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| pigeon headed bird pigeon headed bird |
It’s as though an intemperate bird much reduced of purpose and motion by Mr. Charles Willson Peale were summoned here to gather dust. Then for want of an idle quotation some piece of very old something that has been gone from our recent moments that has been lost even to itself was again found and then bludgeoned into an unmatched stillness for our better comprehension - read aloud from this brass plaque
Disruption is my memoir and it starts with a simple idea, stop. I’ve spent a world's worth of minutes putting on all of those pants and opening all of those beers. I’ve filed away entire anemic days brushing and flossing and then taming or trimming all that could be found cornered and hassled. I’ve done all that’s necessary to enjoin my cult of the serendipitous self to a world of indiscreet others and their desperate hordes of poetry. I’ve done all of this because words follow words. I've done all of this not because I could but because I had to.
On Saturday February 3, 1996, I was in Sophie's' Busy Bee on Damen. I'd spent months reading the fiction of Kobo Abe when I started to transcribe his novel, Box Man. Many critics described this novel as a darkly comic metaphor of the camera. They neatly boxed it's corners in a modern Asian narrative that drives over a cliff into a fantastic schism of dereliction and societal contempt. But I related to it more viscerally. I didn't identify with the protagonist's isolation so much as with Author's keen sense design and decoration. The certainty with which Kobo Abe described the box and its interior. It made me wild with a desire to fashion curtains and hang makeshift colostomy bags from the interior of every room and every surface that I occupied as well.
So let me start with my becoming more purposeful. When I first began to jot down notes and observations like this, notes about the shows that I would see. Then later in the evening, when I was lit like a Christmas tree and stitching together these pieces into sprawling narratives that were read and recorded as live audio. The best of these tracks would be transcribed and edited into a mashed up role-playing opus that I called, Sister. In Sister there is no empire with a reach to match their television machines, Hello we can threaten your door, Bang Bang.
On Saturday February 3, 1996, I was in Sophie's' Busy Bee on Damen. I'd spent months reading the fiction of Kobo Abe when I started to transcribe his novel, Box Man. Many critics described this novel as a darkly comic metaphor of the camera. They neatly boxed it's corners in a modern Asian narrative that drives over a cliff into a fantastic schism of dereliction and societal contempt. But I related to it more viscerally. I didn't identify with the protagonist's isolation so much as with Author's keen sense design and decoration. The certainty with which Kobo Abe described the box and its interior. It made me wild with a desire to fashion curtains and hang makeshift colostomy bags from the interior of every room and every surface that I occupied as well.
So let me start with my becoming more purposeful. When I first began to jot down notes and observations like this, notes about the shows that I would see. Then later in the evening, when I was lit like a Christmas tree and stitching together these pieces into sprawling narratives that were read and recorded as live audio. The best of these tracks would be transcribed and edited into a mashed up role-playing opus that I called, Sister. In Sister there is no empire with a reach to match their television machines, Hello we can threaten your door, Bang Bang.
BAH.
But a craft-person has their tools and a craft-person has their materials. These are what a craft-person needs inside a day. These are the resources necessary for a craft-person to build a world that saves it’s rules for it's wood and it's hammers alone.
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