In the House of the Hangman 1110

Such were the two objects, the shotgun and the tape recorder, that interested the Araweté the most: an instrument that increased the productivity of the hunt, and an ideological apparatus reproduced the singularity of the voice. Production and reproducibility, nature and supernature, eating and singing, animals and gods. Fuck I hate fireworks. The only thing that’s worse than fireworks are real bombs, which is aggravatingly Platonic I know. And then I stared at a tuna slab. That would have been me, skimming the moss. They are Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic and washed up on the beach trying to speak through old film footage, through her diary. The voices begin to speak toward something coherent and abruptly stop: you can’t be a slave, Pa Ubu. You’re far too fat.

My back
pack is
chock

full of dead
bees for you

look at
them!

I remember flying over the southern tip of Greenland, coming back from Iceland. We were on the right side of the plane for the photos and everyone began oohing and aahing at the brightness and the desolation. And I remember thinking if the plane had to crash, it should be right here. Because why? Because the architecture of data storage is inhuman. Servers don’t need daylight, so the spaces are lit by blinking power lights or eery coral-reef-like fluorescence. I mean, most of the time when I watch a Lars von Trier movie I find myself wishing I were watching it on mute. The image has thousands of possible ramifications, and yet the one that was chosen, for the most part, feels like you know how dogs aren’t really smiling, they’re just panting? and they don’t really kiss you, they just lick your face because they like salt? “Zero Sadness”: little kids that walk around looking down / not because they have low self-esteem but / because they’re looking at their cool shoes / light up and or sparkle. Before us is our flesh with the tattooed portents. A spider had somehow attached a web strand to my face and was climbing towards my nose from a pile of workbooks on the desk next to mine. I passed my hand in front of my right cheek and swung her to the floor. Teddy bear with black button eyes and black rubber ears is asleep next to the hand pump disinfectant dispenser. The dictionary is half-black and half-pink. A blue sticker is affixed to the back of the fat, little book. Inside are some drawings on napkins. I wasted in the coffee shop drinking bitter, while she searched for an electronic knuckle in the pickle shop. Flame-flaked paint. Those carpeted bathrooms. That smelly couch. Milk and tea and cookies named after a bodily process. “JULIA JULIA JULIA in my dream we were flying with a murder of crows and then you bit one of those motherf*ckers on the beak for trying to out-fly you.”

[Note: Eduardo Vivieros de Castro, From the Enemy’s Point of View: Humanity and Divinity in an Amazonian Society (tr. Catherine V Howard); Brandon Brown, “Fusees 22”, in Flowering Mall; Drew Kalbach, “‘The sheer number of corpses which pile up’: Drew Kalbach on Laura Mullen’s Murmur”, at Montevidayo, 9 Oct 012; Alfred Jarry, Slave Ubu (tr. Kenneth McLeish) in Jarry Ubu; Russ Woods, “Bees”, at have u seen my whale 4; William Keckler, “Greenland”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 9 Sept 012; JBR; Kyle Chayka, “The Aesthetics of Data Storage”, at Hyperallergic, 9 Sept 012; JBR; Blake Butler, “I Don’t Want To Read Any More Books About Straight White People Having Sex”, at Vice, 9 Oct 012; JBR; Heiko Julién, I Am Ready To Die A Violent Death, at scribd; Ana Carrete, “Zero Sadness”, at my name is mud; Adam Avikainen, “Ginger Glacier”, at Taipei Biennial 2012; anonymous, as quoted in Julia Cohen, “Harmonics like a Deconstructed River Press”, at $650 Apartment for $650, 9 Oct 012]

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