This is a ledger about the very ordinary spiritual recovery of its contributors.
This sight is a place for them, under one persona, to deposit the residue of daily experience. It is like a mountain storing depleted uranium overlooking the sea.
The present moment is all I have and it is impossible to retain. The number of people I have been will always outnumber the one that I am. This is a living history of traumatic remainders of the present moment.
When I am in the now each thing is what it is and there is nothing left over. That is Buddha. For us there is a remainder of unresolved anxiety. This is a place to turn that anxiety into art and be through with it.
This is a rhizome between the multitude that I am and the multitude you are. It is a simple machine for some of us to be more human.
In these notebooks one or several of us-.
In this place which is no place this is the grass
This is about how 'things as they are' force more beauty than we can handle. Here's where I'm waiting until the clouds are gone.
This is a place to escape from our daydreams. Hello: keep coming back.
Everyone who had ever lost anything in the neighborhood or passing through it would call. Like trying to find the owner of dropped casino chips or cash, the sign which was meant as a secret message as first invited the basest regimes of desire.
Then, on the day this photo was taken (I took it to commemorate the brand new eyes I took-to at just this moment on this day, the day after the day we lost contact), no one came out. I sat in my car, I climbed around. No one was left.
In some foreign cultures people pay their spiritual taxes or cop to their resentments or commemorate a day by driving nails into a fetish. Gets to be more surface is occupied by nails than by fetish. Gets to be you can’t sometimes discern which or what kind of idol it was before people laid hands upon it and walked away.
-from the dedication to Atom DeLancey of Counter-Memory and Recreation by Increase Heartgather
thanks to visual-poetry:
from the “lost signs” series by phil jones
Fugue 2
Fugue 1
We were told to watch the video but there really wasn’t any video. We saw the stricken title, the actual title, and four lush frames counting off. I’d make an analogy to a Waltz, but when you do that you are writing about something nobody does anymore.
Then the light went out and the audio kicked in. Consistent, dawdling commotion. Water, wind. Wind? We sat there holding our breath waiting for context until it felt as if someone was going to breakdown. All these sounds that were not interested in performing for us left the distinct impression that something horrible, violent and loud was very soon going to happen. You hoped it would just to have done with it. Trauma in the Bullerfly House.
I cannot say why but the next afternoon I excused myself and played the tape again. In the first four- the only four- frames the waterfall seems frozen the ferns seem prehistoric, and the water a simulation. And so how was I to believe that right there one could see, in the lower corner, a butterfly take off and flap its wings, heading off the margin into the unseen event horizon of geodesic time that I had myself already fallen victim to by pretending there was not a chance an entire uncanny world might be ruminating past the fringe of my viewfinder.
Getting oldButterfly House
Name.
