third time they’ve tried to bring someone in–all three ended with disappointment. You know, one other thing, the downfall of all three was their attitude. They kept getting the interview piece wrong, the interviewers were getting it wrong. They were looking for the things. And asking about the things. And getting stories. And interpreting stories. Really what they needed, or need, what they need is to have someone who believes positively. The only way they were going to see that was when someone walked in with it and carried that shit with them all through it. True, they may fuck up again and botch the hire. But hey, you weren’t cut for it maybe, or maybe you were. I tell you though, those people will come back in some time and wonder either outloud or in private or public circles how you would have done. People can try their hardest but what is really being interviewed. And what is in our control. Is anything? Just belief, that’s right. Come into it.
Richard blocked out an area of his canvas with a 2B pencil. He’s right handed but sometimes uses his left. This time, or that time, he uses or used his right. His traditional hand. The hand he uses normally but not exclusively now has a residue of graphite from a deep unintentional smudging. “Ruined!” for just a moment, Richard pulls out a black eraser bought earlier in the week, when he had money to spend or waste. With his left he pulled out the eraser from the drawer and handed it to his other hand, the right one, and with the power of two fingers he unblocked and partially shaded out the section of his new, discounted canvas. The base of his palm continues to smear lightly across the canvas as he erases. Richard notices, “Damnit!” More erasing. More unblocking. More retreating. He stands up. He goes to the bathroom. He comes back into the original room and looks outside from inside. Greenery, balcony, flowers & sun; a bird flies by and another follows. A cat stretches and whiskers catch the attention of a piercing ray of sunshine light bravely forcing its way through needy leaves and unestablished plants. The reflection of the sun of the whisker catches & passes to the movement of the cat’s body, and to Richard’s. Really there was only a half second to see it. Richard was back in his chair just as the cat had finished settling into his upright seating position, facing inward, in the direction of a Richard who then & now has his back to everything but the canvas. He forgot to wash his hands. He gets up again. He goes to the kitchen. He washes his hand with soap. The other hand gets little attention. Together they click, apart they beep. He dries them. He sighs. He goes back to the canvas and retrieves a partially full coffee cup now cold. He microwaves it for 30 seconds. He pulls it out of the microwave and adds a bit of coffee from the still on automatic pot. He adds a little milk. He adds a little honey. He licks off the excess honey of the glass honey jar. He puts it back into the cupboard. He goes back to the canvas. He sits down. He looks at the canvas. Someone had been there already. They left before they even started. Richard begins to think, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” His stomach gurgles from too much coffee. He takes a sip, then a second. He puts the cup down and picks it back up immediately again and takes a third. A bird chirps, another moment passes that didn’t quite go right.
We may think of staging as recorded practice with purpose. As if we were to stage & the audience to be there all through out, all along there to witness the improving practice, the solidifying yet evolving purpose of the stage as it grows, as it is being set. Fluid & dynamic, we may think of staging in this way. Incredibly important. The stage is incredibly important. The show which lasts a minute, although brilliant but improvisational, with no practice, no staging–just use of the stage as it exists (e.g. the internet’s stage)–will end after that minute is over. It will end & the show will end. Because there was no staging. Ah the staging! Imagine you there on stage. On the paneled wooden floor with items scattered about & across. A chair here. An amp over there. Books and boxes and text and things about across and around the stage. It’s an active place. There’s no dust. You’ve been active. You’ve been moving and gathering and sitting. Speaking and playing and crying. Out from the stage you can see nothing but blackness. It is so dark, so black, blacker than #000, the moment the edge’s floor ends marks the space in which you cannot see further. Neither can you see nor can you hear what is beyond. You know something exists out there. You know it is fluid & dynamic, and potentially human. Everything done so far quite possibly, could possibly have been done before someone(s). From the very beginning, from the moment you arrived with the things, to the moment right now has been recorded and kept, and open to viewing. But see this is why staging is so important! All those items on stage–they take considerable time to gather and sort and make use of and practice with and get ready for and to create the space of your act. Without this preparation there is no legacy. There is too much information right now to achieve legacy without staging. Fame yes, short or long lived, but legacy no, not without. Days after virality has hit, the hit changes to a weight from all the new things already more recent, which the 3 day old thing now rests underneath. It is so sad to see the famed cling to that thing days or months or years ago. Clearly there was no staging for them, for it(s). They had no time. There only being one item, one act, & it was over, for them or for us. To conclude, virality is easy and leads to fame. Staging is difficult & leads to legacy. How do we know the difference? Is it creating for an audience or is it creating for a well-done stage? I don’t want to think about it anymore.
The idea of Present Telling is to know intuitively the present state of someone or something & then use a combination of deductive reasoning & imagination to predict the future & retell the past with the perspective awareness gained through knowing an entire spectrum, albeit a fragmented & spedread knowing, or perhaps, albeit, concentrated–like from 100% real shit concentrate knowing. The trick from the beginning is to create an atmosphere of intention. Then to heighten this atmosphere by asking that someone to commit a voluntary act of intention & of surrender to the opening process, such as touching a crystal ball with two fingers, “not those two fingers, these two,” you might say. To heighten. To bring down walls. To open doors. To close doors. Humans are a sensational species, the most so in this world. We are likely the most so across the complete stretch of this universe. Imagine a big city. Imagine walking downtown this city. We with simultaneous marvel have come so far upward; we with simultaneous marvel have come so far away from height. How do we surrounded by so much marvel created by a collection of individual minds not believe in the individual mind itself, as in, not believe the heights to where & to which it may go if asked with intention? I just, I just need everyone to know we are not heightened by buildings, smartphones, clothing, cars, houses, jobs, etc… everything not of the individual mind in its present state is the creation of collective minds whether it is of one individual combining past, present, & future, or multiple individuals combining within one or many generations of life. These things outside of the mind–the word “mind,” as in to mean right here the entire essence, potential, & spectrum of capable human marvel, spirit, soul, & intelligence– are there to assist minds, or individuals, combined or isolated, imagined or deductively reduced, in the coming together of a more powerful collection. Not physically, although it could be. The “status” of one’s life is not then to be relatively compared by measuring the excess or lack of tools, from one individual to another, although it could. As in, this verbage is getting complicated, the status of all things is shared. E.G., a gentleman owns a lamborgini. That lamborgini existed prior to his ownership. Engineering from other minds was involved. Imagination & reasoning. Things were extracted from the earth to build it. Many cars existed before it. Many lamborginis existed before “his” lamborgini became “his.” The mistake is to see the lamborgini as a status of an individual, the gentleman who now owns it, the one who has two semi-successful hair plants, two being necessary to cover a moving hairline, the gentleman who sees & owns & drives the lamborgini with a heightened his & mine, & not to see it as a collective status of human height. But again, & not to be negative, the height isn’t being used properly. It’s the wrong height, to be simple. Mind, not mine. It’s just true. it is.
Jobe’s ears were constricted by a new pair of large headphones. Both lobes squished partly out the bottom, and the cartilage lining the tops of his ears reddened by the pressure of form & music. He lay on his bed with an open book face-down resting on a stomach breathing slowly, to the slow beats of his chosen music. The pain of his ears and the music of his device together gave him a freedom he would count on, day-after-day, many days & nights & mornings–whenever he could–to escape or assimilate or cope with the changing environment of his home & of his friends & of his body. “There is no control here–I have no control of anything, I never did…” Posters & magazine clippings, drawings & report cards, calendars & pictures of all sizes, of all sizes of everything, were carefully assembled with double-sided tape to hide the white walls underneath. Once put up, Jobe never took what he taped down. In a sense, there in his room with two focuses, legs crossed at the ankles, hands crossed & intertwined at his chest, open-book being temporarily finished rising & falling to a slow pattern of breath, he simultaneously existed in the accumulation of his past with a sharp pain in his lobes holding him hostage in the present, all to themed music, which he controlled with a flick of thumb. A barren, light brown desk vibrated to three computer fans, caked with years of dust, cooling a computer that hummed at its best & displayed graphic pornography at its worst. “To feel pleasure, to feel it now & now I do not want I do not know, I am in love but the girl does not love me back,” we hear from Jobe. He’s young. An older brother has grown past this stage of Jobe’s in a room adjacent, yet both are in their rooms, “for one’s own space is necessary,” Jobe’s older brother replied. And he too played music, from a stereo. His sounds rang out & vibrated & hummed against the painted walls, underneath the half-inch space between door & low-rise champagne carpet, into the hallway, down the kitchen, into bathrooms, into his brother Jobe’s room who had his own interests. The proof was there, on his walls, the words from his book, the way he crossed things together like his ankles & hands, his eyes when he shut them, pain & music thematically played to passionate, pulsing love heating his body for some current girl to ease the stiffening bone below, nothing more, but Jobe doesn’t know that yet, “he will,” his older brother replies. Somehow we’re all together in this, somehow.
A candle burns to the subjects of shallowness, depth, & virality, and the remnants of a days thought & evoked passion linger in the air like this smokeless, spiced candle on fire. Henry pauses. His hands lift away from the keys to slump his head into his hands. And a deep breath is taken. He is leaned back. His head slightly forward, the keys or the candle or the weight of a day or days or something else has him, in all his senses, pulling forward & down. Forward to the florescent screen; downward to the soft yellow candle and the black & unblessed keyboard. And when he closes his eyes the crown of his head lifts his energy skyward. Far beyond the ceiling, far beyond the sky, far beyond the universe. As if–when he closes them–this pole that begins at the center of all things, more centered than the center of this Earth, and it starts there & runs skyward through & out the ground, through the man, through his crown, through his deepest self. “Depth, depth is the hard part; virality is easy,” he said & believed while imagining himself on the corner of streets, wearing his or her blank mask, standing still, carrying a sign, all still, for hours & hours, no movement, corner after corner, the sign pointing the world to his or hers. And to artificially induce the test of exposure, “& how one has to be ready…by creating a life’s work of depth,” & the thoughts carrying him into the darker place, the one of Buddah…man…no…And he understands that though he could, and maybe it would, he cannot. Breaks of integrity occur because he or she or it is human & sin will be had, “but not this, this I cannot.” And he is sorry. Henry asks for forgiveness & receives it just the same. And he is humbled. “I am humbled,” he or she says, “& though I do not know where this is going, where any of it is, therein a given is clear, my form will be withheld.” 347. Hands clasp both cheeks & the skin of his or of her face is pulled back slight. Tiredness. Breaking sounds. Gears are shifting. Forward. Crushing forward. 372. ))99 $33. Is or was the fraud the induced or was or is the fraud the one who knows induction yet goes on pretending for longevity &. And when will the &s stop? The phrases? What of the sound? The excess? The art of it is hard to see. I read it all. It’s hard to see. It’s hard to accept it though we did: “oh well lol full throttle!”
I wear it, have worn it throughout the seasons, every year, since I bought it back in 2008. It has this sense of ability to retain an inner, historic sense of self. As if it has this thing that furthers my ability to remember all that has happened as I wear it, Now, & it keeps this memory intact going forward. The weight of it sits on my left and right shoulders. I feel it on my ribcage. And on my wrists. Like, I wake up and put it on & I get shit for wearing it so. It’s my Blue Jacket. Someone told me it made me look like a Bosnian Rebel Fighter. I’ve heard it helps me look homeless. Its slightly or moderately too small. Seven years ago I found my Jacket in a thrift shop. The price is $5. I try it on. I Love It. It loves me back. Me shoulders, ribcage, & wrists. The it’s slight too small voice did speak, at that time those years ago, yet the love for each prevailed past all hesitation. Ching went the register. It’s probably my best purchase to date, like ever. Yeah I can’t really think of anything close. And yet an undertone exists, “it’s time to move on.” & I’m not entirely sure why it’s there but the child in me already has begun to cry to the imagined closet with dust outlining where the Jacket used to be, it now on, in this scary time of pendation retirement. A child of mine will be born soon, & I clutch, “maybe I should pass this jacket on, so she or he can directly feel where & perhaps who I am or was,” 279. It’s got silver zippers down the sleeves, small pockets “to hide weapons” I once told a chief of police. Aha. If I am of great good then I must be of great evil as well; there are pictures. & though a choice has been to G.G., the beautiful lure of G.E. pulls my eyes and giraffes my neck past this or that shoulder, to see the other option. This behavior has not ceased. It may never. We understand through 3nglish <—G.G.|G.E.—>, & to know one greatly is to know the other greatly, simultaneously, juxtapositionally, & through careful choice we can move in either direction without limit. I would like to explore <—, which means I am leaving My Blue Jacket behind, for another self much like my own, not my child, but to the one who buys it for 447 dollars. Until then, it will be locked away & never worn again from this |—> on.
So it appears I need to time myself during these blitzes of 447s. And not to just time. I need to document the context of how the writing came about, specifically to annotate the environment. For example, to say somewhere it was done at the brown desk with the WcW Monday Night Nitro Chair in so & so amount of time [2 and a half minutes already spent] listening to such & such music, using either this unblessed WARNING keyboard or the Blessed K120. At least to start gathering data as to what & where evokes how & why. I have a hunch the brown desk, sight-editing (looking at the screen typing into the screen canvas, either through browser or word document) is where I am more likely to rant non-fictionally by using mixed messages. Whereas outside, if I am outside say hooked into the A500 / K120 combo underneath a tree or above a hillside looking out I will, I think, be more likely to transcend the criticisms & carve out the white space with imagination, fiction, & unfiction. But as we’ve said so many times, the music is the most influential aspect of all. And so with this gathering of data, we really should begin to write down to what music played to the amount of time allotted. Eight minutes forty two seconds; without data I cannot prove this is on the slow end of conscious display. But where do we stop? Which aspects of the environment do we withhold knowing that this path of context necessity is indeed a rabbit hole. Must I tell you Stanley is sleeping to my right, sleeping on the V37. I think I may have already told you that, though it was days ago. Must you know he is always there beside me, if I am inside? He sleeping, me waking. Us together loving. And he stretches & I stretch too inside to cover the needs & create the groundwork for all future writings. Edited or unedited? The word cap makes things interesting. It kind of leaves me no choice but to edit. Through the browser I transcribe, and just below a word count counts, but it lags behind. It is a lazy word count updating itself only every five or six words apparently. Or more. Fourteen minutes! I almost wrote about a fork. I had the idea while washing dishes. Earlier at work I kept thinking about the word “Derelict,” & how I would write about that word later. I’m not even really sure what it means. I also imagined myself writing about “Carl,” to release the first real imaginative piece. One can only handle so much brown desk.
And to the scratching of surfaces, & to the prolifary of surface deep knowledge & entertainment & time on the surface. And how far removed people become from consciousness when they hold their devices, how they remove everything of themselves entirely & completely from Presence. To the attached smart phone human, at the time of holding & intimately interacting with Things Not Here, your depth of self disappears into void unconsciousness. Eyes glaze & wits disintegrate. Real life scratches goodbye. And to what attracts their unconscious interest, to the unconscious entertainment, & the blind falsified interactions with other distant moments depicted as present but are the furthest from it, a vast pool of surface depth, the users, the attached, the unconscious swimming ankle deep in their own urine & filth, using their finger tips to swim in the Land That Does Not Exist, & as the people who are present feel their absence, & as the users intermittently come back to depth and demand the kind of attention seen & held at the surface, they are lost & angry & confused & disappointed with The Way Things Are and with The Way Things Feel, & within moments again, it being easy, the smartphone being an easy coping method, a drug to induce unconsciousness, to connect with Everything Not Here, the phone is held & the tips of a finger or two swell to the absorption of an ankle deep pool run yellow & brown. And to the designers & the profiteers & the artists who create for the unconscious, how they design their devices to be held more frequently, to pay with, to find one’s way with, to make friends with, to discover the weather with, to talk with, to interact with, to share with, & how they design this information & how they understand The Way Things Are Attached to Device, and how the tips of fingers scratch. And how little time things have for absorption, & how an unconscious world is being actively created to suit & fit unconscious living under intense pressures of limited time & attention, & the creations are in the billions counting & all these little unconscious things add up together to create a life’s worth of ankle depth to the living. The Movement is to inspire consciousness. It’s not a counter-movement to inspire consciousness. The counter-movement is the vast capitalization of unconsciousness. To know great happiness you must know great sadness. Smartphones & their consequences have defined the great sadness of the internet. But the time for great happiness is here! To the hero & heroes of its true design, create depth & release it as if it were shallow.
It’s not so much about resistance. There’s like, this idea, of something else, something greater in our minds passing simultaneously along with our shared reality, and when there is intense conflict between the two–the idea of life & the way of life– the machine stops. A loose bolt or screw becomes wedged somewhere in some gear of ours, of yours or of mine, or sometimes of collective society. And the machine still endures the reality of passing times: it rusts, layers of dust layer the growing rust & a normal decay occurs, just like it would had it been running, had it been more synchronized to allow forward movement. & whether the machine is still or redirected to danger or being unpredictable is a choice entirely. The choice here as I say there is is to go ahead with it. Perhaps you remove the loose nut, or perhaps you ask someone to help you remove it, or you remove the nut & ask someone to help you restart, or you accept the nut & the gears in which its caught and you say fuck it and go full force & grind that shit out of there, like goddamn if a few gears sacrificed is necessary then well okay then let’s get on with it I or we or you will build new, better ones or maybe we won’t but we’ll go ahead & die in the fight if we have to because rusting to death is still a fight but its a real shitty one, unlegendary, and depurposeful. You and I know there’s purpose to the machine, our machine, theirs or yours or mine, or ours, to the machine. Or maybe, or maybe this machine we are talking about is the nut or the loose bolt or screw to be wedged in the other machine. It’s sole purpose being to break the other one or at least fuck it up real good if the other’s like, “fuck it full throttle!” Or maybe it’s not the fighting type & it just chooses to quit and decay. & maybe our machine is the infectious type. 352. Like the internet, as if it were the other machine, it having been designed to do so much more than lock small & big minds into a vacuum of surface scratching knowledge & visuals, as if the master designer had planned for it the same kind of news & country & fear & violence of its previous state in the television, as if the fear of things being wedged into the way things are & preventing things from staying the same as we watch the Earth get older & lives stiller wedged or unwedged.
447 words once a day, every day, will make the doctor come & visit and say, “Hello again,” & you will nod with grimace, he knowing you & you knowing him, & he representing all of the stories once & outwardly told, you there now breaking through & *unleashing* in a sense, & though this is new territory & a new site, you will work through it & accept what is coming. You will accept the absence of K120 and the blessing you know it has received, and that those keys aren’t these keys & this space isn’t that space. And only a slight hesitation is had here, in this new realm, temporarily, if nothing else than this is a timed event. We will time each one. This having lasted for at least a minute with altogether too many pauses & too little direction & too little presence. There are feelings here. I feel distant. I feel forced. This feels forced. 163 words. Stanley sleeps to my right, stones scatter in front. A glass of chocolate milk to my left, already drank. To the left of the empty glass, a sip left, is the K120 buried underneath the A500 wrapped in B20 headphones. The A500 case is partially disassembled. The tablet is exposed. Two identical statued men are posed to think for eternity, just north of the mobile setup. A lamp sits on a 7 minute hourglass. 239 words, untimed. I will time the remaining, “and they will see.” We will show the world. At this point typing is painful, or its beginning to feel painful. I close my eyes. I am breathing in and out. I feel anxious. I change the style of music to “Meditation.” I partially completed a visual body of art one hour earlier. The only time I time is when I am untimed. A project closes on Wednesday. The Progression remains open. Stanley is sleeping on top of my V37. That project too will close soon. The 47287s will host it. Only about 90% of my number usage actually makes sense. It’s not that I’m trying to complicate things. The other 10% used to be known, a language revealed in a striking kind of way, that one time, that one time that has now passed & is beginning its distance from me. I’m like an old veteran talking about the war he or she fought many years ago as if it happened yesterday prenoon. This is no war. Like he said, “I want to make love to art, I don’t want to make war with it,” to which everything agreed & disagreed simultaneously in shared time. The first of many or few, many few many few. many few.