Yellow And Red The wall, the sidewalk, the left side of the road, the right side of the road, the sidewalk, the wall: I am a cafe goer in a window seat crossing the street with my eyes, transecting the practical boundaries that form the verticular planes of our cities, like the rungs of a tree trunk sliced open, one can imagine dancing atop infinite tubes, one million dolls inside dolls all painted in different outfits. The planes of our cities are transparencies layered atop one another, framing all which here exists through my eyes. Through action and visuality, we can imagine that as these spaces act as choreographed forms or frames to one another, all of the life that happens between and within them is jazz, improvisation atop a stage, within a set. Living in a room within a building within a town is a dance of the macro and the micro, and the socks I chose to wear today have forever altered the color of my city. But it speaks to me, too. Recently the details of my life are yellow and red, and so I live in it. My building’s exterior, the yellow textiles of my living room accented by my red crochet blanket from home. Red socks and yellow turtleneck, the box of American Spirits in my pocket, next I’m feeling hungry and cooking up spaghetti with marinara sauce for dinner. Who’s to say which iteration manifests first? Here sequence is irrelevant. The present city concerns the simultaneous communication of infinite systems. In this moment, I can imagine that all of the world is yellow and red. I will design buildings as languages, “modes” (modular) of communication that will correlate and correspond with all of the world at once. In Golden Age Dutch painting, the term “doorsian” (like door-see-in but literally translating to “plunge through”) describes the visibility of one space from another in an enhanced sense of rendered depth. Agents within each space are thus theatre to the other on separate planes. I can see that I, right now, am a player within the jazz that is this cafe. The furious scratching and sliding of my pencil is audible to me–––to them? In front of me, two women with bangs speaking Italian, posh English inflections and stern glances across the room, the sound of refrigerator doors from the ever-implicit kitchen, the spray of a cappuccino machine, the silent scroller to my right bathing in blue light.
Layers layers For instance: 2 buildings Constructed reality, reality, designed reality, reality, projected reality, reality.
organized imagined perceived
Note On Living Alone (Dance Comes Naturally) All day I dance with my space. Improvising infinitely fluid compositions, my finger on the wall, the tip of my toe to push the left slipper along one foot, no, half a foot. My black hair next to the window, now the yellow blanket. Brushing my teeth in the mirror the round of my breast at play with the cool grey sea of tile, we observe each other. And every sound I make is music against the white space. A hum from the bottom of my tongue, the clink of a glass against the aluminum sink, and the children nextdoor! They shout and play with no knowledge of me, but I love them, though I have never seen them, their belly laughter is the brass of my ensemble. Once in awhile I speak, or more often sing, to myself to remember my voice. Out of practice, velvet to my finely tuned ears; I have become a good listener. Of my attention: to my thoughts, my neighbors, my environment, my body. I know what the room sounds like when I turn the heat up past 4 and the sound of the electricity in the hall. In the main room I unscrew one bulb at a time to test the frequencies. Yesterday I looked at the lightbulb above my kitchen table and felt immense love for it, as though it were the sun. And when I smile, the corners of my mouth are turned upward by a mechanism situated at the center of my chest. My shoulders vibrate with a buzz of heat up to my ears and ultimately overtaking my scalp. We all smile together, but I don’t remember why, and that is why I smile. There is a homeostasis of smell, also, and I have many tools at my disposal in the jazz here. Constant composition, the lemon verbena oil moves from my bedroom to the bathroom to counter the PH of the cleaning materials I used last night. Then the influence of the open window in the afternoon to mingle my space with the height of the day, the German language calls this “frische luft” (fresh air). The window can be configured in three different ways, all stimulating different patterns of airflow through the apartment. If I make coffee I will let the tops of the windows fold inward to balance the chalky aroma with the smell of the snow in the courtyard, which I overlook on two sides: my apartment sits fortunately at the internal crux of a corner. I look out to the ground floor where an infant sits in her open doorway highchair, extending an arm toward some unknown sensation, she and I are completely the same.