Pale and Sensitive Eyes, 2111
What follows is like a stone that has been in my mouth while I told the story of Them.
I will send you stone as soon as I am finished listening to it.
your. audacious. Creator.
The scraps rea d:
range Job: 2176
to play a requ iem ambulist ’s funeral.You incorporate maz race, imum stic license. You r standard rate will be met tenfold if the improvisations meet a severe set of constraints: You are warned that playing tonally/correctly for too long will either rouse the very much alive, a trance, leaving no one to witness the perfect crime unfolding before es. fe must acco any you.
A surpealthy (not as you had been picturing her) ex-rives. The esthetized body interred is you learn. You
entranced funeral director who has commissioned your act.
ou ise trump outh inspect a note given to you earlier
by the director and obey it without question. The note instructs you play the standard tune as if its title were 'Time is a tiger being devoured by Time.' Other rules are spread on the music:
Each time the phrase 'Open me' is uttered by the soprano alongside you, you will produce a different four-second improvisation to be called 'You clean up well'.
Sprinkle arpeggios like birdseed throughout. After playing any for more than three beats, immediately produce a phrase recalling the sound of a knock at the door.
When the song is not being played you are to make noises recalling the sound of a car door opening at three minutes intervals. When returning to the music, play as if your improvisation is now entitled 'My Valentine's Day Home-Invasion.'
Intermezzo: You are falling asleep, you are waking up.
Mimic a conversation between an emperor and his courtesan.
Mimic a conversation between an emperor and his empress.
Mimic a conversation between an emperor and his trusted advisor.
Mimic a pagoda.
Mimic the sound of fresh grass rushing through the courtesan's hair as she lies on her back,
Mimic a monk at the pagoda being enfolded in this same breeze.
Freeform with fifteen pebbles in your mouth. Spit them out.
Hold breath as long as possible. Gasp for breath and play any note for the duration of that singular breath. Repeat until regularity of absence/presence of noise is communicated to the audience.
Repeat. This time the only things in your mind should be: a tiger, plateau cliff, branch, strawberry, sunrise, reaching, sunset.
You must announce the suicide of Buddha. 5 seconds.
You have been assigned to preside over the reincarnation of a tiger being devoured by time as Buddha would.
You are a tiger watching yourself clasping a branch on the precipice of a cliff reaching for a perfect strawberry before falling into an abyss deep enough.
Team exercises in the calamity arcades. Torsion in oh-shun.
Easy grace by hands, by all means, maiden. A seam, hairline, breaks with blessing, kissing.
It became easier to speak to them, when we realized it was not our words that were at war with one another, but our pictures.
Skook. Chug. Soft subversion at 4 o'clock seaside. Poor you pelican; slapshot Polaroids from hollyfuck.
Eee. Zzz. Blessed fracture.
Kisses of your elbow.
Mala Amala. Flower garland choke
hold. Soft petal thigh stroke.
Helicopter bud abrasion shower. Deep bathwater hurl and maddening erection pedal.
Actual trapdoors are the reifications of the glance.
Tension excises new eyes at the crossroads. Lean in, whispering blades.
--- "there had been
a picture here, of
him, seeing in the dark.
He drew it while he was
asleep. And gave it to me."
Wooden bell wake-up thump. Splinter corsage for roses and Boom.
Sandpaper heart attack.
I emailed you a picture last. 33 of x.
This bell rings in you ends all time teems with worlds. Teems in you. With worlds you hold in her. So I.
Rapture preceded by rupture. None but you in the street. As fish swim through bamboo, it isn’t fair to be a ghost, yet.
Ink of a thousand bulls. Years in which you are missed from the beginning.
w here is the f ox?
-------"here had been a drawing
of a plummeting ballerina
who in profile might be mis-
t aken for a trace at the event
horizon of his face. It was
OR DOORS AND MORE DOORS TO VERTIGOSKIP A SKETCHBOOK AND.
hand rising from those waves.
'1,000 happy goodbyes.'
My calves in
my halves in- all these wasted pieces.
------"here had been a photograph of
a distracted tennis court, overtaken
on the side of a mountain
where only certain sorts of people
go, in Western New York"
Fixed and orderly broken open or just broken
Tensions court on high; deadly, one mustn't miss robed angels
Actual journalism looks like this.
Summoning spells. Epistolary epistemology. Minute correspondences.
Fatal brow sweat on a fatal synthesis
-- A lull-a-bye we shall say, is not the problem it is the solution to a problem brought about by the identical, previous solution to an analogous, serial problem.
-- The lady singing the lull has an impoossible task if she tries to sing the child to sleep. She has the build in reverberation, the sonority, the tremolo of the refrain welling up from within her, echolocating the voice in the skull before the child hears anything. On average alpha waves begin to resonate at 3 matching circumstances on a standard 7-scale synaptic quarts-spectrometer radio-EEKG after only two bars for the singer, vs. 5 for the child. From this we conclude that the subject is sucessfully singing herself to sleep long before the child understands the message "this is play" and follows suit. In short, ilull-a-byes aim to put the caregiver to sleep and to teach about sleeping by example.
Intercourse on the tennis court; or, hi, I miss you normal.
-- If I had half the vim I do in your imagination there would be hand rhymes. Massive haecceities. Huge coincidences.
I have always wanted to write about a definitive room; a room in which there is a story about rooms that tells about doors. You'd read it from this book, picking it up from placed on the green cardamom stasis table; you'd hold the book and balance the frame technique you've learned to call 'attention'
between the smoothness of lifting it and the excite of performing an action in a room that was moments ago an empty slate, now and rapidly being populated by the ornaments of your know-how now know how it got there.
One: a door leading to and unknown room known made knowable only by the virtues of its door, which it praises by telling the story of itself in a book because its partner cannot speak a story as it is too busy embodying the story being told.
Rooms of books. Chamber of unknowing which to pass through just as better a hiliter is an instant forgetter. Highlite me, photograph me on typing paper, tie me to the mo n you-meant.
To smooth down the splinters on the table in this room find two pieces of pressed board, create a hinge, form a cavity. Into this well pour curative oils. Lavender. Linseed. Oil of Angelica root. Balsam and
bergamot. They soak through into the table so it can withstand a hand's rubbing over it 1000 goodbyes.
UNANSWERED DRAFT ONE
Unanswered Draft One
A story can only be told in the room if it is the subject and the frame for a story about the speechless frame by which the story to be written may be inaugurated into being. A door and its room are a black box in an empty parking lot
Augury can enter a room through the hearth, a frame for speech;
synchronically the ghosts rush in to dry their coats on your torso.
Who has entered and left the room, Theriomorph? Don't stay too long in
the field riding to hounds: the fox is unfindable, frozen, locked away
in a black box imperceptible from this room.