34 35th St., Unit 26, Brooklyn, NY, 11232
I keep thinking about Eyebeam and the projects, which might or might not have a teleology, focus, or product - an end-point of some sort. My own work continues to be a mess, it's about that, it doesn't focus, there's no narrative (just as, in our daily lives, there's no narrative, only micro-scripts between birth and death). My work operates from gestures, non-aristotelian logics with ill-defined spectra: what's abject is impossible to contain. I think of music improvisation, which ends at a hiatus or moment of exhaustion, when things seem to reach a point of no return. But this is just a sequence of breath, breathing, nothing more. I watch the residents and fellows at work; what they're doing almost always seems to be a clear carving, whether it be capital, program, or agriculture. I have no idea what my goals are; I meander. My thinking meanders. I produce without beginning or end. I record all the sound, most of the thinking, images, and video. Something will remain of that, a kind of philosophy or phenomenology of philosophy, thinking through collapsing structures, opening of wounds. For relaxation there's Celan? Here I have Ken Wark's The Beach Beneath the Street, Wendy Doniger's Kamasutra (I trust everything she writes), Peter Lamborn Wilson's Sacred Drift. I just found the diary of my grandmother who died in the early 20th century. And a coin from Louis XVI. There is always pain is disconnection; every signifier is a break, a collapse: every signifier wounds. That's the effect of scission, of something-or-Other relegated to the Pale.