She then pasted these images together to produce what she calls “a ‘photographic plan’”, mapping a curious temporality, a kind of vanitas, constructed out of functionless mass consumer items. There is little to justify the profusion of these objects. They are simply the flotsam of international trade. Simply? Nothing explains them. If they are simply anything they’re simply weird. Brandt encountered this ecological crisis first hand when he stumbled upon a swarm of bees on a beach, wet and dying on the sand. I forgot the place, time and the cause of what was happening. In one moment, the battle scenes reminded me of the terrible days of the previous wars. It follows the journey of desperate emigrants, or tahrib, to their embarkation point on the coast of Somalia. In Blow-Up, Gersht’s camera both documents and memorializes these floral arrangements as they are detonated. But it’s the birds that used to come to your backyard at night but no longer do that keep you up. It’s a bit warmer, there’s a fire at the edge of town — Agbogbloshie, where they dump the obsolete technology, is known to the locals as “Sodom and Gomorrah.” They have no name for the burning pit. Since then, I have endeavoured to visit flood zones around the world, travelling to Haiti, Pakistan, Australia, Thailand, Nigeria, Germany, The Philippines, Brazil, and the UK and India, in search of these commonalities and differences. This vision of history as chaos has haunted me since I worked in Beirut in the early 80s, and with the conservation Rangers who battle multiple paramilitaries inside Virunga National Park. These tremendously detailed landscapes reference the Song Dynasty, but the heavy mountains are in fact virtually completely constructed with images of urban decay and over-development. So no, it is not incidental that Trump can be analyzed both as a hyper-narcissist media effect and as a sort of algorithm. Swimming Underground, your Warhol-family memoir, is pretty dark. At one point you’re all trying to get rid of the body of this sad girl, Ann, who seems to OD and die while being shot up. We wanted to get rid of her and put her down a mail slot. What’s dark about it? It’s funny. She wasn’t even dead. We were nice to her, we were going to mail her out. You have to understand how high we were. It was pharmaceutical amphetamine, so now it didn’t even bother me that someone had nailed a smoke detector to one of the trees. She looked up at the vast blue sky. What? The sad dog-faced boy backed away from the group and bolted for his truck at a dead run. The smoke alarm still buzzed away. “Now go back again, SLOWLY,” he said. What? While psychologists write bestsellers about humans’ “smarter” side — language, cognition, consciousness — and self-help gurus harangue us to be attentive and mindful, we all know that much of the time our minds are just goofing off. So what do rats dream about? You know that stuff that comes out of blowholes? They call that whale’s breath.
It smells good.
You sure? Because I’m not so good at this, but I love pretending.
No, it’s delicious. I feel great. I feel very content. OK.
It was Santiago Ramón y Cajal who first applied the term plasticity to the brain. The landscape of his childhood was epic. He claimed to have observed a million neurons, witnessing every phase of their lives. Their fibers “groped to find another.” Their aching contacts became “protoplasmic kisses” — a thrashing, aggressive energy that hasn’t been much heard in jazz since Miles took a five-year sabbatical in 1975 after a series of raucous concerts in Japan, later released as Agharta and Pangaea. Nor was he alone in playing an amplified, futurist form of the blues: Davis was taking part in a “thing” that lasted well into the eighties, which included Herbie Hancock’s Mwandishi, the bands Ornette assembled on albums like Science Fiction and Body Meta; and the work of the guitarists James “Blood” Ulmer and Sonny Sharrock, with whom J. T. Lewis played. In any case, it takes about six hours, more if you need to stop and change diapers, which we do. By the time we got off the highway, my three-month-old was screaming and my two-year-old was nearly asleep. My wife and I had been arguing, one of those arguments that only takes hold when a child is screaming and we are stuck in a car. I realized that I had lived in Tucson long enough. A second statement near the end of the Four Treatises goes even further. This time, a crack in the entire mythic edifice appears when reference is made to historical, geopolitical entities. It is an odd passage, coming at the end of the penultimate chapter and immediately following a survey of various therapies. Suddenly the frame story is invoked again, and Mind-Born asks the work’s expounder whether there is anything in medical science that is not included in the Four Treatises. The answer is a list of medical teachings that manifestations of the Buddha have taught for the benefit of beings in varying contexts and with varying needs. In India they have taught the use of medicines; in China, moxibustion and purgatives; in Dölpo, bloodletting; in Tibet, pulse and urine diagnostics; for the gods, the text Gso dpyad ’bum pa; for the sages, the Caraka in eight sections; for the tīrthikas, the Black Īśvara Tantra; and for Buddhists, teachings related to the three bodhisattva protectors. I refer to the important meditations Twenty-Six and Twenty-Seven and the “impasse of ontology” described therein, the crux of the book if not the crux of Badiou’s overall project, with page 278 in the English edition containing perhaps the single most important paragraph in all his work. Badiou claims in this section that the impasse was triggered world-historically by what he calls the “Cantor-Gödel-Cohen-Easton symptom,” referring to the four mathematicians who together, in Badiou's assessment, have revealed a condition within mathematics, and hence also within ontology, that forces a choice. In other words, “Being ... is unfaithful to itself,” and that, as a result, “quantity ... leads to pure subjectivity.” As John Thompson reminds us,
there is a nakedness underneath
that is underdeveloped
youth to it
I feel from it. Don’t
look now but there’s such youth
ful energy that
sound back in
all the book in a fraction
For instance, one might consider the set of simple counting numbers like 1, 2, or 3, collectively called the natural numbers. Or one might wish to talk about the integers: 1, 2, 3, and so on, but also including zero and negative numbers like -1, -2, and -3. Or one might discuss all the fractional values like 1/2 or 15/16, these being the numbers expressible via a ratio of integers and thus gaining the title of rational numbers. Or one might wish to discuss an even more capacious category of numbers called the real numbers, those being the sum total of all of the above — the natural integers and the fractional rationals — plus everything else on the continuous number line, all the so-called irrational numbers like π that can not be written as a ratio of integers. The real numbers thus include integers like -2, fractions like 3/4, but also irrationals like π. And it turns out there are quite a lot of irrational numbers, an innumerable number of them in fact, even though Yevtushenko died yesterday, he who (among other things) wrote
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
I’ll return to this later, but I want first to try and think with one of the most heterodox entries in the interwar philosophical debate on fascism, Bloch’s The Heritage of Our Times. This protean, fascinating and unsettling work — which Benjamin once likened with pejorative intent to spreading wonderfully brocaded Persian carpets on a field of ruins — contains a central, and justly famous, reflection on ‘Non-Contemporaneity and the Obligation to its Dialectic’. Like Bataille, if in a very different register, it was not at the level of political instrument or psychic pathology but at that of perverted utopian promise that Bloch approached fascism. Notwithstanding the crucial elements this occluded from his view, this angle of vision allowed Bloch to identify its popular energising features, ones which, in his view, its Marxist and communist counterpart had failed effectively to mobilise. Underlying Bloch’s argument is the idea that the socius is criss-crossed by plural temporalities; the class structure of modern society is shadowed by multiple cultural and historical times that do not exist synchronously. The racist, conspiratorial occultism of the Nazis taps this lived experience of uneven development:
The infringement of ‘interest slavery’ (Zinsknechtschaft) is believed in, as if this were the economy of 1500; superstructures that seemed long overturned right themselves again and stand still in today’s world as whole medieval city scenes. Here is the Tavern of the Nordic Blood, there the castle of the Hitler duke, yonder the Church of the German Reich, an earth church, in which even the city people can feel themselves to be fruits of the German earth and honor the earth as something holy, as the confessio of German heroes and German history ... Peasants sometimes still believe in witches and exorcists, but not nearly as frequently and as strongly as a large class of urbanites believe in ghostly Jews and the new Baldur. The peasants sometimes still read the so-called Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses, a sensational tract about diseases of animals and the forces and secrets of nature; but half the middle class believes in the Elders of Zion, in Jewish snares and the omnipresence of Freemason symbols and in the galvanic powers of German blood and the German land.
Where the class struggle between capitalist bourgeoisie and proletariat is a struggle over modernisation, the synchronous or the contemporary, both socially and psychically many (indeed most) Germans in the interwar period lived through social forms and psychic fantasies embedded in different rhythms and histories. Mindful that it would be wrong to view any of these as merely primitive, in a country where social relations of production were never actually outside capitalism, Bloch wants to detect the ways in which, when it comes to their fears (of social demotion or anomie) and desires (for order or well-being), these groups are somehow out of sync with the rationalizing present of capitalism – the so-called enlightened space occupied by the mainstream socialist and labour movements. For Bloch, the Germany of the 1930s is a country inhabited not just by disenchanted citizens, workers and exploiters. Crisis has brought ‘nonsynchronous people’ to the fore: declining remnants of pasts whose hopes remain unquenched, easily recruited into the ranks of reaction. Hmm. According to MTN News, Whitefish, Montana native Michael Potter recorded a bear wandering near the side of a road, and after zooming in, realized that it was carrying a black laptop. To quote William Burroughs, wouldn’t you? So when I pick up Tom Cohen’s “Make Anthropos Great Again! — Notes on the Trumpocene”, and think on its first epigraph, which is by Bernard Stiegler, and which reads: “the Anthropocene epoch, from which it is a matter of escaping as quickly as possible ...” I reach for my you know because there is no such thing as quickly here. One-Way-Street, to quote Walter Benjamin. NO EXIT, to quote American Psycho. Take Paolo Bacigalupi’s very likely prophetic The Wind-Up Girl, for instance, or Rob Ziegler’s equally likely prophetic Seed, in which, a century from now, most of the surviving population leads a nomadic existence, migrating across dustbowl landscapes in search of habitable, arable land. Decades of war, resource depletion and population decline have left the government practically powerless. Gangs and warlords rule. The only thing staving off full-blown starvation is Satori, a hive-like living city that produces genetically engineered drought-tolerant seed. Its population is a mix of transhuman Designers, Advocate warriors and “landrace” Laborers. When one of Satori’s Designers leaves the fold and goes rogue, the government sends the ex-military Secret Service Agent Sienna Doss to track her down. Seed follows several separate but connected plots. Brood, Hondo and Pollo are starving migrants trying to make ends meet in the parched America quote unquote heartland. By the way, I’d love to kill the person who first came up with “heartland.” And “homeland,” for that matter. But forget that for now. On the other end of the spectrum are Pihadassa, the Satori Designer who strikes out on her own, and her former partner Sumedha who remains in Satori. They can see and manipulate DNA helices, both of the gengineered seed Satori provides and of the people and clones around them. After that,
I can’t remember the order of
because “order” is different here.
The intermezzo swells
that I used to
Do you like this death?
Death was blonde and wore a black leather jumpsuit. Her dog wore a black leather jacket. I was commanded to pat the dog. The pencil sharpener seems friendlier, almost like a dog. The dog (bottom right) stands guard. Top right is the house where they found Bin Laden. A webcam is positioned top left, and a QR code. Last but not least, a heat diagram of the Fukushima meltdown, a few angels, and a submarine, which reminds me somehow of the local lady who taught Queen Elizabeth to drive. (Yeorg taps his paws on the table. A small unseen bell rings.) (There is a kind of straightening and hesitation of feasters.)
Venom unscrolled sweetness of honey and goorm
mist GREEEEYAKK! By blithe cup.
! OH GARDEN !
F is for
sees cows in space — the beauty of it all, seeing space in the first place,
cows second, nevermind where — or a palace of cows —
or maybe the
artery, or the
or the superior
vesicle artery —
of the bullet being
that it sends
of trauma out to
of the child’s body,
into a kind of
biological frenzy —
See, I still talk like you. I
must be the Mother
Many of these episodic encounters were wisely cut on screen — does anyone miss Dainty China Country? — but I loved to reenact Dorothy’s escape from the Kalidahs (tiger heads, bear bodies) and the Hammer-Head Quadlings. I tried playing a Kalidah, and I had a brief stint as Glinda the Good Witch, thanks to a pink mask that I fastened over my face with an elastic band. I knew, though, that I was really Dorothy. I didn’t just identify with Dorothy; I identified as Dorothy. That’s what I wanted to be called. I read all fourteen books in Baum’s series. My favorites were Ozma of Oz, where Dorothy leaves Kansas for good to rule by her friend Ozma’s side, and The Lost Princess of Oz, where Dorothy rescues Ozma from imprisonment inside an enchanted peach pit. It was around this time that I asked my mom if I could wear a pair of her clip-on earrings to school. “The Wizard of Oz didn’t make you a girl,” my dad told me recently. “It made you a pain in the ass.” He was probably right. I thought about my own son’s demands when he was four. After my wife and I took him to a cousin’s wedding, he announced that he was Lexie, the bride. He would don a white towel as a veil and walk the seven circles of the Jewish marriage ceremony with whichever parent was available, enlisting his one-year-old sister to preside as “the little rabbi.” When we called him by his name, he would insist, “No, I’m Lexie. I’m a girl.” A preschool evaluation form posed the question: “If you asked your child whether he or she was a boy or a girl, would your child answer correctly?” We weren’t quite sure what that meant. Lately, he’s been putting on productions of The Wizard of Oz in the playroom with his sister. They tend to swap roles. The other day, I ran into one of my preschool teachers at the grocery store. She greeted me tentatively. “Daniel?” she said. “Is it alright if I call you Daniel now, or are you still Dorothy?” It was a fair question. I mean,
one person has one leg on one
person’s shoulder and the other
leg stretched out and twined
around the other person, moving
back and forth.
But more than Williams’s premise, what stuck with me — long after my plane had landed and I’d Ubered home and the results of the election had come in — was this detail from one of the lineated sections:
the broken plate
glazed with a rose
So as you can tell I’m still recovering from pneumonia but I’m well enough now to look back at the past week and realize how totally sick I was. I get terrible fever dreams that seem so real they bleed into real life and one of the strongest happened Wednesday when I fell asleep reading Ready Player One and Victor woke me up with a “medicine ball” from Starbucks and he tried to explain that it was some drink from their secret menu that he read helps when you’re sick (hot tea, steamed lemonade, honey, heroin probably) and I took it and honestly thought he’d slain some orcs and this potion had dropped when he killed them and I was super impressed for an hour until I fully woke up and realized that I was being crazier than normal. But I do totally recommend the medicine ball. Kashyapa, it is like the plants and trees, thickets and groves, and the medicinal herbs, widely ranging in variety, each with its own name and hue, that grow in the hills and streams, the valleys and different soils of the thousand-millionfold world. Dense clouds spread over them, covering the entire thousand-millionfold world and in one moment saturating it all. The moisture penetrates to all the plants and trees, thickets and groves, and medicinal herbs equally, to their little roots, little stems, little limbs, little leaves, their middle-sized roots, middle-sized stems, middle-sized limbs, middle-sized leaves, to their big roots, big stems, big limbs and big leaves. Each of the trees big and small, receives its allotment. The rain falling from one blanket of cloud accords with each particular species and nature, causing it to sprout and mature, to blossom and bear fruit. Though all these plants and trees grow in the same earth and are moistened by the same rain, each has its differences and particulars. Which is why, when I was a debutante, I often went to the zoo. The animal I got to know best was a young hyena. She knew me too. She was very intelligent. I taught her French, and she, in return, taught me her language. In this way we passed many pleasant hours. Not long after, I learned that there’s no better way of growing mushrooms than by burying a car. Three years later, my mother, brother and I left Iran for real, this time after my mother had been dragged to jail, after the moral police had interrogated her three times and threatened her with execution. We became asylum seekers, spending two years in refugee hostels in Dubai and Rome. By that time I had lived my first eight years in the belly of wartime Iran — for most of the 80s, the Iran-Iraq war wrecked our country and trapped us in a state of almost constant fear. I had grown accustomed to the bomb sirens, the panicked dashes down to the basement, the taped-up windows. So the time that followed, the years in hostels, felt peaceful, a reprieve from all the noise. When I was 10, we were accepted by the United States and sent to Oklahoma, just as the first gulf war began. The first thing I heard from my classmates was a strange “ching-chongese” intended to mock my accent. I remember being confused, not at their cruelty, but at their choice of insult. A dash of racism I had expected — but I wasn’t Chinese; were these children wholly ignorant to the shape of the world outside America? If you want to mock me, I wanted to say, dig down to the guttural khs and ghs, produce some phlegm, make a camel joke; don’t “ching-chong” at me, you mouth-breathers. (See? I had learned their native insults well enough.) Of course, I didn’t say that. And I didn’t respond when they started in on the cat-eating and the foot-binding. I took these stories home and my mother and I laughed over chickpea cookies and cardamom tea — fragrant foods they might have mocked if only they knew. By then it was clear to me that these kids had met one foreigner before, and that unfortunate person hailed from south-east Asia. Years later, in the curved hallway outside of the screening room where I had just watched Olivier Assayas’s Personal Shopper, a movie about a famous model’s glamorous assistant who can possibly talk to ghosts, I overheard a woman, whose face I couldn’t see on the other side of the bend, exclaim that the work was unrealistic and insincere, because she’s shopped at Cartier before and knows from experience that they would never allow a customer to just sling her recent jewelry purchase over her shoulder and drive it home on a motorcycle. They would, of course, messenger it over. What struck me about this critique wasn’t that it was good or bad (how should I know), but that it misapprehended the spirit of the project. Though the film is awash in sequined dresses, leather pants, and precious accessories, it never occurred to me that it was made for an audience that knows what it’s like to shop at Cartier, or, more importantly, would ever want to. Maureen is also big on texting. The film’s dramatic centerpiece is a text conversation between her and a mysterious interlocutor whom she suspects could be her dead brother. The first text begins in frantic search. Roman goddess Ceres has been transplanted to the Diaspora, driven “grief gone mad with crazy” over the abduction of her daughter Proserpine. Over the course of seven texts, mother and daughter circle around each other’s memories of what seems to be unknowable. Ceres searches, going as far up as “where north marry cold I could find she — / Stateside, England, Canada” — locations in various knotting ways connected to black women’s histories and movements, silences and forced placelessness. What remains of their dance are “dream-skins,”
the smallest cell
(sliding two semitone to return
a secret order
this isa nice neighborhood
birds in song
spit golden ropes
a woman is riding a bus
with a sack of black apples in her lap
an ant poised on a blade
beside the chopping block
You could maybe say the same about lots of drone-leaning music — though it would have to be lots of good-to-great drone-leaning music — the two tracks where Davachi plays piano on All My Circles Run likewise work with minimalist templates, but they add a melodic dimension. On “Chanter” she piles up short, muffled figures like a quiet car crash on the road to Poppy Nogood’s house. At the same time, it is violently beautiful and roaringly ugly like a tapenade forced rictus by rictus through the translucent inhuman centipede, held aloft and rotated in the chamber until the fendahl drops a yellow glowing hand from the sky to write on Dover Beach in a thousand policemen △ 4, ▽ 0, = 4. △ 3, ▽ 0, = 3. △ 3, ▽ 0, = 3. △ 2, ▽ 0, = 2. Giant rat of Sumatra. YOUR BENEFIT ENTITLEMENT HAS CHANGED. So I am in a town, or finding out how to get there. I am there with my old boss, who is running some kind of artistic event, though it turns out to be more like an activist gathering. Who the activists are is very unclear, but it turns into a conference which people from all over the world are attending. Kim Jong Un is there and Dolly tells me that I have to meet him because I won’t get the chance to meet him again. When I start to talk to him something radiates from my head like paint spray at which point the Internationale comes on. Kim doesn't know the words, even though I am able to sing it in any language I choose. I sing it to him in Korean then French. I suddenly realise there is a rucksack I must hide. I am called in for my interview which I assume will be with the police or with a lawyer or a judge and suddenly know that I know nothing of the law, of my rights, of what I can and shouldn't say and how the entire structure of law works in any case at all. It’s a huge relief. A small face appears in the wall smiling uncomfortably at me. I use my slightly awake mind to undo the restraints.
[Note: Sources: “Ilit Azoulay”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; JBR; <“Valérie Belin”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; JBR; “Matthew Brandt”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; Maxim Dondyuk, quoted in “Maxim Dondyuk”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; “Alixandra Fazzini”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; “Ori Gersht”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; John Gossage, quoted in “John Gossage”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; “Pieter Hugo”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; “Gideon Mendel”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; Sophie Ristelhueber, quoted in “Sophie Ristelhueber”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; JBR; “Brent Stirton”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; “Yang Yongliang”, in Prix Pictet, Disorder; JBR; Tom Cohen, “Make Anthropos Great Again!—Notes on the Trumpocene”, at Academia.edu; anon, and Mary Woronov, during an interview, and Woronov, Snake, quoted in Dennis Cooper, “Mary Woronov Day* *( Restored)”, at DC’s, 1 Apr 017; JBR; blurb for Michael Corballis, The Wandering Mind, found somewhere on the web; JBR; Hilton Als, “Making Theater: An Interview with Elizabeth LeCompte”, at The Paris Review, 30 Mar 017; Benjamin Ehrlich, “The Hundred Trillion Stories in Your Head”, at The Paris Review, 27 Mar 017; Adam Shatz, “Blues to Come”, at The Paris Review, 27 Mar 017; Mike Powell, “Zonies, Part 7: Zonies”, at The Paris Review, 28 Mar 017; Janet Gyatso, Being Human in a Buddhist World: An Intellectual History of Medicine in Early Modern Tibet; Alexander R Galloway, “Mathification”, at Alexander R Galloway, 2 Apr 017; JBR; Del Rey Cross, “mmdccxi”, at anachronizms, 2 Apr 017 (the epigraph is by one John Thompson); P Inman, Waver, at Eclipse; Alexander R Galloway, “Mathification”, at Alexander R Galloway, 2 Apr 017; JBR; Yevgeny Yevtushenko (RIP), “Babi Yar”, at Remember.org; Alberto Toscano, “Notes on Late Fascism”, at Historical Materialism; JBR; Eric Grundhauser, “Is This Montana Bear Carrying a Laptop?”, at Atlas Obscura, 31 Mar 017; JBR; Stefan Raets, “Satori in the Dust Bowl: A Review of Seed by Rob Ziegler”, at TOR, 8 Nov 011; JBR; Stefan Raets, “Satori in the Dust Bowl: A Review of Seed by Rob Ziegler”, at TOR, 8 Nov 011; JBR; Alice Notley, “The World I’m Dead In”, “From Testament of the Ghouls”, in Songs and Stories of the Ghouls; Tilleke Schwartz, New Potatoes (re her embroidery, “Domestic”); Michael McClure, ! THE FEAST !, in The Mammals; Jack Kerouac, Old Angel Midnight; Sawako Nakayasu, nothing fictional but the accuracy or arrangement (she; Josef Kaplan, Poem without Suffering; Alice Notley, “Another Part of Now”, in Songs and Stories of the Ghouls; Daniel Pollack-Pelzner, “The Book That Made Me: A Girl”, at Public Books, 3 Apr 017; JBR; Juliana Spahr, “switching”, in Fuck You-Aloha-I Love You; David Trinidad, and William Carlos Williams, quoted in Trinidad’s “So Much Depends: On the Particular, the Personal, & the Political”, at Harriet, 3 Apr 017; JBR; Jenny Lawson, “Who Looks Stupid Now?”, at The Bloggess, 2 Apr 017; The Lotus Sutra (tr. Burton Watson – RIP); JBR; Leonora Carrington, “The Debutante”, and “The Royal Summons”, at Vice, 3 Apr 017; Dina Nayeri, “The ungrateful refugee: ‘We have no debt to repay’”, at The Guardian, 4 Apr 017; JBR; Hannah Gold, “Shop Talk”, at The New Inquiry, 4 Apr 017; Allison Conner, and M NourbeSe Philip, quoted in Conner’s “Unraveling tongues: A review of ‘She Tries Her Tongue, Her Silence Softly Breaks’”, at Jacket2, 4 Apr 017; Farid Matuk, book title, and “But Richard, Will You Show Me an Ethic of Freedom?”, in This Isa Nice Neighborhood; CD Wright, “The Night Before the Sentence Is Carried Out”, in Steal Away: Selected and New Poems; Leonardo Sinisgalli,”Interior”, in The Ellipse (tr. WS Di Piero); Marc Masters, and Bill Meyer, blurbs for Sarah Davachi, All My Circles Run, at Sarah Davachi; JBR; Timothy Thornton, “brief review of Verity Spott’s new book ‘GIDEON’”, at Timothy Thornton, “2 years ago”; result of google search on Verity Spott and Timothy Thornton; Timothy Thornton, “brief review of Verity Spott’s new book ‘GIDEON’”, at Timothy Thornton, “2 years ago”; JBR; Verity Spott, “Dream Diary 21.10.2016”, at Two Torn Halves, 21 Oct 016]