siting in a room with one hundred hands
sometimes i’m so straight people think i’m crazy
As regards the stunt – I liked it. By and large, we knew that such a stunt was being prepared. I didn’t catch what they were saying.
So much for the exterior. And what happened inside didnt leave any clear traces. There was something arousing.
Everyone knows, you can’t predict an earthquake.
sources are tapped when required to enhance the perceptual interplay
It’s terrifying to look at the present and recognize that rather than ending this kind of violence we have democratized it.
I was baffled by two things: one, that God would be calling me,
a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’.
the cycle was more unpredictable because very little was known
I wouldn’t say I see anything to lead me to believe that this is a different kind of cycle
in voice-over: “Now it’s time to open a second parenthesis, and to describe the emotions of the characters.” It cuts out three more times,
objects that then reshape themselves or self-assemble over time
He didnt speak, but every now and then he would stretch his leg out and look at his foot with a terrified expression. This foot wore a boot, but the other foot was in a slipper…
I felt in my hand a cold object which attracted my attention by means of a sort of personality. I opened my hand and looked: I was holding the doorknob.
To do. To do by not doing. To do for no reason. To not do for many reasons. To do without giving a shit what one is doing. The desire to do something. Not to do Art. To do because in a moment it was the thing to do. For no logic other than an inexplanable desire to do it. To do through being. Being open to affects that cause unexpected doings.
A manner of gathering, whether of objects or experiences. An interweaving stream of consciousness and material encounters.
So on my way home I get off at Pearse. an unusual stop for me. Walk in. End up in Sweny’s a magical old chemist bookstore. It seems like it would have a hand. I go in and look around. It is wonderful. Old bottles. Wood shelves. Books about fragments of an old but disused chemist. Two gentlemen one orderly the other rather non description but covert. The older chap starts in about Walsh from my asking about the day it being Easter and how was business. He proceeds to go into some depth but is far over my head and I have no idea what this clerk with Bow tie, white lab coat and Dali like facial hair is recalling. History of the Walsh. CUT He then explains they do Joyce readings there and points to chairs lined up with cushions behind the counter. CUT I ask if they by chance have a spare hand for me. He then reaches or my third hand and examines it. Detailing or rather reading it. It is an artistic hand he indicates knowingly. You can tell by the two centre fingers pointing inward of each other. The line at the base of the thumb where he points and says this line means a medium will be located. I fade as he twists the hand round and says something followed by this means they are intelligent. He states a few other observations. He finally is reading my palm. He looks at my hand and re states the previous…
Slipping between the boundaries of categorisations.