Sunday, March 21, 2004
Everybody’s breaking point
A man goes out one day, presumably to go to the market, but alas having no tradable currency with which to make any purchases of any monetary value, returns empty-handed. Well no not empty, he has in his hand coupons which he might redeem if only he could get to the point of purchase in the first place. He was not a thief, no certainly not the type, at least not when he left the house he wasn't, but at some point between his departure and arrival back in his own shabby abode, he forces entry into a house, for the first time in his life. The window was open and no one appeared to be home or paying attention, so he went straight to the bookshelf, chose one hastily, one book, and ran off, closing the door quietly behind him. Success. He goes home and reads. He wants more books. He chooses a residential neighborhood adjacent to a university, and walks around slowly, inquisitively, until he determines which house to enter, then steals another book, goes home, reads. He continues this until he has more books than his small abode can feasibly handle. Busied by his new preoccupation of stealing books, he begins to collect books faster than he can read them. One day he gives up, carries as many books as he can between his two skinny arms, and takes them to the meeting.
A young girl drops out of second grade for her love of flowers. We warned her mother about this. She is at that age where she asserts her own will fiercely, unreasonably, with an adorable fire in her small, young eyes. She collects flowers incessantly, indiscriminately, from the sidewalk, from after-hours flower shops, from the bouquet of roses hanging from a young man’s hand. She sneaks into weddings before they begin and takes a stem out of each bouquet adorning the aisles. The day is long and her arms are small, and everyday she has gathered more than she can carry before it is even four pm. She doesn’t stumble into the meeting on purpose, she was just looking for more flowers, but it’s just as well.
A young drinker, having spent all his money on video games, baseball cards, and a somewhat rare insect collection, wanders casually through the bar. He slides into seats where the people have their backs to him, and sneaks a sip out of each person's beverage glass. He starts with women, to get warmed up, and then starts his serious hunt for men and their harder liquors. Each time he returns the glass to exactly where he found it, so that the owner of the drink senses nothing out of the ordinary, except for one or two degrees extra of tipping the head back to get to the drink. Many people do in fact notice this, but it is at such a mild and non-threatening level that usually whatever else is readily available on their minds takes over in no time at all. The young drinker hops bars this way, never returning to the same bar twice. He collects their business cards in order to know where not to go. After years in the same megalopolis, he moves on to the next, not because he has exhausted all the bars, but out of a desire to overhear bits of conversation in a different language, a new language, to understand less, once again. This new megalopolis is where he finds himself at the meeting. He is drunk. At the meeting he continues to take sips from other people’s drinks, but strangely, they all seem to notice, and even nudge their glasses slightly in his direction.
The meeting takes place by a lake. There is a man who has been there since the very beginning of somebody’s time. As people arrive, lugging with them more whatevers than they really are able to handle, he sits them down without a word and relieves them of their books, their flowers, their alcohol. One by one he dives into the bottom of the lake and plants these objects there, with love and respect, in a neat and orderly fashion, as if planting a row of corn at the bottom of the odd-figured lake. The man does not steal books, or collect flowers, or sip alcohol, but is working on gaining a little bit, just a little bit more every single day, of capacity in his lungs. One day he will run the Boston marathon in one single breath, and all of us who have ever been to that lake will thank him for it and cheer him on, throwing our books and flowers and booze at him as he whizzes by oh-so-very quickly.
A young girl drops out of second grade for her love of flowers. We warned her mother about this. She is at that age where she asserts her own will fiercely, unreasonably, with an adorable fire in her small, young eyes. She collects flowers incessantly, indiscriminately, from the sidewalk, from after-hours flower shops, from the bouquet of roses hanging from a young man’s hand. She sneaks into weddings before they begin and takes a stem out of each bouquet adorning the aisles. The day is long and her arms are small, and everyday she has gathered more than she can carry before it is even four pm. She doesn’t stumble into the meeting on purpose, she was just looking for more flowers, but it’s just as well.
A young drinker, having spent all his money on video games, baseball cards, and a somewhat rare insect collection, wanders casually through the bar. He slides into seats where the people have their backs to him, and sneaks a sip out of each person's beverage glass. He starts with women, to get warmed up, and then starts his serious hunt for men and their harder liquors. Each time he returns the glass to exactly where he found it, so that the owner of the drink senses nothing out of the ordinary, except for one or two degrees extra of tipping the head back to get to the drink. Many people do in fact notice this, but it is at such a mild and non-threatening level that usually whatever else is readily available on their minds takes over in no time at all. The young drinker hops bars this way, never returning to the same bar twice. He collects their business cards in order to know where not to go. After years in the same megalopolis, he moves on to the next, not because he has exhausted all the bars, but out of a desire to overhear bits of conversation in a different language, a new language, to understand less, once again. This new megalopolis is where he finds himself at the meeting. He is drunk. At the meeting he continues to take sips from other people’s drinks, but strangely, they all seem to notice, and even nudge their glasses slightly in his direction.
The meeting takes place by a lake. There is a man who has been there since the very beginning of somebody’s time. As people arrive, lugging with them more whatevers than they really are able to handle, he sits them down without a word and relieves them of their books, their flowers, their alcohol. One by one he dives into the bottom of the lake and plants these objects there, with love and respect, in a neat and orderly fashion, as if planting a row of corn at the bottom of the odd-figured lake. The man does not steal books, or collect flowers, or sip alcohol, but is working on gaining a little bit, just a little bit more every single day, of capacity in his lungs. One day he will run the Boston marathon in one single breath, and all of us who have ever been to that lake will thank him for it and cheer him on, throwing our books and flowers and booze at him as he whizzes by oh-so-very quickly.
Anger performance I
Leave the house with acoustic guitar over the shoulder, slung, and walk as if, as if cool, as in iss all cool, for the german homies
And only on a bright and shiny day
Walk until the path is crossed by an insect
(See appendix C regarding which insects are most appropriate)
At which point begin the documentation
At which point raise the gee-tar
High high overhead at a fairly steady clip
Document: h = height
Document: h of 1 thru 6 = height of each string of the guitar to the nearest micrometer relative to 0, where 0 = the ground directly underneath the feet of the insect
And then lower the guitar very very quickly in a smooth arc that shall culminate through the body of the insect, let’s say for example grasshopper or ladybug
The sound shall be documented with each of the strings isolated and all the gee-tar-generated sounds graphed separately from the grasshopper or ladybug-generated sounds. A verbal description, such as ‘The grasshopper or ladybug screams without shaking its fists in the air,’ may be included with the graph.
All documentation shall be produced and printed within the hour of incidence, one copy of which shall be mailed to the Office of Insect Harrassment, at which point a generic letter of apology shall be issued and mailed to the surviving spouse and children of the late grasshopper or ladybug, if any such creatures admit to partaking in such relations.
(Absolutely no one makes any amends to the guitar, itself a very loved and affected instrument, not pretty nor expensive, but loved all the same, destroyed all the same, sometimes having been accused of making a sound similar to that of love.)
And only on a bright and shiny day
Walk until the path is crossed by an insect
(See appendix C regarding which insects are most appropriate)
At which point begin the documentation
At which point raise the gee-tar
High high overhead at a fairly steady clip
Document: h = height
Document: h of 1 thru 6 = height of each string of the guitar to the nearest micrometer relative to 0, where 0 = the ground directly underneath the feet of the insect
And then lower the guitar very very quickly in a smooth arc that shall culminate through the body of the insect, let’s say for example grasshopper or ladybug
The sound shall be documented with each of the strings isolated and all the gee-tar-generated sounds graphed separately from the grasshopper or ladybug-generated sounds. A verbal description, such as ‘The grasshopper or ladybug screams without shaking its fists in the air,’ may be included with the graph.
All documentation shall be produced and printed within the hour of incidence, one copy of which shall be mailed to the Office of Insect Harrassment, at which point a generic letter of apology shall be issued and mailed to the surviving spouse and children of the late grasshopper or ladybug, if any such creatures admit to partaking in such relations.
(Absolutely no one makes any amends to the guitar, itself a very loved and affected instrument, not pretty nor expensive, but loved all the same, destroyed all the same, sometimes having been accused of making a sound similar to that of love.)
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Cherry Blossom Pageant
A young naked girl runs through a tunnel of cherry blossom trees with her arms in the air.
Because this is Tokyo, there are many people around.
Of those who witness the young girl running, they immediately organize themselves into categories: mothers, children, young men, businessmen, working ladies, old farts. Within these categories they further subdivide by response: amusement, horror, concern for the child's potential to catch cold, desire to join in, and so on. The groupings of people wordlessly assemble into lines, the starting point being the first location of incidence, the lines stretching parallel to but away from the lines of cherry blossom trees, thus forming a natural human bar graph.
They look at each other, waiting patiently for the line to move, trying to see over each other's shoulders, hoping there are cherries at the front of the line, which they will eventually arrive at, oh yes they will.
Because this is Tokyo, there are many people around.
Of those who witness the young girl running, they immediately organize themselves into categories: mothers, children, young men, businessmen, working ladies, old farts. Within these categories they further subdivide by response: amusement, horror, concern for the child's potential to catch cold, desire to join in, and so on. The groupings of people wordlessly assemble into lines, the starting point being the first location of incidence, the lines stretching parallel to but away from the lines of cherry blossom trees, thus forming a natural human bar graph.
They look at each other, waiting patiently for the line to move, trying to see over each other's shoulders, hoping there are cherries at the front of the line, which they will eventually arrive at, oh yes they will.
