It’s like Marks plays like he’s identified a hundred possible rhythmic responses. Rather than choose one, he plays all of them silently in the air over the drums. Except for those few moves that do touch metal and skin. Obermayer starts a crunching gliss upward. A split-second in, Casswell jumps on it, bows the guitar behind the bridge, pressing hard to get that flat, unmediated partway between a disheveled animal and a pitch-shifted thing. They both follow each other along the same upward arc for about two seconds, Casswell reaching the end of his bow at the exact moment Obermayer reaches the top of his pitch-wheel, then Marks hits the bell of the crash cymbal, or drops a metal bowl onto the snare, I forget, exactly, but he puts down a place-marker that closes the phrase, and forces a new one. Marks, having trouble with his kick-pedal, unscrews and re-screws the mechanism as quickly as he can. You can't withdraw from this music; it moves too fast. I think of shaved cats that look like small pigs. I think of shaved human heads that look like starved pigs. I think of thin kisses followed by thick kisses. I think of the parts of us that spew. There are so many parts of us capable of spewing. Maybe there will be more parts soon. Next to Lalak is Mardak, inhabited by cypresses. Here is a list of the varieties: Nagiri, who have oblong eyes; to whom all objects appear oblong. Naquire, whose eyes are square. Palampi, who have very small eyes. Jaraku, with two eyes, which are turned in opposite directions. Mehanki, with three eyes. Panasuki, with four eyes. Harramba, whose eyes occupy the whole forehead; and finally, Skodolki, who have a single eye in the neck. You don’t have to google the names above to smell the money on them — but if you do, you’ll quickly find ;Vanity Fair’s “Fortune’s Children,” a series of 32 photographs of saddeningly gorgeous heirs and heiresses. “What’s it like being young and beautiful, with a 24-karat pedigree and inherited wealth, in populist, economically perilous 2009?” (I hear Keston Sutherland’s reply, which I’ve just mangled: “Coke through a funnel into my ass.”) As theory lags behind you could say it’s time to pay up the bill’s come due the situation that requires it, the party’s over the song’s arrested the sorrow’s hit the back of the stage and slopped over a pervasive atmospherics of precarity into the queen’s next of kin takes hold through the mundane repetitions salvaging little but the bark -- turgid, intermittent -- of doom you will say she’s at wit’s end of commodity purchase, disposal, and replacement. In contrast to the increasingly standardized processing of disaster-events the dark she longed to script against the beat of her wildest and public dreaming through digital now wrapped round templates of crisis news and humanitarian response, her sloped shoulders knitted shawls of stumbling shame hurried pen and no taste for sense longing longing for what was and will not be what cannot remember the slow catastrophe of repetitious wasting, of ordinary time itself wearing thin and human and non-human worlds bearing depleted signs of exhaustion what cannot have what broke my [ ] what stalled my [ ] what seized this leverage to forge over and over in the dullest seems to have not yet found a language for expression, much less public reckoning, repetition of nonsense an old, buried, rambled, wounded, enervated, sorrowing, laggard, happenstance like a mountain: the top can’t be seen from the bottom, the base disappears from the summit, the whole escapes the climber as the pilot misses the point, it stands as metaphor for something that exists metonymically, exists as a surplus of the Real with an excess of the Symbolic, is both of the moment and continuously monumental, typically involve hundreds to thousands of pieces, including pure gridded repetitions, dumb reiterations, and things both readymade and perversely and purely idiosyncratic, always in the present tense. Typing in the dark I was surprised by a large spider that dropped briefly before the screen before pulling itself back up. I let it go without comment. The Supreme Court just gutted the Voting Rights Act.
[Note: Sources: JBR; THF Drenching, “THF Drenching: That Irregular Galvanic Twitch: A review of Bark! live at St Margaret's Church, Manchester, Saturday 15-vi-2013”, at Association of Musical Marxists, 24 Jun 013; James Pate, “Pig Radio”, as quoted in Johannes Göransson, “Book of the Year: James Pate’s The Fassbinder Diaries”, at Montevidayo, 24 Jun 013; Baron Ludvig Holberg, Niels Klim’s journey under the ground being a narrative of his wonderful descent to the subterranean lands; together with an account of the sensible animals and trees (tr. John Gierlow), at Project Gutenberg, via Erik H Rzepka, FB post, 24 Jun 013; David Gorin, as quoted in “David Gorin Finds the Family for Dana Ward’s This Can’t Be Life”, at Harriet, 24 Jun 013; Jackie Orr, “a possible history of oblivion”, at Social Text, 17 Jun 013; Vanessa Place, “Hanne Darboven”, at x-tra 14.1; Geof Huth, FB comment, 24 Jun 013; JBR]