splargh
evacuations from hurricane earl
it's just such, such a nice day. I went for a jog in prospect park and I could feel movement balancing out to a point of comfortable exertion. I bought three peaches, ate two within the hour. escaped (from dean st. mosquitos) to this cafe and there's the sound of cars passing and the breeze comes in through the backyard and here I am.
someone sits across from me and I know I've met him before, very recently, but I can't remember where, I try and I stretch my mind and I roam around the past narratives of the last few days, few weeks, and I get a taste in my mouth of another sense of nostalgia-for-the-present appearing, emerging into the present.
--
idea dump:
mobile home architecture, rv architecture, moving buildings, buildings that are not slow, heavy, expensive, but are quick, nimble, aggressive, light. architecture that works against the aura of the object, work against the aura of the work (of art), work against presence maybe.
architecture of voltron. forms move, swivel, compress, approach and fit into each other, create something new. social cooperation made literal, emergent properties made bodily.
--
oh, and antonio carlos jobim, you make me smile...
babylon, to and fro
tomorrow I start. if I were less opinionated about the valences of adding-labels-to-things I might say that this would be the 'entrance of a new chapter', 'a marked change in my life', et cetera, et cetera, or so on and so forth. but because I do believe that these grandiose declarations are often times unproductive than not, that there's a certain precious value in conceiving my narrative as a gradual flow that bends but never ruptures, I'll say only that I'm: excited, calmly apprehensive (in the best way possible), interested, I'm leaning forward, I have guitar chords and a persistent lovely drumbeat in my ear and I can't wait to move, I can't wait to be in the thick of things. I can't wait to go emerge from studios for a smoke break or a food run at 1am in the morning, a few days before a project ends, burning the midnight oil, looking up and southwards towards the midtown haze, dreaming of brooklyn, dreaming of buildings and spaces being built, falling down, erected and razed, inflated, dug out, projected, popped-up, hollowed out, filled in, pulled up.
and yesterday: was a dream of a day, no work done, no emails sent, was nothing but sun and water and a sense of home. wonderful wonderful wonderful wonderful. and I was so happy to be on the train: it's as if all the trains I was on (and will ever be on) all thread through each other, pleated fabric-like manifolds of space punctured in unison. when I'm on this lovely train (tipsy happy muted voices echoing) headed back to new york, I'm in mongolia, having just left russia, looking out a window, or I'm going upstate in a yearned-for winter train, or I'm here, the lights overhead turning these night windows into mirrors, reflecting and folding the train into itself over and over, over and over and over and over and over.
light,s
creatures killed by dan flavin
buildings with cloud shawls
lives in color
one liners
familiar frequencies on the radio
quiet drums in the distance
opened doors and admittedly possible pathways
distanced autonomies
vertiginous pinpoints.
=
oh to be cryptic, just like old times.
on another note, I feel myself slipping. it's 4:33. I have white whiskers for the hours. I am antennae for time. every day there are certain definite markets for what goes on determined by the endpoints of each cafe - ashbox closes at 6, tarallucci at 11. afterwards I am homeless and I walk around streets that welcome me even further. I am postponing wanderlust and so while impatient with it am equally thankful for nyc, these moments of summer. and at points the glint of a reflection in a store window or the amount of sun on one half of a building segmented neatly by a corner jutting out brings me forwards, offers premonitions, gives me a taste of autumn to come
=
something from a book from a stoop sale on Newbury St. that I bought for $1 this past june:
In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:
taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,
and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,
and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,
and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.
--Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.
Elizabeth Bishop, Letter to N.Y.
greenpoint summer
some moments,
and an evening blush.
question two thousand twenty one
how to enjoy a sandcastle without questioning the earth on which it lies