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The Mock and other superstitions

issue 3, summer 2010 quarterly journal of writ ten words Each revolution has its method: walk, man, walk that crazy road Editorial / Draft for a revolution that performs from the perimeter of a room, f.p. 3 High Definition – For Guy Debord, Craig Dworkin 5 Scripting #6 – Hold on, I, too, am drifting … , Achim Lengerer 10 … reads: I gave up reading some time ago … , Achim Lengerer 13 The mere fact that you saw a movement doesn’t mean that something changed, Jochen Dehn 1 4 Jakob had a bean and climbed to heaven on the plant that grew from it, Jochen Dehn 16 Outline As Artwork, Hilary KoobSassen 18 (Untitled), MD 20 Each Revolution Has Its Method – Poems, Fragments, Aphorisms, Tauts, James Oscar 30 ‘up yours’ in Pedestrian Cursive from Ford Motor Company to Chopin Park, Michael Dean 32 zustandsschnecke: Mnemonic for performing Aquariumspiel in 128 Zuständen (pmg), Reto Pulfer die 128 zustände des aquariumspiels, Reto Pulfer 3 4 Crash Text, Emanuele Becheri 9, 12, 19, 35  The Front, Pierre Leguillon 2


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Editorial: Draft for a revolution that performs from the perimeter of a room main character: Alexandros first alter ego: The Peripatetic second alter ego: The Father other alter egos: Unspecified parents: Chorus friend 1: The common sense young revolutionary: Hugo background noises: External in­ terferences on the revolutionary plans The play has to be performed and broadcast as a t v or a radio program. The fundamental aspect that should always be respected is the marked dis­ crepancy between the broadcasting medium and the actual play, a sort of invisible contradiction based on the es­ sentiality of the first and the vagueness of the second. The play doesn’t need any announce­ ment, it should appear abruptly in between programs as a sort of inter­ ference. The action isn’t of any sequen­ tial nature, it is a flow-like monologue that could be fragmented and re-edited along with the broadcasters’ needs. Even the play’s temporality should be flexible and dependent on the broad­ casters’ scheduling. Alexandros, the protagonist, is alone inside the perimeter of his room. The space is dull and generic, marked by a

crack that exposes the left corner of the ceiling allowing noises from the out­ side to break in from time to time. The overall environment is dark, lit just by a small table lamp. In case a camera is available, it will frame the room focusing on the scat­ tered objects on the table: few books, loose papers, cables and a pair of 3D glasses – blue and red lens with plastic frame – pinned on the table with no apparent meaning. If no camera is available, the entire play will be broadcast as a sound piece on black background or using any image (still or video) that the broadcaster con­ siders appropriate – with absolute ex­ clusion of snapshots from riots, tu­ mults or any other violent occurrence. All audible/visible actions should be recorded with rudimental devices, so that any circumstance that will happen during and around the play will be incorporated into Alexandros’ mono­ logue or will be left as impromptu dis­ turbances performed by the Chorus. All invisible actions will stay invisible, translated just as background noise, ex­ ternal interferences of the world onto the revolutionary plans. The exact number of acts is yet not decided. This draft will count few and one appendix, but the structure is pure speculation, like most of the following texts are an abstract attempt to imagine the functioning of a revolutionary mo­ nologue. The action is one and one only, but could be divided into different frag­ ments – or different plays – depending on how it will be broadcast. The only granted information is that the play(s) will end at a given point, and that it will

The Mock end on the quiet. No blood will be spilt and no violence will be committed. No screams, just flat murmurs. —f.p.

High Definition For Guy Debord The Spectacle is that it is intended to illuminate ethical issues, not to repre­ sent a particular viewpoint. The spec­ tacle is painful and deeply puzzling. The Spectacle is under $100 a month, exclusive of my time. The spectacle is cancelled before its beginning, the tickets are refunded. The Spectacle is concerned. The spectacle is conceived and carried out only by the voluntaries, inhabitants of Amboise and its areas. The Spectacle is a wonderfully written analysis of the most visible and simul­ taneously invisible players and forces in this epic drama. The Spectacle is no less important than Plot and Character and Idea. The spectacle is a closed net­ work of commonly recognizable signs and symbols of which the artist is not a part. The spectacle is held up as an ex­ ample but then dismissed offhand. The Spectacle is less artistic, and requires extraneous aid. The spectacle is com­ plete. The spectacle is Patrick Schuck­ mann’s analysis of Suite 16. The spec­ tacle is by and large. The spectacle is special here because of the glow that the sun casts on the eighteenth-century wooden cottages along the harbor front. The spectacle is too revolting to endure. The spectacle is timed to coincide with the spring meetings of the World Bank


and the International Mon­etary Fund. The spectacle is in­f used with recog­ nition of life’s un­avoidable tragedies. The spectacle is rather dramatic for the holidays and begins months in advance. The spec­t acle is lit nightly at 6 pm. The spectacle is maintained in the face of frequent reminders that gum-chewing, especial­ly in public, is an essentially vulgar indulgence that not only shows bad breeding, but spoils a pretty counten­ance and detracts from the dignity of those who practice the habit. The spec­t acle is made. The spectacle is not edu­c ational. The spectacle is a necessary and thoroughly enjoyable commentary on those who’d notice it in the first place. The spectacle is solidly rooted in science-fiction. The spectacle is best done in groups. The spectacle is better or not. The spectacle is unfolding as some kind of mass hypnosis. The spectacle is completely natural. The spectacle is emptier than a represen­ tation through language? The spectacle is not even pretty, too much lard. The spectacle is not really all that funny. The spectacle is an epitome of order­ liness. The spectacle is a metaphor of itself. The spectacle is at the heart of The Surveillance. The spectacle is what matters, and we get an abundance of great elephant footage. The spectacle is known as Yuzen Nagash. The spectacle is moved beyond the mere particulars of his own predicament. The spectacle is feminine. The spectacle is not herself. The spectacle is warranted in the case of Verdi’s Aida. The Spectacle is eternal death. The spectacle is eternal – nobody stops saying goodbye. The spectacle is 110 Euros excluding 19% vat. The spectacle is mainly visual so an under­ standing of French is probably not


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essential and the story and speeches are deliberately simple. The spectacle is or­ ganized by the townhall of Tordesillas and the government of the CastillaLeón supports it by declaring its lega­ lity. The spectacle is … well, spec­ tacular. The spectacle is relegated to the realm of the guilty pleasure. The spectacle is good. The spectacle is often more beautiful and interesting than one would think. The spectacle is con­ ceived in the cold, rich current running north from the depths of the Aleutian Basin to the eastern shelf of the Bering Sea. The spectacle is still there. The spectacle is to dream with open eyes. The spectacle is all about the money shot. The spectacle is worthy of you. The spectacle is over. The spectacle is increasing every year. The spectacle is part of the deal. The spectacle is watch­ ing. The spectacle is this. —Craig Dworkin

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“Hold on, I, too, am drifting … (a speech performance with Kevin Cregan)”


Hold on, I, too, am drifting ... (a speech performance with Kevin Cregan) by Achim Lengerer hold on booklet for mock.indd 1

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Hold on, I, too, am drifting ... (a speech performance with Kevin Cregan) Character AL: Achim Lengerer / Kevin Cregan A small, squarish room (a former brothel) located in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. One performer, Kevin Cregan, alone in the space. The room is empty. The curtains are closed, subdued light. The performer opens the curtains only during the last paragraph. AL: As an artist I don’t wanna be caught empty handed, right? If empty handed then only seemingly within a gesture of clever repost. Why say no, while producing a yes? I do produce something, NOW, just by being - just by being in this room I say YES! ... What about you? You are examining this room. Bare, but clean ... without books, I gave up reading some time ago. Only sentences and words from my favourite book still haunt me. At one time, my house was full of half-read books, that’s just disgusting. I have ceased to like anything but confession ... as an artist I’d like to be prolific. I translate prolific with: to fruit especially freely. The artist as a juicy fruit in a brothel! You are examining this room, right? Bare, but not as clean as you might think. Here we are and I DO say without losing sight of the effect I am producing ... the trick has been played, NOW, just by being here we agree - we are in this soup together. PAUSE AL: As an artist I don’t wanna be caught empty handed, right? WHAT DID YOU HEAR ABOUT ME? I once knew a person who divided human beings into three categories: those who prefer having nothing to hide rather than having to lie, those who prefer lying to having nothing to hide, and finally those who like both lying and the hidden. Did you hear of me as a true artist, a good artist, a nice artist maybe? Not as a show-off or talker? Hopefully as a potent artist, a copious producer and clever trickster - that’d be nice! No small bluffer, but a great impostor who likes both lying and the hidden. What did you hear about my profession, about my confession? I really favour girls with warm, motherly breasts ... I do love to play with their nipples endlessly ... with a minimal hit of the tip of my tongue I am feeling around, sucking softly, biting ... not too much hopefully ... yes she smiles ... too ... hold on, I am drifting. SO WHAT DID YOU HEAR ABOUT ME? You know, sometimes it is easier to see clearly into the liar, than into the man who tells the truth. Truth like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the other hand, is a beautiful twilight enhancing every object. Where was I? ... Yes ... being prolific and potent ... believe me, I know what I’m talking about. So I put a stop to it. No more books, no more useless objects either; the bare necessities ... (starts humming) the simple bare necessities, forget about your worries and your strife, I mean the bare necessities ... clean and polished like a coffin.

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PAUSE AL: As an artist I don’t wanna be caught empty handed, right? ... Sorry, but did you close the door thoroughly? Please, make sure. Forgive me, I have a bolt complex. I can never remember whether or not I closed the bolt - one is sure of nothing! This worry, is not the reaction of a frightened owner: formerly I didn’t lock my apartment, I didn’t lock up my money, I didn’t cling to what I owned, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to own anything. Today, I possess nothing, but my presence of mind. One doesn’t practice this profession, one breathes it constantly. ... I don’t talk about this for the fun of it. I used to talk through my head quite enough, used to walk through the area quite enough ... and I too ... made several attempts for a real production. I attended all the guided tours, went to all the meetings, wrote notes, read essays, took pictures in black and white and did what I had to as a promising artist. And now, so what? PAUSE AL: As an artist I don’t wanna be caught empty handed, right? No excuses ever, for anyone! I deny the good intentions, the respectable mistake, the indiscretion, the extenuating circumstances. There is no giving of absolution or blessing. Everything is simply totted up and it comes to so much: you are an evildoer, a congenital liar, a pervert, an artist and so on. Just like that: you are in a brothel, bordello, whorehouse or knocking shop (but who knocks on whose door ... and from which side?). Just like that: taking the place of prostitutes, hookers, jezebels, molls, slags, tarts, whores, sex workers or ... “the ladies”. Follow me? Good!!! I’ll make myself even clearer, I’ll tell you how it operates: One of their spokesmen patted on my back: hi artist, take good care of the whores, eh! - he smiled a drunken smile - hi artist, take good care of the whores, eh! How was I supposed to take care of them? As an artist, social worker, political being, or just like a man? From man to man: take good care of the ... “the whores”? - I remove his hands. The POTENT MAN as the POTENT ARTIST? The sex worker and the art worker practising their professions in commutation. Hold on, I am ... alone in this room, in face of myself AND the face of others... . PAUSE AL: As an artist I don’t wanna be caught empty handed, right? There are many places in the world, but chance, convenience, earnings, irony and a certain mortification made me choose a capital of waters and canals, particularly crowded, and visited by men from all corners of the earth. Take me as an example and I am not too sentimental - do you know what I used to

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dream of? A total love of the whole heart, waiting for my mother’s breast to feed me - I am sorry, drifting. I accuse myself, but not crudely. I navigate skillfully, multiplying distinctions and digressions. I adapt my words, I mingle what concerns me and what concerns others. The more I accuse myself, the more I provoke judging, and this relieves me of a burden. If we look back there’s no lack of occasions to amaze and horrify ourselves. Just try, I’ll listen to YOUR confession with a great feeling of fraternity. I ... I have accepted duplicity instead of being upset by it, I have settled into it and found comfort in it. Yes ... the essential is to permit myself everything, even if, from time to time, I have to profess my own infamy. SMALL PAUSE AL: ... snowing! I must go out! The canals, the little snow-capped bridges, the empty streets, my muffled steps - there will be purity, even if fleeting. Huge flakes drifting against the windows. It must be seagulls ... making their minds up to come down, the little dears! And you? You are still examining this room, right? Here we are and I DO say without losing sight of the effect I am producing ... the trick has been played, NOW, just by being here we agree ... we are in this soup together ... YES ... and now ... YOU CAN LEAVE, PLEASE!

Scriptings, travelling showroom and instant publishing house. Edited by Achim Lengerer.

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“ … reads: I gave up reading some time ago …” Rehearsal and cold reading session of the text “Hold on, I, too, am drifting … (a speech performance with Kevin Cregan)” that was finally performed consecutively September 25–27, 2009 in Amsterdam, nl. A small, square room (a former brothel) located in Amsterdam’s Red Light Dis­ trict. Reads: I gave up reading some time ago. k: So it will be something like … you’re here, examining this room, bare but clean, without books, I gave up reading some time ago. a: Yes. k: Without books, I gave up reading some time ago … some time ago, so it is more conversational. Reads inwardly in low voice: Some time ago … some time ago. k: You know, for me it would still be to haunt me as opposed to haunting me. a: Hm, frankly, I cannot really assess this. However singular would be im­ portant! Reads: Only sentences and words from my favorite book still haunt me. Reads silently. k: Should be cut a piece, I mean, En­ glish-wise, it should be cut a piece of … a: … foie gras. k: … foie gras and have the rest thrown out.

a: Yes. Reads silently. k: Question to you would be, like, do you think it really needs to be: as an artist you’d like to produce, yes, I’d like to be prolific? Because it could be: as an artist I’d like to be prolific. a: Um, ja. k: Just go straight to as an artist. Reads mumbling: As an artist, as an artist you’d like to be prolific. I translate prolific with to fruit especially freely. The artist as a juicy fruit in a brothel. Ah, hold on! k: Can I get rid of the ah? a: Ja, yeah, all these little things. You know what? If the repetitive phrase …  k: Yes. a: … is split up too often!? Ah, hold on … would be actually nice to keep: the rest thrown out. Ah …! Because a new idea is coming in here. So we could say: Ah, hold on … but anyhow I have ceased to like anything but confes­ sions. k: Right. a: And then we would continue with: I am drifting again. As a renewed repeti­ tion would be a bit too, too close. Reads inwardly: Ah, hold on, I have ceased to like anything but confes­ sions. a: All these little fillers where meant for a complete different way of vocalis­ ing than what we came up with now, you know? Reads inwardly: I translate prolific with to fruit especially freely. The artist as a juicy fruit in a brothel!...Hold on, I am drifting again.

The Mock k: You want the hold on again? a: Jah, think so!? k: I am drifting again. a: But then again must be out. k: Yeah. a: Because you are not drifting again, but actually for the first time! I am drifting... k: … for the first, first … a: … time. Reads silently. a: Do you think you will have a problem facing the people directly, looking … k: … at people, I don’t really have a problem with that. a: Okay, but? k: Well, noticing … a: … facing them one-on-one. Like you did just now with me. This is what I would expect to be difficult!? k: And this is something you would want to avoid or is it? I mean, I would not talk to them, address them!? a: No! But you would face, confront … k: … from time to time, if it happens. I could just let … I will neither look for it nor avoid it. a: This is what I really like about it, it will be very unpleasant! [laughter] —Achim Lengerer



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The mere fact that you saw a movement doesn’t mean that something changed Someone came up to me on the street the other day and he said, I’d like to play this little game with you. I’d like to play with three playing cards. I’ve got this card, this card and that card. And he said, all you’ve got to do, is keep your eye on that card. And as he said it, he moved it to the bottom of the pile. I saw him do it and I said, that’s easy, that card is on the bottom. He said no, that’s this card. I said fine, if this card is on the bottom, that card must be on the top. He said, no that’s also this card. I said, well, if this card is on the bottom and the top, that card must be in the middle. He said, no, that’s also this card. I said, that’s not fair, you’re using three of this card. He said, no, that card is on the bottom. I said, yeah, but that was this card just now. He said, yes, and so was the one of the top but now it’s that card. I said, in fact, if that card is on the bottom and on the top, you’re using two of that card. He said, no, I’m using three, that card’s also in the middle. And I said, you’re using three of that card, now. And he said no, we’ve got this card, and we’ve got this card, and we’ve got this card. I said, well, you’re obviously cheating. And he said, yeah, you got a little bit of this, a little bit of that, but you didn’t get much of the other. —Jochen Dehn



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Jakob had a bean and climbed to heaven on the plant that grew from it It starts with a small blister on the street’s asphalt, with a fracture in the ceiling or a door that somebody put out on the street; it has fallen over and is now lying flat on the pavement. It does not matter if it still has its door handle. Someone comes up to me on the street and says, I’d like to play a little game with you. I have got three playing cards. He’s holding three playing cards in his left hand. Just their backside is visible.* From now on I will replace the words me, my, I and mine by you, your, you and yours. He flips over the card that is on top of the pile and shows you its face on which the word this is spelled out and he says, I’ve got this card he stops flipping the card and puts it back on the top of the pile he has in his hand, lifts it off again and puts it down on a table or on some kind of surface next to him. The card he put down wasn’t this card, this card was the second card of the pile, not the card on top of it. He flipped over t wo cards and made you believe they were one. His movement is called a double lift. The final moment of a double lift is the separation of this entity. After this, he says, I have this card,

and shows you the face of the card that is the top one of the two remaining cards in his hand. You can read this written on it before he puts it down on the card that is lying on the table (or other surface). You see what you see. The back of the card of which you just saw the front is put on the table, on top of the first one. The person in front of you finishes the first part of the game saying, and I have that card. He shows the face of that card, the card that remained in his hand and puts it backside up on top of the two other cards. He takes all of them into his left hand again, and says, all you have to do, is keep your eyes on that card. You see him putting that card on the bottom of the pile in his hand. But he did the same thing again: He took the two cards on top of the pile, made you believe they were one and put it (or if you prefer: them) down there. The other card, the third one, the one that you will not see the face of until the end of the game, is on the top again. You say, That’s easy, that card, I saw you put it on the bottom. He says, no, that’s this card, and he shows you the face of the card, this card, that is on the bottom of the cards in his hand. Now your part is to say, if this card is on the bottom, that

The Mock card must be on the top. You might have wanted to say, if this card is on the bottom, that card must be in the middle, but it wouldn’t have changed a lot. Jakob had a bean and climbed to heaven on the plant that grew from it. The person you’re looking at still holds the pile of three playing cards in his hand. I don’t know the name of his next movement: he pushes the second card forward a little, and you see him slide the top card slightly backwards. This resembles to a movement in order to be able to show you the face of the top card. He pushes the second card forward and pulls out both, top and bottom card, to shows you the face of the bottom card, this card, and says no, this card is on the top as well. Then he turns it – or them – over, leaving the other card on top of the pile, and he fans all the three of them out and says, and this card is also in the middle, while he’s showing you the face of the second card of the pile, this card. You say, that’s not fair, you’re using three of this card, and he says, no, that card is on the bottom. He flips over the pile of cards and shows you the card on the bottom, that card. And he plays the same routine of which again I don’t know the name of. This time based on that card.


And he says, that card, pulling out the top one out along with the bottom one, that card is also on the top, and fanning them out again, shows you how that card is also in the middle. You say, you’re using three of that card. He changes hand, takes the whole pile into his right, turns it over and shows you the face of the bottom card, saying, no, I have this card. The next movement is a stun, based on conviction and speed: he covers the face again, this time in his right hand, and while turning it over pulls one card off the top off the pile and takes it with his left hand. Since there was a movement, you are inclined to think something has changed, something more special than the fact that the actual top card has changed hands and is now the first and only card in his left hand.** He turns over the two remaining cards of his right hand and says, and I have this card, and shows you once more the same bottom card. And repeats the stun, pulling the top card, switching it to his left hand, flipping the remaining bottom card in his right hand face up and saying and I have this card. You say, that’s not fair, you’re cheating, and uncovering the face of the top card of the pile in his left hand, this card, and throwing it down, he says, yes.


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You got a little bit of this, he does the same thing with the second card, you got a little bit of that, and repeating the same movement once more, he says and you didn’t get much of the other. The last card that falls on the surface of what has by now undoubtedly become a table, has the word other written on its blank face.

and techne singing-out for a grip in the ink. We need to seize a little dimension of time for us to wander this evacuated space of linkage. To ponder Principles of best practice for the crea­ tion and governance of systems. How to shape the chorus of instances arriv­ ing as the present every now and now and now and now.

—Jochen Dehn

A good Builders’ Song enrobes the letter of the law of the land in a spirit, making it publicly sing-able, tempora­ rily self-evident, declarative and moral. Inflecting our every gesture with a vision of the future, the Builders’ Song sculpts the present into a model of that future. The refrain secrets power away in its plan for launching a model. The time and space between the launch and the full-blown promised future is filled with reality-friction eroding the model. The dust of conviction feeds a Garden of Systems, to grow-over the model singing faith in the in-between space.

*  The cards have been bought in a specialized shop and they have blank faces. He could have used a king, a queen, a seven of no matter which colour. But you prefer the simplicity of a single word written on a blank page instead of having to deal with a picture in the background, and so did he.

**  I have the impression that the repartition of time that planet earth imposes on us, isn’t the good one for us, and that our days and nights should last less long. I think we are supposed to be living on a different planet, where day and night don’t last more than 17 or 18 hours. [Peter Handke in an interview with André Müller in 1989]

the builders’ song and the builders’ sculpture

Outline As Artwork

the gardening song and the gardening sculpture

songs of the swamp

A good Gardening Song glorifies the dynamic frontier of error-production with which it responds to change. It is a jam-session that abdicates compo­ sition to the dynamic of systems. We surrender the harvest of our focus on human-scale tasks, to systems that navigate Growth for us. No builder’s story with an endpoint is on offer, but a sung narrativity of ‘building to growover’. It’s tempo of temporary error recycles foundations to refresh the

We are gardeners of our selves and every other. We cling to each other with error after error, the tangled clutch of life gets tighter. Life’s grasp­ ing grapple for traction: A garden of hungers, harvesting errors of faith in the future. Hurtling around the Sun. Face it front-on like a belly-flopping smack that strips away all instanceflesh of things. Leaving floating dna

The Mock frontier. Cascading cannibal lift-offs of eating and building and breeding, sub­ side to sinking solos of Growth over­ topping the Undergrowth. Our inner­ vated organ of vertical paranoia judges the whole set of systems we grip with – including the body we each possess. The city planner and also Obama, systems-engineers and like designers, describe the four-dimensional change they shape with the language of evo­ lution. They sing the long arc of justice from the safe side of this shepherd of randomness. Accepting his Nobel for pure potential, Obama quotes j.f.k.: “Let us focus […] on a gradual evolution in human institutions.” Fast evolution is out of focus, a sinister song for special events. This two-speed-evolution is called punctu­ ated equilibrium*. The steady sputter of genetic and technic fountains of errors keep traction on the ancestral speed of change. But Cataclysmic punc­ tuations create slickness on which only rare and radical errors – like mammals with flippers – can grip. Big slipperi­ ness shifts the calculus towards: The bigger the error, the better. Surplus labor (less able to offer its errors) can only hope that War, Hunger and Warming herald a cataclysmic super­ cession. A new ecology of systems. the garden designers’ song and the garden designers’ sculpture Serpent systems slither in the seams between the old models, and thicken as they feed upon the old morals. Eating the apple is the loophole-act of Garden Designer’s hunger. It initiates the or­


gan of positive paranoia with a vision of faith in the universal coalescence of error: The imagination power of every creature born required to garden and garden and garden the effort-absorbing ecology of a garden of economies. The vision cuts the catastrophic ‘evolution­ ary’ wax off of the golden rule of gar­ deners: To Vanquish Evil, Increase The Yield Of Error. Fortified, the Garden Designer engages shabby reality with the elite expedien­ cy of democratic sensibility: Loathing morbidity, driven to bring the living into contact with experience, amplifi­ cation of the care with which error is harvested into the currency of traction. Designing humble handholds to beget and support the new dynamos of erroremancipation. New invasive systems are introduced by viral choruses of orders for mass-production of new niches: A trellis made with permanence in mind so Life doesn’t painstakingly encircle a temporary structure. When every thing is having experiences to which it can respond, traction is high so change is low. This is an old garden, in equilibrium. A loved garden, the garden in which we came about. The garden we should like to bring along with us. I know it seems romantic: a museum of ancestral errors, peggedup on our hi-tech trellis, forever-har­ vesting our errors. —Hilary Koob-Sassen *  Mayr, Eldridge and Gould


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put off

voice. That was put on it. voice. Is put off in the same ending. voice. And leaving finished these. voice. That breaks these.

voice. That is put off it. voice. Was put on in the same beginning. voice. And arriving started these. voice. That makes these. —MD

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Each Revolution Has Its Method Poems, Fragments, Aphorisms, Tauts 1. lodestars 2. in the resilience of shadows 3. outriders of shadow 4. anti-revolutionary journal entries march 15, 16 2006 5. chrysalis’ 6. entropies [before the revolution] 7. glyphs 8. afterwords for the un-revolution or revs 1 The precipitation of thought, the horizon of doubt – inauguration, demure 2

to ‘undermine ideology’ scared the hell out of me because of the possibility of it being exactly the opposite of what it purported as ‘its mission’, possibly in­ stead being a conservative cloak filled with just revolutionary slogans [‘The sickening shadow growing worn’]. A possible static nature, being the result of a refusal to move forward from a past sensibility of ‘the what and where’ of past social and political movements. The (sickening) shadows of past move­ ments, past attempts, victories and failures. [See in this regard, Chris Marker’s Le Fonds de L’Air Est Rouge and the more recent Of Time and City by Terence Davies] The sickening shadow growing worn In an almost quaint sense, At which move, it would usually sur­ render its lode

1  REVS is a piece of graffiti that has been knocking around NY for at least 15 years.

In examining social/political move­ ments, and even in the literal examina­ tion of the literal motions (temporal instances) that may occur within these social/political movements thems­ elves, I often think of the serious pros­ pect of “collusion and the presence of shadows” – the collusion and shadows of the whole spectacle of the state and its challenger.3 And it should be noted, this does not necessarily imply ‘the simple acquiescence of the agent’ but rather implies the need for a represen­ tation and viewing of more complex arenas of challenge and challenger. The fluidity between the challenge and compromise is much more complex. The fluidity is the arena of important exchanges and information. Several

2  This fragment is from my very forthcoming Col­ lected–Fragments 1992–2009.

3  See Guy Debord’s own comments on the challenger near the end of The Society of The Spectacle.

1. Lodestars Some years ago, a colleague sent me information on an exhibition of travel­ ing films scheduled to pass through South America. The information that was sent to me was laden with ‘a kind of rhetoric’ which seemed unchanged from past times and approaches in politics and art. The purpose of the traveling exhi­ bition and the films being shown, as explicitly stated, were films whose purpose was to ‘undermine ideology’. The simple question would be which ideology and how? But in fact this call

The Mock filmic representations of the such come to mind: Third Man, Il Conformista, Before the Revolution, Teorema. The sickening shadows growing worn In an almost quaint sense, At which move, they may surrender their lode One sees a representation of such ‘col­ lusions and shadows’, and exchanges, taking place in German filmmaker Werner Fassbinder’s film Third Gene­ ra­tion, where he questions the ‘plan­ ning of the future’ by the revolutionary protagonists and the routes of such plannings that are taken. His is in fact a damming commentary on the urban guerilla protagonists of the film. What he shows are the shadows cast by the industrialists being the shadows as­ sumed by the ‘utopian revolutionaries’. An even more complex representation of this ‘crossing of borders’, takes place in Jean Luc Godard’s dense treatise, Le Petit Soldat. 4 Inherent in such anal­ 4  A beautiful and dense treatise of such ‘crossings of borders’ and the ‘space in between’ (lode) and Virgilian guides (lodestars) into the such, is treated in Walter Benjamin’s ‘Even the Sacramental Migrates Into Myth’. There he describes a different kind of ‘revolution’ and ‘walking’. “Two couples become acquainted; the bonds uniting them loosened. Two of them, who had not known each other previously are mutually attracted to each other. Very soon the other two also enter into the most intimate relationship. The banal explanation for these developments … the need to be comforted”, “being in the same situation”, and “the desire to get even”… completely fail to explain a situation which is so … beautiful … The flames flare up out of the magic mirror, and flicker in the triumphant encounter of the abandoned couple. For in their case, love is not the prime mover; what decides them is the situation in which the ancient sacramental powers of a collapsing marriage seek to insinuate their way between them in the guise of mythical, natural forces. That and not love, is the hidden inner side of the symbiosis… The new mundane existence that is now their lot holds the sacrament of marriage exposed within itself… Love, here, is nothing but the semblance of life… the exposed sacrament of love… The spirit of the Black Mass lives


yses and in the whole interplay of ‘shadows cast, assumed, discarded, cast, assumed, discarded – perhaps ad infinitum, is an exchange’ and the idea of foreshadowing and shadowing, shadowing and foreshadowing in any challenge, and in fact in any motion – the line, it’s crossing, its erasure, its assumption, and or then in a more im­ aginative sense, it’s then being possibly’ doubled’ up etc. In this doubling up ‘of the line’ etc, one may enter deeper into the complex­ ity of the psychology of the new, the old, the status quo, the innovative, the real, the virtual of history’s processes, history’s agents, and into the com­ plexity of people’s demand for renewal and or restitution. Do many seemingly progressive contemporary social and political movements often falter to the “simplistic and suggestive” in their analyses – perhaps not realizing such more loaded grammars.5 The mid-gaze between literal move­ ment’s contemplation and its fulfillment – a space located in the periphery from shadow to foreshadow, from fore­ shadow to shadow – deep in the resilience of shadows The gaze down the middle, the gaze that stops in midstream to shed, and throw light, or provide the whole of a horizon. The exchange, the reprisal of the shadow met with another, the opening and at here again: the sacrament takes the place of love, love replaces the sacrament. Translation by Rodney Living­ stone in Walter Benjamin Selected Writings Volume 1 1913–1926 – Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1996. 5  Felix Guattari has spoken about how during May 1968, principles of revolution were debated for days, in the Theatre de L’Odeon.


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times frightening gaze which starts it all.

3. Outriders of Shadow (Beyond Sovereign Life)

2. In the Resilience of Shadows

And after the lights were out, the first thing we all saw was the long drawn bicycle streaming through the night like vehicles in the emollient freedom before the bomb. After the fall, the first thing we saw was the one rider streaming like a red dart through a setting sun.

“There’s a French-Caribbean writer, Édouard Glissant, who talks about this concept of the archipelago of the idea. He talked about this idea of the tremble­ ment – this trembling that you get in good ideas”—Liam Gillick Not totally in the resilience of the shadows but rather in the embers which come and reform the shadows, con­ tinuously repositioning them, recon­ stituting them, replacing them, positing them as correspondences and possible real forms of present likenesses. Positing this strength, as in a shadow (the shadow containing past and future fossil – necessarily beyond itself) and as in the purpose to contravene with the shadow – that is, in its resilience. The resonance and resilience [of the shadow] is not so much before and after, but in its ‘midness’, in its present-living in the present. The shadow, bereft, step­ ping in and out – realizing ‘its’ darkness but ultimately seeing in its embers what can continuously reconstitute it at various moments and junctures. Radiations & Plumes (Cauda Pavonis’) These parts of the radiations – the crowns, thorns and roses. The reality is of a resonance, which is both before and after – and the resilience (the root of the future) – which is in its moment, sovereign life.

[This first fragment was an attempt, years after, to write a journal entry about 911 after ‘the fbi’ took away my original two pages of writing on Sep­ tember 11, 2001 10.30 am in Chinatown. They, this unidentified security force, asked me why I was writing, as I walked towards the World Trade Center, and demanded I hand over the pages I was writing on. Fourth time detained in four countries for ‘non political’ acti­ vity. I guess out riding one’s shadow really does have some impact! A shout out to this unidentified security force, to the Policia Militar in Brazil for hold­ ing me for 3 hours, to the Montreal Police for holding me for 4 hours, and to France’s security forces for the interrogation! Shout out, for the good times!] And again the cloud leaven white terry, held – heard at the behest of soldiers and sailors held in green tops at top sail speeds – cleaning and razing – bending and running through the cloud’s azure – through the azure red stroke sun of a red heath tumbleweed. Ceremonial Bird Diamond-back gilded, Imbrications gilded, Resonant, full-scaled.

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Jodoroskian The sweet prey is in your mouth the horsehair and lime in your hands Yes blessed by marmoreal floods and the white spume which courses within, through to the other side, the body split open in half. Coming through the whole body from the beginning (bottom cavity) right through to the end (top cavity), sealing the opening, right after traverse, right through the stream of the liquid of this body. [From the poem, Luzilandia]

“Whereas imaginary identity has always been founded on exclusion” —Édouard Glissant

Lapsus To the extant of crossing the divide, pursuit of that one stridulant move­ ment which can mark no beginning nor end but rather a total lapsus, a moment with a median, a mid point, lapsus which is continually passed through (from each side), and at once, and in a certain moment it allows its center to also be transfigured from above and below, above and below, above and below – it ultimately becomes a circle continuously filled – till full, then another circle, another and another …

“The instability of time, which has to be made and remade …” —Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism

4. Anti-Revolutionary Journal Entries March 15, 16 2006 [“I”–“he”–“she”– “they”–“where”] “Since this way of life is over, since this culture is over, the fiction of who we have assumed ourselves to be is also over …We are not that. We were never that. It’s just that our survival in the system meant we had no choice but to pretend- even to ourselves to be that” —Juan Santos [a dear friend who passed in 2009]

“C’est surprenante condition qu’un homme s’eprouve a ce point traque en un artifice, que pour simplement dire ce qu’il n’est pas …” —Édouard Glissant “The body, which lives and survives as the transcript of the metamorphosis is still that which testifies to the break.” —VY Mudimbe, The Idea of Africa

“New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul” —Alfred Tennyson “Out of quiet thunderclap he would abrupt (man-horse-demon) upon a scene peaceful and decorous as a school prize water color” —Absalom William Faulkner, Absalom “And it was here – at the crossroads of history (as the placards borne aloft by the revolutionaries in the procession declared) – that the confusing limits of tragedy became apparent in the shat­ tering question of unity” —Wilson Harris 1. It is a foreign feeling with flutterings that are an apparency. The foreign feeling is near but yet still so far. I remember the heat as humid, as an element of youth, as something to drop to [genuflect to] and deride in. The heat had a certain eroticism – a total yet limited penetration – and the eroticism


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was more because of a familiarity – a familiar, rather than because of any underlying sexual quality. As I was not from ‘there’, this feeling assured my position as being from ‘there’. Heat mixed with deep humidity – an element of familiarity (and sweat). 2. His house, still bent in his palm is everything. It is the Night, it is the Time, it is the Whole Curve of a benefit gone wild, with the fronds of white sculptured flowers on brick leaves. 3. Now ‘here’, not ‘there’, I could feel the substantiation I had never felt there. The fact that there was a local element, which drew me into a certain time. There, nothing had yet grasped my admiration, my complete substantia­ tion where one might say, “I know this, this is familiar to me. I feel, even this small piece of earth as mine and more.” I felt the concern that this there was not here. In the hear, I had felt something very substantial, familiar, and near, there. But of course not that there was nothing here. In fact there had been something there, whose relation to me had been nothing. 4.The sickening shadow growing worn In an almost quaint sense, At which move, it would usually sur­ render its lode 5. The sweet prey is in your mouth, the horsehair and lime in your hands 6. [“he”, “she”, “me”, “i”, “they”, “revs” “where”] The feeling scur­ ried but for the most part was still there. Thereness’, being planted in a place but being told about ‘other’ places. About

places which others believed existed in space and time. Scurrying through this vision, scurrying through its vision, scurrying right into its vision, the feeling swathe on my whole body and wrapped as I walked right into it. The feeling was as of a complete embrace, as being ensconced in a wet and silk womb, and being able to move in and through its pliable set of screens – bouncing in and out, and around, of it but at times feeling caught and yet happy within it – the film and screen was silk, wet, cold arid and yet a jelly substance, one grew to like as one’s only and ever only surroundings. So we ‘breathed it in’, as our only element – the jelly and suffocation, all at once. 5. Chrysalis’ Poemas for Eric Wesley and Marcel Broodthaers “Beings emergent from the sea” —Pablo Neruda They have the brightest aureoles who turned away unwaveringly Outward, are wholly matter of fact coagulae Arte Povera breaker detonating plankton Halved, its eye moves up its perfect canvas in awe. Hind – sight! It swallows – its own tongue-rolls, unfurls and delivers up the Macabre yellow flower sprouting its wide yap mouth.

The Mock Breaker detonating plankton Cavalia, an imaginary animal [horse] in move, Hooves splayed still. Red neighing [horse], brilliant and still. Yellow breaking detonator – in move. Of Solstices, Cormorant, Girls, Gerontion Love Moth in its fold A crease which buttresses as we move. The lioness’s beauty ensconced in The wild swan-wings, The storm wings, bulwarkedbuttressed, Breaking the tide of the Sun’s bereft The Bereft mote on its purse of a people lost, The New Jerusalem where, In its evocation on the Network News, Attenuating, coming through, They say, In solstices, cormorant, girls and in the gerontion. And Sibyll ‘Ball of silence, sapphire star’ Night’s ebullient time of Sprite The Stage-Set of the Fire-Track Where Rings’ night aporia In the Ignominious Time. Black red light. The Sundering as pleasantries, Sound in time. Manchurian Candidates in a Ghetto ‘assailant, assailor’ Forging ahead – knowing in the resolve Knowing that the bound may break That the break was far That the far was resolved


From the beginning to Trump. To hold, to hold my stroke at its extreme tender time To hold it so, to let it go, to make sure my stroke was just sound, just so Puppet grower growing gone, puppet grower set in brush – puppet emergent from His branch puppet grower – and the shadow puppet of circumstance, My own sway measured and chilled My own sway measured and grilled – “the grill” By the teeth, Gold chain lock By the young one caught also in the resolve already set in stone. But yet walk ahead young man, yes young man go west, go east but don’t expect The horizon of your concern, Don’t expect, don’t expect, don’t expect But yes, Forging ahead – knowing in there solve Knowing that my bound may break, Knowing that there are still Manchurian Candidates in Some Ghettos! Silverspring, Bent to Sold You are that frail decision that devised their lowest common multiple of human need, on that bleak assumption risked the prize Forgetfulness of all you bait for greed … Hart Crane Mindsplit – splatterplus The marmoreal more than a hoard The silverspring bent to sold More than a hoard (esculpe,


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aesculpius, esculpius) Medical bent, Flint bone – bone stuck in mind. Stainless-Steel Kabukis for Juergen Teller “heaven roysterers, in gay gangs/they throng; they glitter in marches” —GM Hopkins

1. Collected – Fragments 1992–2009 Show it all as an expression of time’s headening Concern – the yap jaw, now fully shut (drool seaming – furtive, lost spume) widening, widening Deranged, decadence, blood on the lip (still the lip, chapped, crulling – piece by piece removal with the teeth – then swallow or exhume-a little residue of blood)

‘silversprites’ The slow surling (surfing) way ‘She moved as we curled’ ‘I never felt the end till tonight’ The frayed and the torn Spraying here and nowhere The catalysis-governed wrench. The wrenching and the ripping, Torn-horrendered silversprites Borne in a torrential time of greed, The time-wind coming Rationale, Always in the Colorful Secrets of the Shadows, The Shadow-Puppets of the Circumstance in its Breed

Derangeant, decadent, sang sur le levre – une nouvelle mode de style/la nouvelle vague Black cochineal passengers I was then a surround with this wood of debris, this head perched through a whole wood ring and this dung smell. And here we were, and we had come through, [as it were] through motherholes all to this greater inheritance of desire and the desirousand this moth butterfly Where they judiciously performed these rites for fallen gods

6. Entropies [Before the Revolution] Irony, beauty, and the future, ambit of redemption

for Bertolucci “The poet in his delight slips on, of all things, a bit of wet dung: he tumbles to the ground … bangs his head on a priapic kerbstone … and lies still dead” —Dario Fo, Tricks of the Trade “To hold at bay the seepage of fatal time, of entropy into each and every living form” —George Steiner, Gram­ mars of Creation

Revolted skin (bloated staid), which reveals the swelling of time Sifting, searing sidereal, as though through the pushed epic widened Not the singularity of being, but irreducible singularity Detumescence

The Mock 2. From “Empire” The spout was its opening. It’s possible – a larger sort of gargle. An opening which assembled – even as it toppled, it was a constancy of motion here. And in this spout, a whole receipt – this existing as a yoke of the possible, and one of an unbridled passion- to distend (distendo – regalo). That as it were: its yoking. And as we came in receipt, we retracted always the Lesser for the Greater, as though in one swift Passion, it had taken all. We tried to recoup, to cross in this divide, which as it were was a bad lattice of the possible, yoke-webbing, a net of passing retention. It was this hurtfulness and receipt, the body lustrous. In circulation, it steeds then as it espies (goes forward) it leads and total funicular – it ranges back towards itself – ‘il pero que morda la corda’. Its range is at left, at right, upwards, and then in a sort of reprisal of parting, a sort of spring. That is the ventricular position, at horizontal. It sort of undu­ lates wide and sort of swells on the sides – under and on top of its lying position. This is the sort of science of routes which cables which allows and gives this ebb, as this vessel I have just described as above. [May float on water, on this sort of water] So it is a swell, in fact a sort of circuit. Ultimately it meets, as it ceases. ‘That we are men in a sense inveterate, toiling for greater’ And that the dung follows its trail


through this stolid swear, at once expectant, expectorant of some Greater transformation as it trails. It is trailed by extenuation, the final step play that will tacky its tell, its fecal matter through and becomes gone. And here dissipate, move, gone god. Astray, its vault lithe in this extracreation. 7. Glyphs And when I ascended into the air he said to me, take the child of the bird, which is mixed with redness and spread for the gold its bed. Abu ‘l-Qasim al Iraqi, Book of Knowledge Acquired Concerning the Cultivation of Gold Starting with the dust, then into its forbearance-Collected-Fragments 1992–2009 We had begun this particular life as a series of comings and goings, knowing and deliverances from celestial bouts gone wrought at the edge of night’s con­ cern-Collected-Fragments 1992– 2009 Disporting with love-Collected-Frag­ ments 1992–2009 The precipitation of thought, the horizon of doubt – inauguration, demureCollected-Fragments 1992–2009 Was the falcon dark yet gilded? Did it drop you into an ocean of black sea where when there, You might see deeper than our talk of change, Into the subterranean motions and


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notions Which move true revolutions. Truculent masks, Yellow pantaloon leggings, And the green smile Which cut across the river, On the delightful faces of all natives Lined along its glaucous green gauze mesh, Hanging just above, The hung over horizon Green egretism, Stupendous llama (bird-ferns), Truculent hibiscus suckers, Blue green continuous lotus-eaters. I, standing motionless, Like the wooden one at the helm To point us toward The bloody and dark end Of this river. And the sea’s bond at the estuary, So this enormous sprite All bound up And ready for the untying Of History’s thick meshed rope, To be unwound again and again.

As the sun set on this long acrid river, Where general after general Had succumbed to the high scarlet fever of empire To not come full circle but remain within its jaws, Caught like a dragon, In some pouch of the mouth, Which wide open, swallowed the whole morsel, As, it also in the same moment regurgitated it, So that the continuous motion Between the eating (consuming) and its expelling Was one grand motion, in still a time of empire ! And that he admitted in its dark, In its taint, The truculent morsel one could feel bitter, Come up through the entire body As one bathe in this venomous swamp of water, River, sea, green bile, And in the mulching of viscerae … 8.Afterwords for the Unrevolution Journal entry, New York City 2004

And the rolling over and over again, Of men, As if the trollop, stood and gave way to men who would come from far, And dig deep, dig deep into the ‘hope of an illusion’, Dig deep and pray for their forsaken Gods, Come back full circle with their death masks, And deformed human bodies, That carried them on.

Pointing to the effluvium of light. Effluvium time’s spell, to bend and yet reveal. And yet the un-giving is in the agent, the actor staid, Drowning in his pallor of the moment – doting it, arranging it, Like temporary artifice, for grander turns, in temporary horizons — James Oscar

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up yours in Pedestrian Cursive from Ford Motor Company to Chopin Park. voice. Down Central Avenue towards Seminole Street.



Take the second left onto Reginald Street.


Take the third left onto Tourengeau Road. Pause

Take the first left onto Seminole Street.


Take the first left onto Labadie Road.

Turn left at Seminole Street.

Take the first left onto Wescott Road


Take the first right onto Metcalfe street.



Turn right at Metcalfe Street.

Take the second right onto Rossini Boulevard.


Take the first right onto Wescott Road.







Take the first left onto Francois Road.

Take the first left onto Metcalfe Street.

Take the first left onto Seminole Street.

Take the first left onto Aubin Road.


Take the first left onto Bernard Road.

Take the first left onto Seminole Street.


Take the first left onto Metcalfe Street.

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Take the first right onto Metcalfe Street.

Take the second left onto Rossini Boulevard.






Chopin park is on the right.

Take the first right onto Tourangeau Road.

Take the first left onto Rossini Boulevard.

Take the first right onto Seminole Street.


voice. Thanks. —M. Dean


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zustandsschnecke Mnemonic for performing Aquariumspiel in 128 Zuständen (pmg) I am a snail and I have been creeping for a very long time through a black and white landscape, that is a desert. Every entrance is also an exit. I enter the black hole of this aesthetic photograph, I fall the first time. I land in a room full of mirrors with low ceilings. I cannot see very far. I am not a snail anymore and I continue walking towards the horizon of the mirrors until I reach a hall, whose walls, floor and ceiling are covered with my own writings and signs. Door and doorstep lead to a second hall where I find writings about my writings and signs about my signs and I consult them. I go back and forth until I rest on the doorstep and fall a second time. I land in a congress. A thousand of players who play a game with no winners participate. The players can change the rules. They are all involved in playing, nobody gives attention to me. I climb onto the circular table in the middle of the congress. The table is a funnel with a hole in the middle. Water sweeps me into that hole, I fall a third time. I am dry. I am inside an elegant small room covered entirely with black velvet. It is the hidden environment (Tarnumgebung N) for my body. I fall asleep. May 2007 Mnemotechnisches Bild für Performance des Aquariumspiels in 128 Zuständen (pmg) bin die Zustandschnecke, das Haus mit mir, immer da, kein Ausgangsort zu dem zurückkehr oder Anfang, begeben mich in das Schwarz des ästhetischen Fotos, falle, bin in den Spiegelräumlichkeiten mit tiefer Decke, aus denen es kein vorzeiti­ ges Weitblicken gibt, bin nicht mehr eine Schnecke, gehe weiter in der Weite der Ebene der Spiegel, gelange zu einer Halle, deren Wände mit meinen Zeichen be­ schrieben sind, Decken, Böden, Wände, die Türschwelle und Tür führt zur zweiten Halle, darin die Bibliothek zu all diesen Zeichen ruht, dort gehe ich hin, suche in den verschiedenen Wörterbücher, Lexikas, Enzyklopädien, die allen meinen Zei­ chen gewidmet sind, nach Erklärungen und Beschrieben, die alle unterschiedlich ausfallen, nach einer Weile, hin und her, bleibe auf der Schwelle in der Tür zwischen den zwei Hallen, und falle, bei diesem zweiten fall lande in der Sitzung des Kon­ gresses die Tausenden von Spielern, die ein Spiel ohne Gewinner, mit sich verän­ dernden Regeln spielen, die jeder der verändern kann, alle sind heftig darin vertieft, nimmt mich niemand wahr, gewahr mich weiter, in die Mitte des runden kreisrad­ förmigen Kongresstisches an dem alle Tausend rundherum sitzen, dessen Tisch­ innen hohl ist, und wie die des Eingusses der Fotoentwicklerbüchse leicht gegen innen, zum Schlund im Zentrum, abfällt, falle in den Schlund, mit Wasser, trocken dort ein miniatür Samtraum, schwarzer edler teurer Samt, darin ich nur Platz habe, Tarnumgebung für meinen Körper (ich schlafe ein) 22:09 01.07.2007

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—Reto Pulfer



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Crash text Only a line, only a sentence to describe what could never truly be written in words. An accident, or better the accident. Any kind of accident, from the most significant to the most irrelevant, it’s not important. In fact, what remains of an accident once it’s passed, once it’s recovered? What kind of trace leaves this totally unexpected event? What of an accident is worth writing of? How to describe it? How to arrange a dis­ closure of something so hetero­geneous that can hardly be kept in mind? The exegesis of this non-event seems to be rather impossible. The only way is some kind of acronym that can try at least to summarize in other words this endogenous incapability of trans­ mission. A line to suture this hemor­ rhage that keeps on happening despite all effort to stop it. Something that attempts to knot this alien element with a sentence that can be communi­ cable and deliverable. Is it possible to get rid of an accident by remembering something? And if so, what do we achieve? A simple damming? A simple narration? A simple description? What kind of responsibility does the text brings on its fragile shoulders? Does the text have to go along with the impossibility to face its devastating breaking? What’s its chance of inter­ cepting this uncanny obscenity, face to face? Is it possible to write the disaster, as Maurice Blanchot would say? The disaster consists in avoiding the taboo

through writing something else, or the disaster consists in writing the taboo that cannot be avoided? —Emanuele Becheri This text has been conceived after I showed some pictures I shot in 2009 to Alessandro Sarri. It is directed to the readers of The Mock and other superstitions. They will be able to send to the editor any reaction that this writing is going to arouse. The responses will be published in the next issue of the journal.

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The Mock and other superstitions Quarterly journal of written words contributors Emanuele Becheri,
Michael Dean,
Jochen Dehn,
Craig Dwarkin,
Hilary Koob-Sassen,
Pierre Leguillon, Achim Lengerer,
James Oscar,
Reto Pulfer edited by Francesco Pedraglio designed by Paulus M. Dreibholz very special thanks to All contributors, Paulus M. Dreibholz, Caterina Riva and Pieternel Vermoortel contact Printed with the support of: FormContent (

The Mock and other superstitions