The mended object as art is as art for art's sake

Latin for, repeat me

This document is incomplete, it contains descriptions gathered from passages that were examined in the previous section. With some effort they can be abutted and read with a similar intention. It's not difficult to imagine the potential of these techniques when they are applied to the plastic arts. Their visual component also serves to highlight and inform our individual experience. However they can have unintended and deleterious side effects such as prurience. Skepticism by necessity is the consequence of experience and not included here. It's marginal to quote directly from popular culture or from the actual source.

Don (Helvetica): True to purpose, the liver of my cup is only a sample that aches.
Comma (Texas): Then let us gather around this green tree and pass our warm energy in a comfort circle of joy and bliss.

me repetere as transition

This isn't a baseball or some other machine for nostalgia it's a master plan with statistics and variables. But without intervention experience as the gabled end or apex for any cognitive structure remains incomplete. It's isolated from grace and geometry like a lost cat lost on toast. The arc of experience engages social practices that include fringe elements as well as other distinct independent types phenomena. What we generally understand this to mean is that separated nonlinear actions can be resonant. But they can also be avoided by adopting techniques of deflection such as humor or addiction. Instead of following the passage below we will skip forward and examine the textual revivalism of the DIY aesthetic:

Gonna make me a baked cake Gonna crap crap in a blender Gonna serve it on a blank slate Warm and buzzy crap crap around the bender

Here the ideal is easily discarded and replaced with any at hand fabrication. Because these are not so much a set of principles as they are a form of collaborative risk taking the system tolerates the exchange readily. That is until we move forward by a matter of degrees. We can plot the development of this degradation across the system with a simple graph. While not detailed the arc of this experience is a subtle map that commonly yields unintentional results that stymie. A lapsed receipt or a note on a slip of paper that's inside the front cover of a book, Pritchard's corpus? Nobody is suggesting that you forget (nnsert joke)

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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