Ru~ell).
Ouvernoy
It seems like the whole world is speaking out loud. Who's listening? One theory is that by making the recordings we could transform the madness into something less menacing. Another theory is that it is necessary to document disintegration as a necessity because it is what we have decided to do and having decided to do it it is necessary to do it or else we will not be doing what we have decided to do and we will be stranded in an in between rather than properly disintegrated. Whose theory? There's Chris, who speaks slowly, calmly, with a firm measure, What you are talking about is boundaries, and exhales a lungful of cigarette smoke, which waits and listens like a golden ghost. There's Chris, who speaks patiently, lecturing, For instance you are walking in the park in the late afternoon, summer, and you are not going anywhere, you are just walking, and a sensitivity descends from the sky and settles upon you, and you feel at that moment attentive to every detail, the sound of the skateboard wheels crossing a patch of sandy pavement, the lush and faintly sick smell of the lilac, the shadows of the leaves on the lawn. But at some point though, your walk has to end. You'll be onto the next movement. Maybe you're hungry, tired. Maybe you have to go to work. Maybe you are going to your Mother's birthday party. Or your child's graduation. Maybe you have to go to the bathroom. But always, there is something else to do, some change of direction to be made. There's Betsy, who rebels, who laughs, who says, 1 don't see your point, I don't see your point at all. There's Jordan who picks up his guitar. There's Jordan who says I just want to play. There's Johnny, sick, who groans. There's JM, who does not say. There's Luigi, behind a tree, who likes to break glass. There's Micaela, at an arm's length, who ironizes, Oh how speculative. There have been technical difficulties. Oh how many technical difficulties have we to surmount. Especially with no one hearing it the same. Especially with none of us easy to get along with. We barely even smile. And Johnny, sick, mutters I want to live Underwater. And Tobias, drunk, hisses 1 don't mean a priest 1 mean a real priest. And Lewis, furious, rants It's not music, it's garbage, self-indulgent crap, the worst kind, full of mistakes. And Chris, brow furrowed, who agrees, dejectedly, All noise is not good noise. But JM, wide-eyed, who whispers, Of course it is, if you place it where it wants to go. And Betsy, impulsive, contrary, who qualifies, There's no placing, it ends up, that's how it is. And Jordan who says Give me my guitar. And Luigi who breaks a bottle. And Johnny who groans. And the recordings, the reels, the running of the reels. And waking in the fury of the storm, in the pitch flash of lightning we reckon our bed surrounded by water. Or in the necessity of survival we learn to interpret otherwise. At first the shadows move when we move, giving us the illusion of control, 52
FUGUE#36