Issuu

#yekshab1 /’sen(t)әns/ ʌn/bʊk Amir Parsa

Hug Fiercely the Naked Waves

Published by The Elastic Circus of the Revolution

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of both copyright owner and the publisher of the work, except in the case of brief excerpts embodied in critical articles or review.

This is a literary work of poetic prose and dramatic unfolding. Names, characters, places, and incidents, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Participatory engagement by audiences within the installation iteration of the work was anonymous and contributed to the overall piece in fragmented ways.

ISBN:

978-0-9980688-8-6

Cover and book design: Sydney Haas

Hug Fiercely the Naked Waves

Preamble

Hug Fiercely the Naked Waves is a literary trilogy founded on participatory and interactive dynamics, incorporating a range of acts–from the physical to the imaginary. The trilogy subtly puts into question many structural and formal components of literary works (storylines, fixities, sequences, connections, printed matter, concrete objects) while amplifying and putting into motion the readerly dimensions of literary encounter. All together, the three works undo the weight of literary construction and embrace a lightness. A grand lightness. Progenitor of joy, progenitor of emancipation, towards an alternative type of experience of the literary.

Taking off the burdens, ripping apart the clothes and shedding the skins that are attached even—ripping it all off and looking outwards and inwards and taking the grand deep breath and seeing and sighing and smiling and walking onto the shore, wading into the water, running into the waves, all burdens off, into the waves clouds skies, submerged and alive, hugging the waves, these naked waves, connecting with word worlds, being and becoming poetically, hugging fiercely the naked waves.

#yekshab1

a multimodal multithreaded abstract quiescent scroll but really a (figurative) hashtag in search of stories amir parsa

#yekshab1

Published by The Elastic Circus of the Revolution

ISBN: 978-0-9980688-4-8

Cover and book design: Sydney Haas

#yekshab1

One Night. One thousand tellers. And I. #yekshab1

1. The Tale of Talemakings

Always, it was meant to be the story of #yekshab1 itself. #yekshab1… One night… We would construct one tale. Only one tale… in one night: told by a thousand tellers… Yes: one tale told by a thousand tellers… The reversal of The Thousand and One Nights would be obvious. The grand reversal. We tell that one tale. Only one. One thousand tellers… and I.

In a desert landscape, with sand-dunes scattered across, there are a thousand beds… A thousand comfortable beds or seats, next to one thousand chairs or small rugs on the desert sand. On them sit tellers. A thousand tellers. And they all tell the story. The same story. Over and over. Over and over… Ghost-like wanderers sift through this landscape. I can see them with their flowing robes, their flowing loose clothes. They wander among these tellers who sit idly by when no one has come to hear their tales. The landscape: a desert landscape, as far as the eye can see. Scattered throughout this desert landscape, there are one thousand tellers who sit by a bed or a mattress or a comfortable divan, ready to tell the tale, the same as all the other tellers will tell. Over and over. Silently they stare into the desert landscape when no one is there. When a listener has come upon them, they launch again into the tale, the one tale, repeated by all the others, of one night.

Across a landscape, across a grand landscape, these tellers would be scattered. Telling the tale. The same tale, the same long tale… I will tell of #yekshab1, you kept writing, I will tell of the construction of the story of one night. #yekshab1: the story of the telling of one night. The story of the construction of the tale of—or is it in—one night. That is #yekshab1.

And so… I conceived and worked on #yekshab1 for more than six years. There was always a conflict between two possible paths: a/the extremely brief book (yes, it needed to be a book): a few lines, or, at most, a paragraph or a page; b/a less extreme piece through which a range of possibilities opened up. For a long time, I opted for the second, and a

19 Epilogue

plethora of variations and iterations emerged. The work done in Bologna with a group I ended up calling the Bologna Players of the Elastic Circus of the Revolution, for example. There, the piece turned out to be a fascinating multi-fragmental poetic ethnography involving the city of Ravenna. For various reasons, I felt like the piece wasn’t quite what I imagined for #yekshab1. (It turned out that our work there, a performative jaunt into Ravenna, became a different canto of ÉPÏKÂNÕVÀ, titled Fuga Ravenna.) There was the brief night-walk in uptown Manhattan: conjuring the spirit of urban walks in literature, the work was redirected again, not because it was an unappealing piece in and of itself (no, it was quite good and would end up being placed in another work), but it just wasn’t what I imagined for #yekshab1. Another iteration consisted of an actual dialogue between two entities that would remain nameless and ambiguous throughout. I was imagining a script, with a particular format: two columns on each page, one describing the scenario (the stage/ film directions), the other the actual dialogue: an interesting piece but, again, not quite #yekshab1. All of this, after also considering purely performative iterations that had me all enamored, with some that were almost mystical… Ultimately, even though all seemed relatively interesting, perhaps even suitable, there was always the nagging, overdriving, seductive option I could not overcome: the extremely brief text that would also be the necessary counter to the main intertext, founded on the deliberate gesture whereby the piece would be as short as possible, generating the radical overturning of one canonical text by another. Here, instead of one person telling a story to another for an imagined thousand nights, there would be a thousand (figurative but maybe literal too!) tellers, telling a story to countless others in one night. A story of one night, in one night.

What it

must be!

This is what you keep repeating: this is what it must be! As if the perfect solution is found to a given problem. The elegant, incredible solution to an incredibly complex equation. And yes, that it is… Indeed, it is. The Solution! To an Equation. The only way. And so it goes. One small fragment. All of #yekshab1 is about the attempt at writing #yekshab1. All about creating the framework. All about generating the process of writing the tale of one night, told by thousands of tellers. Not a chronicle of the process of the creation of something no—it’s that the work itself is the creation

of the frame that makes it all about the attempt at writing this one night with lots of tellers. #yekshab1 is an elaborate systemic framing, a setting-up of the programme for writing #yekshab1. Elaborate and systemic but also extremely brief. The programme for the construction of the tale is #yekshab1. The articulation of the programme for the fluid construction of the work. And then: it carries on… Or, not. The grand failure. Or rather: not failure, but… a delirious delusion. Quiescent: that’s the word. Always possible, never done. (Why do you gather in the most common of places? Maybe to feel like strangers among friends. To feel again the strangeness of the banal. To feel the wondrousness of the everyday. To, as Alessandro one day wrote, speak ‘like strangers in a place for us common.’ That is #yekshab1.) And so: #yekshab1 will come to represent the performance of writing itself. The performance of the attempt at constructing the tale of one night told by a thousand tellers. This is what #yekshab1 will be. And the hashtag? More symbolic than literal, it points to the conjuring of multiple voices, across time and space, into the one figurative locus; to the crucial imagined participatory dimension of the piece; to the assembly of fragments into the one text—a text unfolding in many directions, through many threads and networks, on different platforms and in different modalities: a grand, multimodal, multithreaded, abstract, quiescent scroll.

2. Of the Inexorable Lure of the Intertext

They ask you always and for good reasons, they ask: What is this intertext you speak of so oft, what is the point of speaking so much of intertexts man?! Why such insistence—?! Well, I say, the intertext is a well-known canonized literary work, a classic perhaps, that has an unclear and not quite obvious relationship with the current text. The intertextual phenomenon is not one of reference or referral. It is not even necessary for the reader to know the connection to the intertext— just that the intertext allows the solution to certain unconventional, perhaps unexpected, characteristics/problematics of the text being read. The intertext provides a solution to the ungrammaticalities through which the current text is constructed. Through structural

21 ▪

connections that may not be obvious, the intertextual phenomenon allows the reader of the text at hand to understand some of its operations and directions. The intertextual phenomenon is a way to connect to previous texts, and traditions, and visions, and go beyond them, in different directions! Critique and contemporanize and call for the new!

The intertextual engagement, the intertextual poetics, the intertextual imperative: they allow a re-imagining and creative weaving and reconstitution of the canons—and by extension the particular ideas within them. The intertextual approach allows for an interweaving of myths to fashion new ones, the intertwining of genres and traditions to create new ones. Allows the creation of a new type of text. A new type of unfolding. A new type of experience. A new way of relating to and understanding the world. Through the intertext, connections are immediately generated and reversed. To fashion new relationships to the world! This is what is so fundamentally at play in #yekshab1! This is what is at play the whole time! The concept of intertextuality and, more importantly, the performance and unveiling of the intertext! (And this is where a certain type of cultural interaction takes place. Cultural fusion at the level of structural intertextuality, and also intermediality. The creation of a new world through the fusion of intertexts at the structural and thematic levels.)

Now then, the intertext of #yekshab1: The Thousand and One Nights that great, universally recognized compilation of tales from across what is now roughly Western Asia, with the Persian king and storyteller at its center. The frame: the king, Shahryâr, kills every morning a young virgin he has married the night before, but Shahrzâd (the last of these wives) figures out a way to stay alive: by starting each night a story that she does not finish. The king lets her live, because he wants to hear the end of the tale… And Shahrzâd continues and finishes the story the next night but then starts another tale that she stops again as dawn is about to break…

The very story frame of The Thousand and One Nights points to the necessity of telling in order to survive. Literally. The young storyteller delays her own execution by enchanting the king with the stories she tells, and with the cliffhangers she concocts. The violence of the frame points

directly to the main function of storytelling: survive, by never finishing the tale! #yekshab1 also fashions a similar trope: in order to survive, in order to literally make it through life, the tellers must mold the material of the world into stories, must fashion out of reality stories they construct and tell. You turn reality into material for stories. And thus: you live to tell! And then, you tell to live, in order to be able to continue living! Shahrzâd showing us the way by the very performance of telling, and how salvation resides in the act of molding reality into stories that then allow us to survive! That is the essence of #yekshab1. That is the heart of #yekshab1! Make a new world! #yekshab1 through the constructions and integrations of stories, through the mechanisms I have concocted, along an unending staggered timeline, brings to the surface the performance of the creation of tales and texts: fiction-making itself. #yekshab1 performs story-telling, much like Shahrzâd herself! And this creation of the framework, the creation of the system for the construction of the tale: is the performance of writing itself! My only way to survive! Our only way to make it through! Yes: making it through the darkness… This entire venture—what #yekshab1 truly is: the articulation of the programme to construct the tale of one night: that is my path into the light: our way of surviving by telling! Whether it ever comes to pass, or not… The conceptualization of the piece, the articulation of the framework, the creation of the possible ongoing participatory performance of writing by all, even if never actualized, is the piece! It is the ultimate way to survive…

Thus and so: The Thousand and One Nights is the deep structural intertext for #yekshab1, where the reversals of some of the most important components of the classic are activated. What is retained: the principle of turning the material of the world into stories to survive. But what is most interesting of course, what is at the heart of the literary endeavor proper, and at the heart of the fashioning of an overcoming of canonical texts and ways of seeing the world, is how the adopted intertext is present and reversed. The reversals are key. Necessary reversals of components that point to the espoused aesthetic, the espoused poetics, the espoused politics of the new work. Here, then, a brief (and non-exhaustive) catalogue, of what I imagine could be reversed in #yekshab1, relative to its main intertext, The Thousand and One Nights:

• In #yekshab1, the story of one figurative-cumulative night is fashioned by thousands of imagined tellers—instead of stories over a thousand nights being told by one teller.

• In #yekshab1, there are multiple people and entities contributing to the story, rather than one fictional creature fashioning many tales.

• In #yekshab1, this one tale is told to unknown thousands—instead of the one all-powerful king

• In #yekshab1: words and strings of words are enough. Texts of various kinds. Stacked words. Stacked blocks with words scribbled on them. Not just stories. Not just. I use the word ‘tell’ throughout yes, but it’s really all about wordstringings, with all the texts fusing together. Not a whole story but fragments. Pieces. Like us, like our lives. Like: our times…

• A story IN one night, and a story OF one night, indeed. So, a thousand tellers telling a story that takes place in one night and tells the story of one night!

• In #yekshab1, the process of constructing #yekshab1 is visible— in fact, the story of the construction of #yekshab1 is front and center.

• In #yekshab1, there are multiple platforms for the telling— from ancient traditions (like oral transmission), to the newest of our digital offerings and online scrolls and screeds!

• In #yekshab1, an imagined multi-directional unfolding takes shape. Not only must each tell to survive but for #yekshab1 itself to survive, the participatory dimension in different venues and mediums and modalities is key. (Or: is this articulation, and the imagined participatory dimension: enough…)

• By generating participatory modalities, interventionist modalities, fictionalizing mechanisms, by asking others to be involved, by setting up conditions where people automatically contribute, we are molding material and performing the construction of #yekshab1. Performing becoming Shahrzâd. Not just telling but: performing telling. Performing becoming tellers.

• In #yekshab1, the actual piece is of extreme brevity. But it also has a few components that generate new types of objects, new

experiences: from the hashtag littéraire to projections, objects, stacked word sculptures (that can even be repurposed), confabs and gatherings where various threads of the overall grand text unfold.

• In #yekshab1, there are multiple modalities of telling and creating, instead of the one grand narrative strategy assembled in the final volume.

• In #yekshab1, a new type of compendium is built, one very much attuned to our times and our ways of interacting and sharing and reading: a fragmented compendium, fluid yet with fixed elements, changing yet forever the one work: a multidirectional multimodal epic (un)scroll: an abeyant, abstract scroll: #yekshab1…

3. Discreet Strolls Along Uncharted Borders

I yearn to think and to imagine that the participatory modality at the heart of this enterprise is a key dimension of #yekshab1. The lone narrator replaced with thousands of narrators. All the connected stories of the tellers. The call: the construction of a tale! And the construction of a group. A troupe. A brigade. Indeed it is! It is The Brigade de Shahrzâd. The Brigade of Shahrzâd! Yes: THE BRIGÂD OF SHAHRZÂD!! (All used interchangeably, as we see fit!) Brigade: with the call to a most important battle, a most relevant, ongoing, struggle: to fashion narratives that allow survival, liberation, emancipation! They are part of The Brigâd of Shahrzâd, all those who contribute and intervene…

All contributing pieces become parafrags: #yekshab1 could one day be built on parallel fragments that allow it to unfold. Parallel fragments… Distributed across spaces and places, across geographies and times, across modalities of telling, across objects and quiddities. Again, although we could set up a number of actual hashtags (probably more than one across various platforms), the ‘#’ is more poignantly symbolic: a sign that points to the participatory potentiality that includes many voices and gathers the many experiences and realities… Oral and written. Onpage, offpage,

▪

online, and not. Texts and tales. Commentary and reactions. Words strung together. Words and sentences stacked on top of each other (figuratively, visually, literally). Screams and howls and whispers. Constant reaction and reaction to reaction. Interpretations and debates: all within the grand distributed unfolding! Translations can appear right there, along with modifications and variations. Letters. Archival material. Reflections. Notes. The theory too: it will unfold and be visible, simultaneous to the creation of the text. The theory of the writing will accompany the actual writing. Unfolding theory/practice! Footnotes, addenda, supplements, and a horde of other textual paraphernalia. The very fact that they can be juxtaposed, that they are brought together, fashions a connection. A frame that creates the form. There, in that unfolding text generated by the parafrags and the interactions fashioned between the parafrags themselves, a grand tale is created. #yekshab1. The concept and materiality and symbolic import of the hashtag. The process of the attempt at writing the story of the construction of the tale of one night. The texts will be gathered and some will not be gathered and in so many corners and ways, thousands of tellers will weave the tale of one night. The contributing artists of the tale of one night. Not an illusion! It could happen! It could…

The whole enterprise: a fiction machine. The Machine à Fiction. The MàF could generate untold numbers of tales, all coalescing to make one. Untold series of interventions. This, #yekshab1, a machine after all. A fiction machine. The framing fashions a machine! A feeder. A generator. Everything exists to be turned into material for the world. And within #yekshab1, everything turns into those parafrags of the tale of one night. Performing writing. Making chronicles and theory. A weird human/technical collaboration. With no end in sight. The MàF will allow everyone to survive. The Brigade and the MàF will inspire all to thrive. Lonesome riders in all these strange towns. Always and forever reaching out: the machine and the brigade, through their parafrags across platforms and landscapes and tellscapes, making the tale of one night. The tale in one night. In these uncharted territories. Along these uncharted frontiers and borders. Pieces that allow all to make it through another day—and another night. Always and forever there. Survivors and conquerors of their darkness and their fears. At the margins with the MàF

and the Brigade, making it through the world. We will make it happen. We must make it happen. We can make it happen…

4. Open Villa: The Strange Case of the Happenings at the Villa at the Top of the Hill

I see a villa at the top of the hill. A real villa with galleries and rooms. Bodies flowing in and out of these rooms. The works from #yekshab1 projected onto walls and on the ceilings and on the floors. To this villa all players can go. Mechanisms of participation and fictionalization I will concoct and all can play and tell. Play and tell! Citizen-tellers of the world! In each of the rooms, in each of the galleries at the villa at the top of the hill, the audiences through their haunting passages from one room to another, experience the tale. But they will also turn into players and authors, members of the Brigade, involved in the construction of the tale. One night and a thousand people constructing it. A haunting cognition of being in the presence of the construction of a tale—and inside the tale. Inside the tale that one is building. The one story. One space, one world. In this villa and all the others: watching and reading and sitting and standing and lying down, chatting, posting, writing. There they are, the figures wandering the grounds, posting and reading and posting and laughing and crying and sleeping and dreaming and telling, and up again posting and telling and screaming and laughing, again, and again, and again… Endlessly in these galleries of the villa at the top of the hill…

I imagine the first villa expanding into others. Nights of gatherings. Parties and special occasions and openings and concerts. And also, soon enough, #yekshab1-specific gatherings: the #yekshab1 parties: the #yekshab1 confabs! Groovy confabs! Who knows what they could turn into… Homes turned into havens for the performance of the writing of the tale. A grand stage. All the homes and the villas on top of one hill or another: play out the performance of the writing of a tale. Activating #yekshab1. #yekshab1 performed in the villas and the houses and the galleries and the spaces of the world with projective performations. With stacked wordstring blockscrolls. With the paper scraps in the suitcase, the

▪

suitcasecraps. They will sing and dance and tell. In one night, one majestic night, always seemingly the last night of #yekshab1 but never the last night. Always just one night when a thousand new tellers in the villas scattered across the hills of the world tell of the construction of that one night, the story in one night, the story of one night. All over the world, inviting wandering bards into galleries, the wandering bards who have at last found the light.

The world awaits. And when the world again needs the story of storytelling, I will call upon us to occupy another villa, another set of villas scattered across the hills, to generate again the telling, a marathon #yekshab1 session, a collective #yekshab1 session, generating the retelling, the retelling that will be a new telling, the story of the construction of one tale: another #yekshab1 confab. Endlessly across the world, across time: that is the story of #yekshab1. Ever-expanding and forever more. Now, and now again. Like the universe. #yekshab1. Just like the universe. Expanding. Like life, making possible: life. Sustaining. Like Water. Expansion. Story. Life.

I see #yekshab1, the grand unfolding! I see #yekshab1 as an ongoing, participatory, cumulative, part-public, part-performative literary work. Epic, maybe—with multiple threads/components: the actual four-line work itself, along with the epilogue; the postscript—which also gets detached and functions as a one-sheet directorial synopsis; the projective performations that happen in certain quarters at various times; and the other (possible) panoply of works such as artists’ books, installations, public and sound pieces and other adventures that conjure the spirit of contribution, all embodied in the hashtag as symbol of such participatory assembly; various actual hashtags generating a digital distributed thread. Remember this also: #yekshab1, spelled as such and in this alphabet, is the name of the work and should not be translated into any language, not written out in a different script. The ambiguity,

▪

5. A Trickster this Poet. A Prankster. A Provocateur. A Player, After All.

the slight alienating effect for those who do not know the ‘meaning’ in Farsi, the uncertain references generated by this name/title are all part of the universe of desired effects on the reader. A title, true, but that should be treated like a name, and not translated.

The parameters and the components of the literary experience are operated upon to generate a new type of work. Overcomings of conceptual frameworks and literary practices. Where the innovations entice new ways of understanding and experiencing the world. #yekshab1 resting on the main intertext is crucial in the imagining and reimagining of possibilities: the reversals with The Thousand and One Nights are crucial, but they also generate innovations in the literary realm proper. That, in a way, is the whole point. Below then, a small (and yet again non-exhaustive) list of such innovations occurring within #yekshab1, the abeyant #yekshab1…

• The size and the scale: a few lines, a page maybe (along with an epilogue) generating a long multi-fragmented text. An epic multidirectional piece… And simultaneously the shortest of literary works.

• A new form—and a new quiddity: the participatory, cumulative, ongoing, multimodal multithreaded abstract scroll. That is the name of this type of piece. A quiescent one, a possible one, an abeyant one. Stacked, in multiple ways. Along with a slew of new components: the projective performations, wordstring blockscrolls, the hashtag littéraire…

• The concept of the author: the ‘author’, here, is the author of the framework, the generator of the framework and the generator of the process. A different sense of authorhood, which generates partner-authors through the participatory process.

• The Grand Guru of #yekshab1: yes, I am The Supreme Guide of the Brigâd de Shahrzâd! Curator of wordings and parafrags! Curator of the content of the supplemental lists and cells that can be revised at any point! An Architect of Fictionalizations! A Literary Construction Foreman for a System of Participation and for the MàF!—O #yekshab1, what have I wrought!

• A new troupe, The Brigâd de Shahrzâd—a most worthy name frankly! Bringing on board a host of collaborators. I can even

imagine different levels of ‘participatory authorship’, a whole taxonomy! With various nuances, such as the participating author; the participatory contributor; the participatory interpreter etc. And more down the line, as the unfolding is sure to generate more subtle differentiations and funky new concepts.

• The performative spectrum: #yekshab1 performs writing, and is sustained by the constant meta-performative operations at play through the participation and the exchanges and the curation. It continues to explore the spectrum of performance through the confabs, the projections, conventional readings and actual movement-centric pieces.

• The participatory dimension: the multimodal scroll invites participation through a host of mechanisms and on multiple platforms. It is multivectorial participation, distributed participation, (dis)connected participation. And sure, one digitally distributed thread, built on multiple actual hashtags, is a most utilized form of participation, a most common one in our times—and that is the point: all parts are crucial and directed towards the creation of a unique literary piece connected to a crucial intertext in the history of literature.

• The printing considerations: part of the adventure! The work allows a reflection on the relationships between printed matter and digital matter and the concept of the literary artifact. What kind of relationships do we want… A limited number of prints of these texts? A book nevertheless? An artist’s book? Mass editions? Maybe just a detached sheet… Or perhaps, a miniature book—a Miniature Poet’s Book, containing only the lone paragraph that is the central text of #yekshab1… Or: a plethora, an ensemble, of such MPBs, scattered around and about…

• The dissemination dimension: with the possibilities along this spectrum of participatory and public and relational and collaborative practice, I end up integrating various forms of disseminatory practice. Distribution and diffusion: the mechanisms and the politics associated with them are not taken for granted, but taken into consideration in the conceptualiza-

tion of the work, with a real effect on the form and content. Distribution and dissemination practices seriously woven into the fabric of a work!

• Value and exchange: with the interplay of the digital and the physical and the performative, concepts of valuation and pricing, along with the schemas related to commercial circulation and exchange are all put into question. A beautiful type of question. Not sure how to deal with it. Do we sell, not sell, make it free, not, what do those things even mean? The conceptual framework and the bureaucracy that we have normalized are frazzled and undermined, happily.

• Public actions and public exhibitions: the work turns into a fusion: an exhibition, a relational piece, a game, a play: with, at all times, new actors and interpreters of a public piece and an existing score—: one that blooms, over time: a durational work: carrying on, unperturbed…

• Durational dimension: ongoing, #yekshab1 could carry on for years and decades. Becoming larger and larger, and taking place in endless spaces and environments. A cumulative expansion that is in tune with its major intertext, saluting it while overcoming it: The Thousand and One Nights… Or: it remains, forever, quiescent…

• The equation: I’d written hundreds of pages, and there were hundreds more on the way. And yet, I opt for the most seminal brevity! What would be the smallest possible work that is a real, legit, piece? That one could argue is a book? What a défi that is! That question, that equation, doesn’t get solved on its own: it must match and align with the ‘perfect’ intertext: and that perfect intertext is found in concert with the ambition. The alignment. The solution. The work: a great solution to a grand equation, created and presented. And then solved.

▪

6. In the Shadow of the Crystalline Delirium

An important query. A troubling thought. #yekshab1, all of this: is it nothing other than the mad concoction of a poet? #yekshab1: about the madness of doing #yekshab1? About the madness of the construction of #yekshab1? About the madness of the concept and the possibility of doing it—and yet never actually making it happen? Perhaps all just a hallucination. All just delirium. The story of the mad poet who concocts to tell the story of the construction of the tale of one night. I repeat: a mere shell of a story of the mad poet who concocts to tell the story of the construction of the tale of one night. And yet: the insistence...

(It was madness. It is madness. And it is perhaps best served and retained as madness. Not a real programme or an actual attempt at creating the work—but an exposition of madness. The representation of a mad proposal. Make it impossible to actually do it. There will be no villa at the top of a hill… There will be no readings and no actual sites and no actual creation of possibilities of participation and fictionalization… Only the fragile articulation of the attempt at constructing a frame… Only this… Along with abandoned artists’ books. Abandoned poets’ books. Unperformed projections. Abandoned hashtags… Only: this! And printed matter scattered in empty lofts and galleries and villas… This is #yekshab1! This, is: #yekshab1.)

7. Go, Wanderers, Tell Us the Story of One Night...

> Just tell. A night. That night. Tell it. #yekshab1 exists as a (dis)connected depository of fragments, so, go… You can contribute however you want. String along words, images, impressions. Short or long. At a #yekshab1 confab. At a projection party. Online with actual hashtags (keep an eye out because we might use various tags on different platforms). Across all possible modalities… Post… Participate…

▪

> No need for full sentences or stories, really. Just texts. Fragments. Thoughts. Observations. Visions. Or just add and intervene. All the parafrags. Supplements, images—any type of extra-textual paraphernalia. And marginalia: the sounds and sights and movements of the night. Of, the night, that’s right. Into the text the rendition of sounds and images, a panoramic vision, of the night…

> You can do it in your everyday circulations, whenever you want. Lone wolf members of the Brigâd de Shahrzâd! On the bus and the train as you carry on with your daily lives. When you are at the local bar or restaurant. During the live performances too… In our fluid cities and open villas, we will generate more and more pieces and tales and micro-tales for #yekshab1! With different groups, in different situations: words, sentences, images. See the night. Remember it. Imagine it. That night. And then: words, words strung along…

> And: propose new frames (like the desert dunes described at the beginning) for the one night/one thousand tellers’ idea to occur; propose new ways of participating in the construction of the story of one night. I invite you not only to participate in the development of the content of the tale, but to participate by proposing new frameworks, and/or new modalities of participation. Tell. Post. Tell. Write. Tell. Participate. #yekshab1. #yekshab1.

No! No… It is madness. It is madness after all. There will be no #yekshab1. There will be no expanded #yekshab1. This is #yekshab1. This is all of #yekshab1. All it can be… All it must be… The concoctions of a mad poet… The delirious imaginings of a mad poet… The possible light, and yet, only a figment of the imagination… There will be no #yekshab1, this is #yekshab1. There will be no #yekshab1, this is all of #yekshab1. This: is: #yekshab1…

▪ ▪ ▪

One night.

A thousand tellers.

#yekshab1

One night. That Night. Tell me. Tell us.

#yekshab1

One night. Story of. Story in. One night. One thousand tellers. And I!

#yekshab1

How you must tell, in order to survive. How you must mold the material of the world into stories, in order to survive.

(I thought about not doing it, I really did, but: it’s too good. Too right. Really. Must be done. Just, must. The reversal and the intertext. The grand reversal. And this radical and extreme brevity: #yekshab1.)

The Thousand and One Nights: the classic compendium performs the central tenet of storytelling through its framing device: Shahryâr, the Persian king who marries virgins only to execute them the next morning, spares the life of Shahrzâd, the last of his wife-storytellers, because she is clever enough, astute enough, to not end the story she starts—and because… he wants to hear the rest! And from there, every night the same. The king does not go through with the execution because each night, upon finishing the previous tale, Shahrzâd starts another tale that she stops as dawn is about to break… The execution of the morning is postponed, for the king—the nasty, violent, king—wants to hear the end of the tale… And on and on for a thousand and one nights… The essence of story-telling: the necessity of turning the material of the world into stories, and the necessity of telling stories in order to survive.

#yekshab1 points to the same fundamental need to mold the material of the world into stories, while radically overturning key elements of a classic intertext: instead of one person telling a story to another for a figurative (and imagined) thousand nights, there would be a thousand (figurative) tellers, telling a story to untold thousands in one (figurative) night. Story of one night. Story in one night. Told by thousands. All accumulating, all fusing. In one space and in… ethereal space. All becoming one. All: becoming our tale. #yekshab1. And yet, ultimately, really about the creation of the frame: only about the creation

Postscript

of this frame: imagining a brand new world with #yekshab1…

The hashtag: a sign that points to the crucial cumulative and participatory dimension of the endeavor—and not a literal hashtag. A symbolic one that performs the multidirectional and (dis)connected assembly of fragments. SuitcaseScraps. Textsheets. Encantations. Wordclouds. Shoutouts. Roundrugs. Zoomtells. Wordstring Blockscrolls. Stories Around an Actual Fire. Soundstrings. Confabs and Projective Performations… And sure: various hashtags to generate a distributed digital thread—multiple hashtags in different venues, given how fluid and nimble one must be on the web and on social media platforms. So, go… Just tell. Post. Participate. A night. That night. However you want. Whatever length. Whatever genre. Whatever scale. Whichever language. Words even. Maybe Just words. Not sentences. Just words. String along words. String along images. String along impressions. Sensations. Words for that night… Of: that night… The long walk. That strange encounter. The sudden fleeing. The shots. The passing of cars, the flickering of lights. The descent of fog into the alleys. Secret getaways. Passages in strange towns or wanderings in familiar towns. The old man at the curb. The dog, the leaves. The lamps, the sky. The doubts. The dreams. The thoughts. The howls.

#yekshab1 will be an ongoing, cumulative, part-public, part-performative literary work. #yekshab1 stands for a type of openness. It stands for fluidity and multivectorial participation. A regeneration of our relationship with the world. And in the process, it reinvents and fashions newness in a range of literary realms. A literary work. A literary epic, maybe. An epic scroll.

(Or… (Or: is it all just a hallucination… All just poetic delirium… The fragile articulation of the attempt at constructing a tale… Maybe only this… A printed page… Ghosted digital hashtags… Empty and unpopulated spaces… Madness after all. No expanded #yekshab1. The concoctions of a mad poet, that is all it is… The delirious imaginings of a mad poet… Only this. Only: this. And nothing else, really. And nothing else… There will be no #yekshab1, this is #yekshab1. There will be no #yekshab1; this: is #yekshab1. This: is: #yekshab1… ))

A distributed abstract scroll. A crazy yet necessary—necessary!—multimodal, multithreaded, quiescent, abstract scroll. #yekshab1. A forever abeyant scroll: #yekshab1.

The following images were taken at one of #yekshab1 participatory installations. The images of contributions are all from the same event.

Addendum

One night. A thousand tellers. #yekshab1. One night. That night. Tell me. Tell us. #yekshab1. One night. Story of. Story in. One night...

#yekshab1 points to the fundamental need to mold the material of the world into stories, while radically overturning key elements of a classic intertext, The Thousand and One Nights: instead of one person telling a story to another for a figurative (and imagined) thousand nights, there would be a thousand (figurative) tellers, telling a story to untold thousands in one (figurative) night. Story of one night. Story in one night. Told by thousands. All accumulating, all fusing. All becoming one. All: becoming our tale. #yekshab1.

#yekshab1 is an ongoing, cumulative, part-public, part-performative participatory literary work. #yekshab1 stands for a type of openness. It stands for fluidity and multivectorial participation. A multimodal, multithreaded, quiescent, abstract scroll. A forever abeyant scroll...

All accumulating, all fusing. In one space and in… ethereal space. All becoming one. All: becoming our tale. #yekshab1. And yet, ultimately, really about the creation of the frame: only about the creation of this frame: imagining a brand new world with #yekshab1…

One night. Tell us. Sentences. Or not.

Just words, if you want. Images. Sensations. Fragments. #yekshab1.

One night.

Tell me. Tell us.

#yekshab1 was first public-ed in October 2021 at Hot Wood Arts, during the Red Hook Open Studios. It has since been enlivened at several other spots.

/'sen(t)әns/ amir parsa

/’sen(t)әns/

Published by The Elastic Circus of the Revolution

ISBN: 978-0-9980688-6-2

Cover and book design: Sydney Haas

/'sen(t)әns/

/'sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/

/'sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/

/'sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/

/'sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/

/'sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/

/’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/ /’sen(t)әns/

/'sen(t)әns/

Prelude

/’sen(t)әns/ is a participatory literary work that takes place in the confines of an enclosed space. Sentences are written and posted on walls, only to be commented on, erased, written over, replaced, scrunched up and thrown to the ground and/or in a corner. The pieces can also be torn down, while others on the ground are put back on the wall. The observer-participant thus becomes an active constructor of writings (a writer!) and/or a curator (!!), depending on what turns them on–the connections of sentences and how they are sequenced/read, or the composition of the words/sentences as visuals (along with the texture and three-dimensionality (frumpiness) of the paper since it’s been scrunched and put on the ground). The viewer-reader-participant becomes contributor, editor, and publisher as they choose to take down or strike-through sentences, add or elaborate on the texts, place others up on the wall. A constant battle and revision, while the papers accumulate over time, literally submerging the watcher/reader contributor/editor/censor. And yes, there is a play on the word, on how this grand endeavor, and participating in it, is a SENTENCE. Do it. Fret not. It’s all good. The sentences are light. The sentence is light. The writer’s sentence? Writing sentences.

/’sen(t)әns/ was first public-ed in October 2021 as part of “The Remnants” exhibition, at Hot Wood Arts, during the Red Hook Open Studios, in a three-person show, alongside work from Megan Suttles and Ethan Cornell.

Literature is not about words but the lack of words.

I will write a good sentence. I will write a really good sentence. I will write. A really good sentence.

The sentence is.

A barely legible sentence.

A very ambiguous sentence.

A bullshit complex sentence that doesn’t mean anything.

The barely visible sentence might be the greatest sentence.

Who’s to say what makes a great sentence. A great sentence makes. Who can say.

The construction of a good sentence is the bedrock of a literary work. Sentences.

The sentence will be fair and just.

That

is a good sentence!!

That: is a good sentence. That–is a good sentence. That? A great sentence.

Writing a sentence the way nobody else writes a sentence is what makes for a singular work and a relevant work. Writing the way nobody else writes a sentence. No one. Nobody. No one. Writing a sentence that way.

It’s not about the sentence.

It’s not about the sentence but the words. It’s not about the sentence but the result. It’s not about the sentence. Actually. Just, not. Sentences are all about the lack of words.

Words don’t make up sentences. Sentences make words.

The sentence is not the key. The words are. (Keys?)

Sentences don’t matter. Only sounds.

A sentence about the importance of the sentence you write. This is good enough.

A sentence about the importance of the sentence you write. This is good enough.

A sentence without words. One day I’ll write.

A sentence without words one day I’ll build.

A sentence about words is the greatest of literary works.

A book about sentences about words.

You will write the most perfect sentence. The perfectest. Sentence.

You will write the most beautiful sentence.

You will write the most original sentence.

You will write the longest sentence. The most long!

You will make sentences that twist and turn and.

Winding sentences.

And with that sentence you will suffer.

And after the sentence you will die.

And after that sentence, oh after that sentence.

Sentenced to writing sentences about sentences.

I will never write another good sentence. I’m sure. What makes me think I would!

I’ve always written great sentences! Why am I now throwing them all in this pile?!

Sentences are always dangerous!

Sentence: a sociological analysis.

Sentence: a linguistic analysis.

Sentence: an anthropological analysis.

Sentence: a legal analysis.

Never-ending, the sentence!

100

Let’s go let’s go: let’s see who can write the longest but best sentence.

Go ahead! You go! You write a good sentence. A great sentence. A literary sentence!

101

Sentences make the world go round, after all!

102

103

Go ahead! Your turn! Your sentence!

The sentence: that sentence is nonsense!

104

105

The sentence is nonsense is nonsense is nonsense!!

The sentence: the sentence is nonsense!!

106

107

Is a sentence with no punctuation marks still a sentence or not

Plenty more sentences you can write. We can write. In fact, an infinite number of sentences can be written. That’s the sentence. That: the sentence!

108

109

Go ahead then, you go: you write sentences. Here or elsewhere. You go. I’m done.

110

Besides, as I have said for long now, literature is not about words but the lack of words.

111

And besides, as I have said for long now, I write to understand why I write.

112

Besides, the writer is sentenced to writing sentences about sentences.

> The sentence: write sentences: without words.

> The sentence: write sentences without words?!

> The sentence: write sentences… without words!

> The sentence: write sentences without: words!...

113

Sentenced to writing sentences about sentences.

114

> The sentence: write sentences: about sentences.

> The sentence: write sentences about sentences?

> The sentence: write sentences… about sentences!

> The sentence: write sentences about: sentences?!

115

> The sentence: make sentences with sentences.

> The sentence: make sentences–with sentences!

> The sentence: make sentences... with sentences?

> The sentence: make sentences with: sentences?!

116

117

If you want…

> Pick up.

> Open and read.

> Scrunch and throw back in.

118

If you want…

> Write a sentence on one of the pieces of paper.

> Scrunch and throw on the pile with the rest of the scrunched drafts.

119

120

121

122

123

124

125

126

127

128

129

130

131

132

133

134

135

ʌn/bʊk amir parsa

Published by The Elastic Circus of the Revolution

ISBN: 978-0-9980688-7-9

Cover and book design: Sydney Haas

ʌn/bʊk

(the straphanger, the credit card, the banjo, the deaf dog) an unstory, untold

144

145

146

147

Preface

ʌn/bʊk is an unfettered, unhinged, unapologetic literary UnConstruction. There are no drafts. There are no compositions. No subtle weaving of sentences or thoughts or images. No reconsiderations or edits or connecting of fragments. This literary piece is a celebration of the Work as UnDraft, of the scattered as UnScattered, of the dispersed as UnDispersed. The gathering, organizing, finalizing, editing, totalizing as UnNecessary, leading to the never-really-started and yet not-unFinished glorious ʌn/bʊk.

ʌn/bʊk is a celebration of the ability of the reader/encounterer to connect things themselves. A theory of connection. The reader-response, filling in the gaps. Imagining, as a heightened engagement, is taken to its logical extreme, where the actual story, the (un)perceived totality lies almost entirely in the imaginary act of the (un)reader. In the quirkiness of stories and substories and how they are suggested and primed. The UrBook, in effect, since it’s all about the phenomenon of reading itself–and all the infinitesimal sub-phenomena that bring joy, excitement, strangeness to reading. The dynamics that create fiction in the first place.

ʌn/bʊk liberates the literary endeavor from many bonds and boundaries, allowing the UnParticipatory dimension to take the work into any and all directions. Without beginning or end, without much sequence, without much care, without any shame. Enablings. Erasings. Effacements. Write-overs. Scratchings and screechings. It’s all fine. It all fits. And what happens: no one really knows. And no one cares. Strung-along words haphazardly assembled.

ʌn/bʊk is deciphered through UnChapters, which may or may not have content. The invention of the tale, the creation of the story, the performance of the connections, are fashioned through a few minimal indexes, and through the imaginary acts of the readers/encounterers who come into contact with various parts, through different portals and paths, in whichever ways and whatever directions. The imaginative acts make the (un)Story. Through this: 1. the Index of Titles and Synopses–which may or may not have fragments, development, or actual unfoldings; 2. the Index of First lines–which may or may not be the first lines of potentially-existing further-developed texts; 3. A selection of texts, pages, works on paper, sheets, documents, and pieces that appear to be connected to the work–pieces and documents that may or may not be developed material, and may or may not be connected to the first lines and synopses.

Fantastical, farcical, fun, fucked-up, fable-like. The nucleus of a story. The straphanger. (Finds?) The credit card. (Then?) Finds the owner (the neighbor) very cleverly. Then: the banjo (magical?). And the deaf dog. And. Then. Or maybe not: then. Up to us. Up to you. Un-

148

furling on various papers, written with various tools, its becoming is performed in a variety of ways, celebrating the age-old writerly practice of writing on loose sheets, in backs of notebooks etc. and making that the final resting place of the texts—unassembled, unconnected to other fragments, unbrought-together in any totalizing manner.

(And for the creator: the process of creation is in turn an a-conscious a-aware unfurling of words. Not stream of consciousness, but an iteration on randomness. Here and there silly ruseful connections but nothing specific and nothing knowingly connected. Different parts can be enlivened, gaps filled, details given. The art/process of filling in, inventing, imagining, connecting, is the work. The challenge was to discipline oneself to not try to get hyper-disciplined, excessively connect-ful and habitually composition-centric. I allowed myself to adhere to the idea of haphazardness. Written pretty randomly–or through mechanisms that allow randomness to flourish and determine directions and content. Indeed, the writing stays true to the work. The first lines can be done or not. The synopses can have first lines or not. The texts can be recorded and documented or not. The reader encounters whatever in whatever sequence–and basically creates their own illusion, their own tale. (Much like delusional concoctions.) Just write lines and sentences and string along words. And then, there.)

ʌn/bʊk is a type of hymn to the strangeness of reality. How a lone word, sequences of words, stringing of words can become suggestive. How weird and strangely strange (that’s right, strangely strange) and wildly crazy it is that without actual invention, we tend to make connections, create sequentialization, decipher secrets (where there are none) invent tales and myths (gossip! religion!), solve puzzles (that aren’t), determine causalities, fashion fiction. So many narratives unfolding. So many possible tales–different ones for different folks: a hymn to fiction-making itself; a hymn to the amazing and dangerous and unbounded acts of the imagination–and its subsidiary: reality.

ʌn/bʊk unfolded in a strange way (true to its essence) throughout 2022 with a finissage/vernissage (fused!) happening in fall 2022 in a distributed way and in various (in-un)visible/manifested/published domains and places–including at Hot Wood Arts during Red Hook Open Studios.

149

150

Unchapters: Index of Titles and Synopses

151

The straphanger, the sidewalk, the credit card, the query (1)

The initial discovery and the launch of the tale. Or, is it. Or just a pretext and an excuse. Truth is: the credit card was indeed on the ground and the straphanger found it and somehow located the owner and brought it over and left a note. From there, things get murky. The contact, the encounter, the discussion. The invitation to the home was even weirder. The explanation and the further exploration of what the banjo was and how it had been acquired and all. The deaf dog–something else. Unexpectedly. But: it made them both suspicious. How could this have happened?

The knife, the bus, the neighbor, the night (2)

And yeah, the knife is pulled out and the fight ensues. Just a coincidence maybe, or maybe not. Banal cause and effect. Or magical connections. Karma. Deep troubles. This happens around here every night, the neighbor says. But this, like this–not quite. It had to do with the whole crap–with everything that happened. It had to. The night. The dog. The banjo. Something.

152

The nail, the voice, the love, the cheer (3)

How well you ride the bus. Ride the bus across the avenue of this great city. Ride the bus through the streets. Hear the lovers on the phone. Their whispers. Their kisses. Salons we go by. Dives we go by. Fancy restaurants. Nail joints. Ah how great it is all. Ahhh how great is all of this life.

153

The fight, the ambulance, the crooked cop, the stranger (4)

What happened? The attack. Was the credit card just a setup? The straphanger had clearly said they were not after anything but. Who attacked first. Why was the cop on the scene so knowledgeable? A whole operation? Were they luring them in and… The stranger that came up to them after–what was that all about?!

The artist, the installation, the lie, the puzzle (5)

The puzzle is what leads you. Is what prompts and seduces. How to solve it. Where did this come from? Why a puzzle and why problems and why solving. How the entire world pretends. Anyway. The dog was friends with the dog of the artist next door. Often walked together. And one day: the artist lied to the owner of the dog. They both knew. And the repercussions!

154

The cannibal, the wolf, the darkness, the legend (6)

Because these are the images that dominate. These are the images that come. Nightmare? Dreams? Associations? How does one forge forth? Who was who? Was it really an accident? Legends are formed and made this way. That’s how things go. That’s how they go. The cannibal along the road. The wolf, in the distance. Only their howls… Only their howls…

The seducer, the other seducer (7)

The dog and the banjo may have been props after all. And then a trick–just a way to lure them in. What was missing in these lives? Or: is it just the reader being seduced? The story being the seducer. The un-story that is. The imagined tale.

The almost-black cat, the Persian cat, the Persian poet, the poet without poems (8)

This is what happens in these streets. Back alleys and secret boulevards. Symbols and signs. You have to pay attention. The thieves are really lurking. They make the world. They hide in the nooks. They watch and tell. They make visible the invisible.

155

The duck in the park, the tiny car, the gossip girl, the gossip guy (9)

How do we reconcile? The park and the duck. Suddenly appearing. And if we’re not mistaken, our same stranger. But he’s followed. Something has turned. A shift. A sordid story somewhere. The gossip folks are on it.

The kill, the gang, the ol’ country, ’murica (10)

It’s always dangerous and never to be taken for granted. Watch out. There’s gangs at every corner. Watch out. You never know what the truth is. Never really know what’s going on. Not in this country and not in others either.

The straphanger (back), the lamp (11)

Find a credit card on the ground. Wonder what to do. Good to help dude out. Leave a message so he doesn’t freak out. Make it safe. This is the way of the world. People may not understand but you can be fine thinking it’s fine. A lamppost.

156

Ala ’ eddin had he asked for Truth (12)

The lamp disappears. A universal image: a little lamp to rub to escape the heat and the hustle and the bustle. Of the bazaar. What could be truer. What could be grander. What could be more enchanting. Never ask for Truth.

The last fragment, the first story, the hate, the love (13)

Always how it goes. The emotions and the relations. Do we ever really love? Do we ever. Hate. How do those things happen? The beginning is false. The end too. How do we? Create the kind of story we can share. The first story. The first love.

157

The pizza slice, the drunk, the insult, the other pizza slice (14)

Everyday occurrences. Not take them for granted. Full of mystery, this banality. And it provides clues too. To our lives. Forgive the shouts of the drunken man. He knows not what he does. But this drunken man knew the stranger. And the dog. Go figure.

The adulterer, the old man, the false friend, the rest (15)

Of course it has to happen. At the end of life this was the kind of shit he would pull. Just sad. Just disgusting. How do we? What do we do? What is the meaning of life? O please! Are we going there? Pathetic rest of days. And all the friends who abandon you. Neighbors shouldn’t know some things. That should be the mantra.

158

The beginning, the denouement, the mise en abyme, the end (16)

Brooklyn probably. Red hook. Clinton Hill. Uptown too–Inwood. That’s when the original find took place. Then from there. Place to place. Train rides. Calls. Cries. What happens in the middle. The connections. The banjo. The dog. The dogs. Then how it all crumbles. Or not. Who had set whom up. Who was the real culprit? What was the conspiracy?

159

I, the reader, the un-reader (17)

All about the readerly phenomenon. The construction of images. The creation of stories. Without one. The imagining. Of events. And sequences. Construction of reality. Imaginary acts.

The unbook, the first lines, the straphanger, the truth (18)

After all was said and done, nothing had been said or done. Just words strung along haphazardly. With little thought. Thoughts abolished. Narratives fashioned. In the minds of the encounterers of works.

The burger, the yellow bus, the popcorn, the alkaline water (19)

It was always going to be that hard. Nothing ever easy. The images came rushing. Childhood. Adolescence. Teen years. How did these things even happen? How did migrations occur? How? And why did these images invade his being? And in this way.

160

The happy hour sign, the unhappy unhoused man (20)

It was right there. He was right there. There was a consideration. Then there was a conversation. I know who you are. I know where you live. Threats? Facts? Madness talking. Pay no mind. Hour of happiness. Still. He said if. I know where you live.

The match, the barkeep, the forgotten glasses, the broken bottle (21)

Because that’s just how it goes. This is what happens when you think too much. Try to understand. That’s always what happens. Let it go. You’ll be fine. You’ve been here before right, so. Just go with that. Go with the flow. That’s what happens. But who had too much to drink? Both protagonists?

The vodka cran, the whisper, the change, the shout (22)

Sure I can get that for you, sure I can, it’s too nice the smile it’s a bit too nice. Plus. What did you just tell that guy at the end of the bar? Why did they lean in and why the glance back? Tab or not? No. Cash. Change. Tip. Scream. Outside. Run. Back in a jiffy. A prank. Or was it?

161

Showtime (23)

I’m the best there is why would I mess around with others why would I. I don’t need deals. I don’t need to. I got the body. I got the mind.

The dancer, the dollar bill, the upset customer, the glasses (24)

Because usually that’s how it goes right or wrong because you don’t. Anyway. But I’m not. Anyway. Who found the glasses? Why was there a pole dancer there? The customer is always right but this time not. Also, why is the customer bringing a guitar in with them? What exactly does that mean? How far away was this joint from the spot of the find? How could he have ended up there? And then at the site of the find!!?

The game, the keeper, the score, the kill (25)

The last game they watched. The neighbor has always complained and thought that’s the way to go. He had never played goalkeeper in all those years. On the farm, the night of the tragedy, the shooter had somehow made their way in. And stolen some goods and also destroyed some furniture. They shot at, but didn’t kill anyone. But the trauma could not be overcome. Always trying to make up for this?

162

The karaoke den, the receptionist, the creepy dude, the singer (26)

It was customary to have their birthday celebrations at the karaoke place. The receptionists were usually friendly, but there would always be a creepy dude lurking too of course. How could they not be? You needed one of those. Surprise surprise, he played the banjo. Same banjo can’t tell. Story will have to determine. The creepy dude moonlighted as a singer at night. But at night, in fancy clothes and coiffed hair, the creepy dude was a heartthrob.

The duet, the shots, the dips, the knife (27)

They always thought they’d be together for a long time, if not ever. That’s how these things go. But then the fight happened. Somehow, those shots had been too much and he was a mad drunk. He picked up the knife and stabbed the other fellow. Happily, he was clumsy and it was just on his arm but still. The fellow vowed revenge, even though he was laughing. Could it be it was all about this? I mean, really.

The mic, the phone, the cable, the coward (28)

Let us go away was the big cry. Let us go and don’t be a coward. The kids had always wanted to go far but it was never possible. What else do you want they’d scream. You can reach us anytime on our phones. Plus. But the parents were not persuaded. The episode with the mic had made them highly suspicious and they could simply not believe. Why would I? How would it be? But they almost relented. Almost? Or did they? Hard to say. Was the protagonist one of the kids coming back later in life to do the deed? Or was this just a ruse? What was going on anyway?

163

The rooftop, the sign, Macy’s, the watchtower (29)

A date. On a posh rooftop. Few people and yet all tables have a “reserved” sign on them. Fake? The whole setup? What if the entire establishment was a fantasy. An illusion. All the signs and even the Macy’s all make believe. A watchtower. In the distance. Or this. How they sat. And drank. And cavorted. And.

The view, the guy on the phone, the white shorts, the black wallet (30)

It was a breathtaking view, no debate there. But a mysterious fellow on the phone appears. In white shorts. All around a strange stillness. Shots ring out downstairs. The sudden dash. The fear. Straphanger? The neighbor with the dog? A black wallet is on the ground.

The sunglasses during a cloudy afternoon (31)

He followed him. How he followed him and saw him with the sunglasses. How he snuck into a store to avoid detection but how the guard was onto him. The deaf dog on the sidewalk. The pursuit. In the streets and sidewalks.

164

The passersby, the bird’s eye view, the hotel, the room (32)

Wanted to go up on the last floor but they didn’t let him. Needed to see the whole city after this sudden twist but they didn’t let him. A passerby comes up to him. Strange the sensation. Brushes it off. From the higher spot a bird’s eye view. Doesn’t tell him much more. Is resigned to go back to the hotel. Collapses on bed in room.

The party, the staircase, the dog, the guitar (33)

How they had a good time when they went there. They kissed. The stairway but oh shit. The neighbor. The straphanger. The waitress and the kiss. Oh shit. Someone is walking up. They have a dog. But he didn’t see anything. Damn. They all go back into the party. Someone is playing the guitar. The host. Everyone sitting around listening.

The delay, the apology, the make-up, the cool cat (34)

How everyone came in late and everything was delayed. Normal in these parts. A few apologize but others don’t. They will all make up in the end. All you need is a magical banjo. And that’s what’s produced. Quite the cool cat after all this dude, the straphanger is thinking. I lucked out. Or, did he.

165

The cocktail, the waitress, the flirt, the number (35)

The story takes strange turns. The neighbor worked in a bar and the waitress was a friend. The waitress serves cocktails and one day the straphanger walks in. They make eye contact. The neighbor wasn’t working that day. The straphanger and the waitress flirted and exchanged numbers. It all goes wild after that.

166

The pad, the steel, the line, the coke (36)

How the invite stood. It matters what you can do. The pad and its placement in the industrial part of town. The few walkers. The steel structures. They took them up on the offer. It was grand. They did what they shouldn’t: got smashed and high. They had sex. It was otherworldly. They thought about doing it again. With booze and drugs this time. But it didn’t work.

The red curtain, the last coffee, the opera singer, the short shorts (37)

She found him in the small coffee shop. There was a red curtain. The entrance and the greetings. The last coffee. They spoke. They reminisced. They remembered. The old town. The desire to. The voice of the opera singer in Vienna. And no one else on the radio. An interruption. Did it really go back that far–and to that? No. Way. Austria? The neighbor? Him. Like. Whattttt!!!

167

The fall, the plant, the fall again, the last fall (38)

How the figurative fall coincided with a literal one. They take him to the hospital. Soothing it is not but healing. All sorts of plants. But in the hallway on the way out there is another fall. Broken bone. Coincidence. No way. A last cry for help. How no one hears. That was the last fall. There must be a plot. Revenge. Something strange is going on.

The end, the launch, the illusion, the straphanger (39)

That’s how you always said it, she said. You need to know the end. As if you ever know the end. You can only launch. And that was clear. Not a lie. Not an illusion. A real event. Real follow-through. Then you had to go on and invent. As if. Why the need to invent. And then the need to know the end.

The meeting, the secret, the corner, the revelation (40)

They would finally get to do it. The meeting they had long desired would come to fruition. This is what was necessary. There was no other way. They agreed: at the corner. Even though: it became highly suspicious. That, the illusion. The delusion. What was necessary after all. The revelation would soon visit them. He asked: the deaf dog bother you so much? He answered. Not as much as the magical banjo.

168

The reader, the reader, the untext, the reader (41)

That’s how these things go. All just an illusion. All just: play. Who the reader is, how they construct the text and the narrative. That’s what this whole thing is about. All about the awareness of the construction of narrative and connections. The hyper-awareness of it. The forced embrace of the lightness of it. And since the book is the epitome of that constructed environment, since the book is the ur-performance of construction and architecture of the literary and the highest achievement in some weird way, this is its undoing, its polar opposite. Unbook.

The truth, the pen, the screen, the realities (42)

How it is demonstrated that there’s no truth anywhere. That telling about the banjo makes it real. Writing the sudden appearance of the dog makes it real. Having the straphanger and the waitress meet and flirt and kiss makes it true. Unless: it really happened….

169

The country crooner, the competition, the date, the spill (43)

The outing to a joint off the beltway. A singing competition. Cheesy locales. Feel of karaoke. Except for the talented country crooner. Unexpectedly ramps up the quality of the show. A dispute. The fight almost. Over the crooner? They were on a date. One storms off. The drinks spill. Security contains it. Back to competition.

The thumbs, the light, the alarm, the call (44)

The expectation of an early morning call. That’s why they set their alarms that alarmingly early. And then multiple in case they slept through it. The first to text would reveal they were up. They had to be careful. Not to alarm the others. The call would take place outside. Only. By mutual agreement.

170

The broom, the can, the eyelashes, the flowing hair (45)

The night started promising. He’d even gotten dressed all fancy, something he hadn’t done in a long time. A show. Drinks. Perhaps an after-hour snack. Cab or subway. Subway still why not. He was an avid subway rider and knew his way around. And was never afraid or nervous. Sure. That made sense. He couldn’t have known. Of course not. What would ensue upon his return.

The chambers, the interrogation, the do, the smile (46)

There’s always adventures in subway rides and this one would be no different. Laughing. Debating. Cavorting. And then there was that weird relationship between a couple where she kept interrogating him. Meanly. In front of all. What was that all about? A kink maybe. Surely. Cause they seemed to be enjoying it, really.

The street, the skin, the seduction, the sin (47)

At the same time on the same day, the hero whose card we now know was lost, is walking in the street and encounters an old flame. Warm greetings. Then more. Surprisingly reconnecting at a deeper level. An invitation. Acceptance. Walk up the stairs of the walk-up. Entrance.

171

The bots, the boys, the dash, the slash (48)

Commotion next door. The boys must be at it again. Always playing strange games. Always at it but this time it gets louder and some arguments. A dash out the door. Worries. Fuck, this neighbor thinks. Just when I’m about to get. He ponders the move but decides against going to knock and complain. Could backfire.

The naked dude, the confrontation, the main point, the trash (49)

Earlier that day the confrontation in the street. An obviously intoxicated and drugged-up fella half naked (bottom) begging aggressively. The rejection. The anger. The words. Trash bags nearby kicked. Consequences. Why so much trouble. Why is there so much crap going on he wonders. Pandemic related, surely. Or not.

The ride, the dance, the song, the kiss (50)

Memories of other gatherings. What pleasures. What good times. Dances and songs. Parties. Orgies sure. No one could blame them for living an exciting life. But then the inevitable drama. So now that he was calmer, it made sense to expect more calm! But no. Never. Not in the cards.

The necklace, the gum, the letter, the shadow (51)

How that night proved more mysterious than ever could be imagined. The figure lurking under the tree. The stranger figures around the corner of the street. That letter. Under the door. And then the carrier disappearing. Then the gum stuck to his nice dress shoes. The neighbor in turn wondered how it could have gone. Why? Both victims? The neighbor and the straphanger? Because… the stranger?

172

The circle, the statue, the call, the cold (52)

That very morning before getting in the train that took him uptown: the exit at the circle and even in those early hours the traffic. Gaze up at the statue. The strange premonitions. The slight chill. And then that call. The call. As if. He could hear the barking. He was sure. Now. Could hear the banjo being played. He was sure. He thought.

The cushion, the cane, the neighbor, the cough (53)

He used his cane when younger and often carried around a cushion. That was the norm. Then the comments. The looks. The shaming. There was no recourse. Attempts at finding new ways. No one understood the disability. So little empathy. But this was not going to determine his life path now was it…

173

The broom, the coffee, the spill, the apology (54)

One day when riding, an object suddenly fell on him and hit his hand and the cup of coffee he was holding and it all spilled, but not too badly. It was a broom another rider was holding–not well, obviously. He didn’t get angry. Held on to the cup. Looked around. Realized what had happened. The guy apologized but even though it was tame as an apology, he didn’t make a big fuss. He thought back to this. Maybe he was making up for this. For his passivity. Now.

174

The station, the platform, the rush, the fall (55)

Fond memories of being on the platform of the trains late at night or early in the morning. A very particular crowd. Gazes and smiles. Almost like a secret society but sometimes with strange shit happening. All in a daze, it feels like. All in a daze.

The cancer, the regrets, the insomnia, the babies (56)

Their share of tragedy. From early on these memories. The disease that killed the grandparents. The war. The impossibility to see their parents. And yet: resiliency. Perseverance. The ability and desire to reject the world’s attempts at crushing you.

175

The cash, the skirt, the howl, the thanks (57)

She thanked him for the money and she spread it all across the seats in the subway car. Then the screams. A fellow calms her down. He’s been there, he says, he knows. She calms down and they talk. He sits next to her. Deep convos now. Gratitude. Observations that make the minutes pass. They were stuck. Imagine. If they hadn’t been stuck he wouldn’t have gotten there at that point and thus couldn’t have found the credit card. Had to be chance. Unless. Unless: the person had dropped the card on purpose and was riding with them. Planned, after all. A plot, after all.

The cigarette, the bag, the look, the museum (58)

Could never ride without noticing the ads. That night the ads all together had prompted a strange sensation. Almost like a premonition. That a small event, out of the ordinary, would occur. Leading to big transformations. He knew it. Just knew to trust the feelings.

176

The party, Saturday night, the beat box, the emptiness (59)

That night of partying and the subsequent fight and calls to the police prompted memories of other experiences. Especially the weird ones where the party would happen in the subway car itself. What with folks drunk already or just in a good mood, and one rider or another with their boombox blasting.

177

The seat, the bag, the ask, the attitude (60)

The attitude. The entitlement. Take your bag off the seat lady, he wanted to shout. And surely everyone else also too, but no one saw it and the lady with the bag on the seat refused to move it even though another lady was asking to sit. Damn! There’s other seats she kept saying, this is too heavy, there’s other seats. Again, passing the time when the trains move so slowly.

The mix, the formula, the ad, the land (61)

Always the images. How they invade. Desire to have them obliterated but how that doesn’t happen. They just keep coming. One image generates another and so on and it never ends. Images all around and especially in the train. All around. Endless the flow. Endless the flow. The card, the expenses,

the lies, the tricks (62)

He never thought he’d find a credit card. And even less try to find the person. But it had happened. He found the credit card on the ground and saw the name and looked it up and thought to bring it back to the holder of the card and found the address and even slipped a note so the holder wouldn’t freak out and then the contact and the meeting and then we know the rest! Fuck. Why didn’t you just leave the credit card alone!!

The canal, the beer, the grab, the dash (63)

The bad habit of grabbing as many drinks as possible. Never saying no. Downing them fast and grabbing more. How uneventful it could be but also how destructive. The warnings. Unheeded. The attempts at healing. Mocked. The walks along the canal.

178

The knife, the blood, the sidewalk, the passerby (64)

How the passerby walking her two dogs notices the strange smears. How the dogs sniff. How she examines closely. Very civically-minded citizen obviously. The call to the police. How they discover it is indeed blood. How they find a knife in the bushes after blocking off the area. How this sounds like a tv show but is not. Close to initial discovery of credit card by straphanger. Could it be.

179

The follow-up, the rumors, the gossip, the deaf dog redux (65)

It’s such a strange tale, they all say. Can’t believe it, they all mutter. Private convos. Whispers. Coffee shop side chats. Even makes the news. Could these two friends have it in for each other? Friends? They were friends? Barstool banter. The weirdness of it. Now the deaf dog is without a home. That’s what the tv reporter focuses on. No one talks about the banjo.

The trial, the judge, the audience, the shout (66)

During the trial all the details come out. The sordid details. The unthinkable details. How could one even. Such bitterness. Such inanity. Why would you even?! And to go about it in such twisted ways. Even the judge couldn’t believe it and the judge obviously had seen a lot. The family members kept shouting too. Got out of hand more than a handful of times.

180

The papers, page six, peanuts, pepper spray (67)

Even the papers couldn’t ignore the tale. Deaf dog. Banjo. Credit card. Straphanger. Neighbor. Lover. Mistress. Murder. Blood. They were not letting this one go. Page six fodder for sure. And then when the silly details and the positions came out, no one could stop talking about it. What the neighbor’s peanut consumption proves! And, of course, the famous episode with the pepper spray.

The big city, the little tales (68)

How the defense rested with quite the poetic riff on the paradoxes of city life. Millions of people. Anonymity. A gazillion events. And yet, little nabes and small rifts and bitterness and holding on to minor quarrels. Tragedy unfolding. Whose fault after all when all parties are party to the unfolding?

181

The thumb, the mask, the eyebrow, the smile (69)

How comfort could be found in the everyday. Rides. Readings. The coffee. The kind greetings. But this didn’t happen here. This got out of hand. And there was a real culprit. The injured thumb said it all. The fake smile and the perpetual mask masking the man and the intention. No, ladies and gents, there is a murderer in the room, and he is sitting right there. How this was the prosecution’s provocative and energetic and unapologetic closing. No ambiguity. The petty feuds mattered not. The murder was clear. And unforgivable.

The sighs, the cries, the fingers, the goodbyes (70)

There was a lot of passion in the courtroom. Lots of tears and screams and cries. People shouted at each other and pointed fingers relentlessly. Somehow the judge made the proceedings move forward. No one was happy in the end. How could they be? Individual sighs. Collective sigh. Then the inevitable goodbyes.

The covers, the cameras, the dog, the actors (71)

The story made more than just the news. Made the covers of papers large and small, magazines of all persuasions. Late night jokes. References all the time. Cameras started following the protagonists. From the actual ones to the lawyers who became celebrities, if even for just a moment or two. Talks of movies. Made for tv or feature. Actors getting all pumped up. The star though, indisputably, was going to be the dog. And, of course, the magical banjo.

182

The other banjo, the blind man, the shadow, the pot (72)

So how could it have gotten to this point–this was the question. How could something so banal, so idiotic really, something so, whatever the word should be, lead to those actions and these conclusions? How did no one intervene prior to the last unstoppable stages? Rhetorical questions all perhaps, since there are no answers… Just another mystery in the grand scheme of human incoherence–and tragic shortcomings. The bad thing was: there were victims–and there were losses.

The end, the twists, the questions, the beginning (73)

How does a story end–a story such as ours. What happens to the protagonists. Where do they go. What happens to them. And why. Do we feel good or bad. Do we have certain feelings about it one way or another. Why would we care really. Questions without question marks. It’s just words on a page or a screen or plain paper. All around. Going back to the beginning doesn’t help since the twists and turns and the ambiguity make it impossible to follow, somehow. What, after all, is an end. What, a beginning.

183

The review, the neighbor, the banjo, the deaf dog (74)

The deaf dog by all accounts has found a new home and is dealing with their trauma. Their involuntary engagement in the whole shebang. The banjo, magical as always, has found a new home with an aficionado. The neighbor–what can one say. There is little other detail one can give. All the players are still around. Somehow, living. From the judge to the waitress to the mistress to the other dog. It’s–well, it’s… a tale that can’t be comprehended for sure. One that has a hard time being told…

The straphanger, the knife, the kill, the case (75)

Not much can be said about the straphanger either. So much was covered in the papers and the press. The straphanger and the neighbor. The credit card and whether it was just a pretext. Or really all an accident. The terrible idea of going around with a knife because well, you’re going to have to use it. The case was closed and there was, well, closure. But is there ever closure for a reader? Like, ever? Or, do the images and the unresolved dimensions stay in our midst forever, forever with some sort of connection to the images from the untold tale?… Hmm… we’ll have to see…

184

The haircut, the beard, the laughter, the coffee (76)

Who was that a few months later seen laughing it up at the salon? Could it be?! No way. Just no. Not the straphanger AND the neighbor. WITH the deaf dog and even the banjo in his lap. As if…. What! All of it a prank?! A crazy prank?! On friends, the city, the state, the press, the justice system. But it was impossible to pull off a hoax of this magnitude. Wouldn’t somebody at some point have determined that… Well… maybe not. Or else, it wasn’t a hoax after all, but a tremendously subtle operation…

The aftermath, le bilan, the future, the next step (77)

As in most such cases, the whole affair was soon out of the minds of most. Long long gone. Hoax or not, no one seemed to care. And so, well, who cares? Let them cavort, the straphanger and the neighbor and the dog. With the mistress and the lover and the seducer and the secret admirer. They’ve buried the knife too–and the hatchet, so to say. It’s been a while. So, all is good. And with the magical banjo in their possession and the carefree lifestyle that will have them play the banjo happily in the park, life is just, good. They even have a credit card, with which to pay all the coming expenses. Victory, for sure. Grand, unfettered triumph. Yeay Yeay Yeay. End this way. End now.

185

186

187

188

189

190

191

192

193

194

195

196

197

198

199

200

201

202

203

204

205

206

207

208

209

210

Index of First Lines

211

These are 222 first lines associated with UnChapters within the segments whose titles and synopses are listed above. The numbers in parentheses indicate the segment number.

A black wallet on the ground indicates not (30)

A dog goes up the stairs in the staircase (33)

A dog that pees by the trash leaves the (49)

A fight broke out and before you know it the ambulance (4)

A man standing in front of the nail salon (3)

Aliens it had to be they were aliens (2)

All across the night the walkers (51)

All precipitated by a deaf dog–somehow that couldn’t be true (72)

Almost as if tomorrow didn’t matter (46)

Always along the road a stranger (6)

Always take into account the general inattention of (76)

Among the trees he would stand in his dream (39)

An argument between couples and drinks that spill (43)

An index of first moves in his drawer–a cartography of (13)

At least he was going to go out with a bang (15)

At night under the lights the heavy breathing after the run (48)

Ax-wielding madman terrorized the whole bunch of folks and (29)

Banjo city–that’s what the headline was (71)

Beer! More beer! More more beer! (63)

Birthday celebrations took place at the karaoke place (26)

Boats along the canal had only ever (47)

Brimming with confidence she put on her best face and (35)

Bunch of people were riding with knives in their hands too (59)

Burning inside a vision of failure beyond comprehension (45)

Cameras started following around the neighbor (71)

Carry this banjo wherever you go (39)

Cast a wide net and you’ll figure out if (65)

Chaotic writerly misers desire nothing more than (41)

Collateral damage–this is what is at stake (70)

Country crooners raised the level of competition (43)

Cowards who ruin it for all really (28)

Cusp of madness is where the antagonists were at (77)

Cut out the crap and tell the truth dammit (67)

Deaf dog can bark (31)

Don’t do this I told them just don’t do this (36)

Dude didn’t know if it was the beginning of the end or (70)

Early warning signs were nothing more than (73)

212

Eat your damn words is what I said the witness said calmly (66)

Even if one day you end up forgiving the (49)

Every night when he closed his eyes the poster above (61)

Everyone sat around and listened to the host play the guitar (33)

Fabulous memories of long-ago walks along the seaside (25)

Fake smiles all around and faker displays of affection (69)

Fantastic tales and songs invaded his being at the moment of (52)

Fear has never been a proactive generator of (76)

Find the knife and you will have found the culprits (74)

Flirting is unexpected but still (35)

Frivolous attempts at getting together with the worst of the (44)

From a distance a watcher (29)

Gentrification is always the de facto culprit–but you can’t (69)

Good thing was she had no babies (56)

Grasp the gravity of the situation please she pleaded (35)

Great taste of fine wine and great smell of exotic flowers in (34)

Hail the long dead king, they don’t make them like they (63)

Hanging by a thread is yet another strand of reality (77)

He approached very subtly and acted very strange (20)

He could get in trouble trying to do the right thing (62)

He could not get the image out of his mind of the (51)

He kept singing but could not forget the pain (50)

He never thought he’d find a credit card (62)

He sat in a stoic pose (45)

He smoked in the subway car but he had a look that was (58)

He stood up in the subway car and announced laughing (59)

He used his cane when younger and often carried around a (53)

Hotel rooms are no fun when you’re depressed (32)

How come these places are always so full anyway (28)

How did we end up here (14)

How easy it was to follow and to find (18)

How the knife was found in the bushes (64)

I got the body I got the mind I kept saying don’t say that (23)

I have never seen such eyes, the lie (29)

I live in a shelter now, he said (58)

I missed the train oh my gahd (14)

I nixed the idiotic and quite frankly dangerous plans (29)

I read with interest the fabrications and the bullshit spewed (67)

I will always seek the comfort of the red curtain (37)

If only our neighbors knew how to carry on in ways that (5)

I’ll never understand the machinery of fate (34)

213

I’ll try to forget (38)

Images invaded his mind (61)

I’m going to commit to total health that’s what we all (19)

I’m going to go get them make sure all is fine (16)

In drunken stupor he awoke from (8)

Inside the chambers all were polite but (66)

It always looked so fun (61)

It is unnecessary to ask for or to receive Truth (12)

It was in (17)

It was their fault (4)

I’ve slept two hours in the past two nights and you (46)

Jail was a possibility but who could make out the logic of (74)

Jerk the dog around and you’ll get your comeuppance (62)

Jiminy cricket you must be kidding they shouted in disbelief (47)

Just don’t go to the hospital (38)

Kindred spirits always find a way to (61)

Komrad with a K, please get to your spot–and they laughed (11)

Ladies and gentlemen these are the exits (30)

Last dance at the club for the night ey (57)

Last turn and never again another because (22)

Laughing up a storm drunk and high (50)

Laughter is the only solution to this as well as most other (77)

Leave a note–let them know this straphanger was just (18)

Look how we come to the end of a certain tale (72)

Low level pursuit that did not alarm anyone (31)

Lusting after too many in the end leaves you quite alone (63)

Make your own tale they seemed to be shouting (7)

Maybe everything comes down to a stupid love triangle (35)

Maybe it was when the deranged fellow confronted him (49)

Maybe this was the end after all (32)

Meandering through the alleys and along the sidewalks (69)

Must one day admit that the whole venture was a disaster (3)

Never got to sleep because my husband had cancer (56)

No one could really figure out how such a hoax could (77)

No reality other than the one (17)

Nunca! Nunca! As if to emphasize… but the passion was for (9)

Odious players and their jealousy (75)

Oh my lord how could this have (15)

Once a lie has been told (5)

Once so long ago he dreamed of a paradisiacal end (15)

One day when riding another rider (27)

214

One kid suddenly fell into him and hit his hand and (44)

One kiss and another a threesome and the beginnings of (50)

Opera singers will always get you (37)

Ostentatious citizens made way for the (76)

Other than the suitcase he was holding (54)

Out of this world it all came down to the (2)

Painful the discovery on the sidewalk (64)

Petty feuds generated a string of events that (69)

Phase three of the operation was not something they (70)

Pin the blame on others always and never doubt because (12)

Poets have a way of making sure an ending is never (74)

Poets lurking in the alley (8)

Profuse apologies followed–just a quick and simple (54)

Puny scrawny pathetic little f__ he shouted (9)

Questions without answers always who didn’t know that it (32)

Questions? You have more questions? Are you effin’ kidding! (19)

Ran with the story those bastards did with little to no (67)

Real issues with the official narrative they all knew (64)

Rest easy and the universe will (43)

Running it in AI the other lines except for the right one (55)

She couldn’t believe the seated woman didn’t want to (60)

She heard that at the bar and panicked (56)

She kept repeating where she was going (57)

She thanked him for the money and she spread it across (57)

She wore her glasses in such ways that it truly opened (24)

Sing sing sing folks sing your heart out (26)

Somehow the proceedings ended and somehow a resolution (70)

Straphangers of the world unite, for we (3)

Studying robots never had yielded the supposed charm (48)

Support the right to (19)

Tardiness was not a big deal in these locales (34)

That whole image belonged in a museum (58)

That’s just bullshit and you know it (55)

The absolute destruction of property and the (15)

The alarm will go off in a short little while (44)

The banjo and the dog had a mysterious air about them as if (2)

The beginning of the end was appearing in visions (66)

The card was maybe not lost there by chance (9)

The clumsy drunken madman could not even get out of (27)

The creepy dude was a heartthrob of a singer at night (26)

The crooked cop approached the stranger (4)

215

The customer was upset and was letting everyone know (24)

The dancer was quite adept and seductive (24)

The deaf dog alway could carry on (40)

The dog had a clear limp (1)

The end of the road is never seen from the (38)

The farm was quite a distance from the apartment in the city (25)

The goalkeeper, the shooter, the fam, the farm (25)

The grand betrayals started with someone ducking someone (35)

The human voice never forgets (37)

The knife was not that sharp and so the damage not so bad (27)

The lovers whisper on the bus (3)

The madness of the reader (17)

The magical banjo bothered him more (40)

The magic of a wave crashing against the shore (47)

The need to know the end was a real obsession (39)

The neighbor was always suspicious of the cushion (53)

The neighborhood is going to shit they thought (20)

The night was young and they were going to sing (45)

The ol’ country was just another lie he could do without (10)

The ones without words (1)

The shooter had grown up not far and knew all the victims (25)

The somber rites of passage would one day (10)

The story always is the seducer (7)

The straphanger found a credit card on the ground (11)

The straphanger wondered what to do (11)

The subway rides always had their share of confrontations (60)

The trauma of those years would always be there (25)

The truth just did not matter (42)

The ur-performance of the unconstruction (41)

The wolf knew that the howl (6)

The young boy had always loved the dog (48)

There is a foul odor in the hall (38)

There was no story only teases and seduction (7)

There was something sordid about the straphanger (9)

They all live quite happily all live happily without truths (13)

They always loved living in the industrial part of town (36)

They cavorted throughout the night (29)

They walked toward the destination in a daze (52)

Tragedy–another tragedy in our world is what we (68)

Under the couch they discovered more than just (65)

Usurpers will have their day and you are no different (33)

216

Victory is never as far away as we think but maybe not as (68)

Voices of reason finally came to the rescue but it may (71)

Walk into the building and walk up the stairs (18)

We have to know that the morning call can’t bring bad news (44)

We will get to the bottom of (76)

Wear your sweater it’s cold out there he heard the shout (52)

What you have to do to bring up the past (27)

Why always the rebel souls patrol these platforms in the (55)

Why ask for Truth I always told him why ask for Truth (12)

Will we ever know how many people were called (28)

Wonder if she reacts the same if the asker were a different (60)

Xander Koleishus you are forever destined to (5)

Xerx Z is somehow implicated in this story, I know it and I (74)

Year after year strange occurrences in that very part of (65)

Yonder the ruins the promise of a (75)

You effin’ bastard they shouted (4)

You make reality be real–reality is not real (42)

You suck someone shouted at the judge and she immediately (66)

Your motherfuckin’ tricks, treats, and lies have driven all mad (62)

Zealous criminals looking for a quick fix–not (68)

Zoological observations that brought nothing to (72)

217

218

219

220

221

222

223

224

Amir Parsa

Amir Parsa was born in Tehran and currently lives and works in New York.

An internationally acclaimed writer, poet, translator, prose stylist and new formist, Amir Parsa is the author of more than twenty literary works, including Drive-by Cannibalism in the Baroque Tradition, Feu l’encre/Fable, Erre, and The Complete NothingDoings. An uncategorizable body of work, his literary oeuvre–written in English, French, Farsi, Spanish and various hybrids–constitutes a radical polyphonic enterprise that puts into question national, cultural and aesthetic attachments while fashioning innovative genres, discursive endeavors and types of literary artifacts.

Parsa’s curatorial interjections, performances, conceptual pieces and subversions, along with photographic, participatory, and exhibition-based projects have taken place in a host of galleries, public spaces, and environments. Overall and through the years, his books, transgressive literary works, artistic fusions and transdisciplinary interventions have dazzled and bedeviled, enchanted and pissed off, and drawn all kinds of praise and scorn.

Born in Tehran, Parsa attended French international schools in Iran and the U.S., studied at Princeton and Columbia, and currently lives in New York. He is the Founding Director of the Center for Interdisciplinary Studies at Pratt institute, as well as Curator, Individualized Learning, and Associate Provost for Interdisciplinary and Integrative Learning. He coordinates cross-departmental minors, directs the Pratt Integrative Courses, teaches in both the PIC and Writing programs, and regularly launches neo-disciplinary initiatives.

229