by Ex. Wall
Perhaps my belief in solidified thought was hereditary
| Perhaps my belief in solidified thought was hereditary. On the face of my monitor: the flying creature had landed on the elephant to extract a colony of scabies. Once I opened my eyes: I discovered it was a looped animation concerning a hummingbird made in 1967, where the bird was flying on repeat.
There was a vial of maple syrup on the desk, which I drained entirely. Following my drink: a flat mask engulfed everything except for the shadows in any location other than my projector screen. Incrementally, the mask stretched itself across me. Maple syrup was a shortcut to my impulses in a vacuum. I found it difficult to grasp the doorknob as I was quite pale at the time, but I drew it open.
Outside: the world might be a stable reference for the color of dormant skin. The corridor continued for long enough that I could make out the edges of the vapor cloud. A pedal from "Fifteen" hit the side of the building, or maybe it was a bird flying on repeat. For a moment contemplated how deranged a bird would have to be that it couldn't find an equal in a moth trying to travel through a window. Puddles stretched out to the portico from singular steps. I couldn't move any further in that direction. Now I could watch the sea terminal from the corner of the plaque.
One door to the stairwell made itself available, splintering its frame against the adobe bricks. It was jaundiced before, now it was reduced to being slightly more useful than a wooden canvas. The former artists of this institution corroborated here and left drawings; often they were crude and similar variations on humans with their aliases written below. Upon the graph paper wall squares: there was a stick figure drawing of Uta Barth which smelt of echinacea-scented cologne. I remembered the brand to be Zuckerzeit, which was a cheap perfume. I was tempted to look at her more closely but it did not need to be in focus. This blurriness could prettify a hyena taxidermy. I wandered around before coming across a sign reminding me that I had left my raincoat at this WC vendor, forgetting about it while finishing a packet of multigrain crackers. While I tried to put it on, some folds formed in my face.
Removing my lute waistband, I noticed that the radiator wasn't melting any plaster. Against the lead piping, I tended to perform the vices of a normal man. I took a small am radio down here on occasion. My hopes of intercepting an Art Bell broadcast were stiffly disregarded, but the random noise was something I used as a distraction by all accounts. On occasion, I would think about people. Fourteen tapes attempted to discover the sorts of sound Herbert Eimert was borrowing for "Klangstudie 1". Unlike Eimert, who performed in a laboratory with the dregs of alternative sounds: this building suggested an entire environmental palette. Over all else it was a palace of industrial junk and recording equipment. None of the aforesaid equipment was in this cubicle. I had since emptied my notion that anyone used this bathroom anymore, but I still changed my clothes within it.
"Full actuallization and isolation", my foot.
No one as isolated as that would have had enough vanity to care about how they purport themselves. I had only ever kept one sentiment from my past, which was noteworthy enough for me to stifle my cravings for other artifacts. A simple organ donor card, which wasn't a hereditary thing, was this item. I sat my spectacles down and looked through them at the organ donor card. Following my seclusion, I had forgotten which organ was donated.
"Kidney" is what my card says.
Considering that the organ donor card has in effect told me something, it now features the answer to a question that is much more straightforward than remembering what organ was removed and what procedure was used. I could ask why I'd donated an organ, and I could ask how I was still alive. But much like more than claiming that a blue vase is teal and sinuous, both adjectives are redundant without expansion into a little story. Within Lena Providence: an organ donor card decorated the lute waistbands worn by any well-meaning naked athlete, who were often messengers. These pieces of plastic symbolized an efficacy that transcended the village-locked, because messaging was an exile duty. They despised plastic, and attributed any plastic that wasn't delivered by god's hands as a form of heresy punishable by "messaging". That's why I donated an organ. A walking boot is removed for causing an ulcer. The other question remains unanswered because it's still easy to walk with one shoe on, and it's the right size.
Some more Eimert speculation later, I arose and stepped out of the cubicle. Certain things were here that I owned. There weren't many things I would take with me in the event of fire, except for the Vegetable Elephant computer I usually never removed from the floor. A Xerox 8010 Information System. Just because I gave it a name didn't mean that it was my intention to keep it safe from water damage.
It was a lead-pipe sinch to get the Vegetable Elephant 8010 running again and start writing this memo. I don't have a very good explanation as to why I've wasted so much of my time creating messages on a computer that requires you be present in this room in order to view them, but I feel as if it might be something you'd suspect me to do. I estimate there's only about 3 more months of foodstuffs available in the entire high-rise and I haven't made any progress discovering where the nearest landmark might be. I apologize that in many ways this is written as my journal would be, and contains many sensitive and tedious descriptions of my day. At least I only gave my description of my descriptions the "two meaningless attribute" treatment and left everything else fairly straightforward. Word count is 1,013 so it shouldn't take you more than 10 minutes to sift through. Enjoy it Holger, I guess.
There is a single person I can blame for this extended period of doing little else than acquiring and watching vintage computer animations.
My memos are addressed to you in the hopes that some of what I'm doing synthesizes with your own frankly clamorous penchant for dominance in "wherever it was that I lived". Otherwise, if you find this and for some reason it's not exerting the desired effect: it's too late to revert the catharsis it has given me in allowing to outplay my fully justified snarling memos about your lack of hereditary rule. I would never think of instating a familial ruling class over our faction to start with. As opposed to the purity of living for its own sake it seems you'd rather bind together the small group of natives and turn them into functions.
You left a single individual in charge of every horticultural duty, if I remember correctly. While I don't expect rudimentary Xerox messages could physically harm you, I'd imagine referring to this would make an ice sculpture out of your insides. You were better suited to this role than Armin Kaufman but you never sought mutual agreement from your advisers. As far as I recall: Armin Kaufman is a robot in some sense. Armin grows tomatoes, aubergine, maize and alfalfa in a greenhouse. Those four are his exclusive crops. Your selection process was similar to a child identifying his preferred vegetables due to their golden and energetic colors. As a consequence of this I perceive you as a poor nutritionist and a sluggard. All of the food Armin eventually offered your other workers was putrefying upon presentation. Pewter plates served rainbows of insoluble food, you grew forage maize instead of proper cereal, and you consulted the chef to serve the eggplant raw.
It's hard to describe my circumstances, Holger. I have the agency to make the daily catastrophes I'm expecting somewhat less enormous. I'm trying to distribute the scaffolding over Treir Penninsula which will detonate tomorrow. I make efficient use of perishable goods like mayonnaise the day before they expire. Going by these examples, I began to generalize. Whenever an important lifeline was on the verge of totally destroying itself: I discovered that I could curb it, but only in such a way that I can claim a piece of its eventually cryptic paleontology. Among these is a bombardier fossil. I'd be happy to let you inherit this as a token of my presence if you ever find this monitor, and as a consequence I've left it on top of the hard disk as a coolant. It doesn't bear my particular impressions in any way and I'm not partial to it. That is likely why you can find it, and why you can't find the Eimert CDs we used to listen to. They tickle me in the exact spot I had never understood before. Maybe this is out of continuity with my last memo where I talked about his work as if it vanquished the cursed reality of Yalbadoth. The professionalism circulating the lack of syncopation maintains my interest in a different way. It's a playfulness I'd like to inherit, but at the same time extend so as to make it agreeably listenable. A free agent within the CD momentarily scrapes the vertices of the laser disc in a way that isn't possible to memorize after several re-listens, more time than anyone before me could have claimed to invest. It's the consummate parent of my whole environment, prompting me to look around and find tsetse flies on my wall prospecting for sugar. I am a soft leucine repeat within the nephew of Eimert's music, which becomes corporeal in the space I usually occupy. Through my existence I assemble and provide his oxygen. I have no sentiments other than travelling through a neural network, calibrating his protection through balancing of the humors. Afterwards the music stops and I inherit a fragment of Eimert's consciousness.
During my time at your hamlet, I discovered a municipal drawbridge in the middle of town. It overlooked a fast-flowing river of red hatchetfish, ones that I deemed to be less buoyant than normal. It had never been released in my lifetime, that is a certainty. Very often, a stagnant puddle of velvet mist would represent them from far away. The age of the homogenized transmitter slowly brushed the population down, lacking the superstition necessary to recognize themselves as individual parts travelling towards the death of their habitation.
There came a point in recent history where the tone of voice represented most of the significant spoken word. Perhaps appraisal from tonality was some part of the municipal culture that I had perpetuated by paying keen attention to.
Applause meant something greater in appraisal than compliments as well, even though the sound of rattling palms tended to climax in glasses knocking over and children clutching their ears. As I would discover shortly, this emission was commonly used to satisfy an appetite for pity. I turned to face you while you tilted your head as if to meet some smile on my face upside-down. Realizing this, I tried to present a smile.
For me this party lacked co-operation that was typical of a rudimentary group identity. Everyone was facing away from each other. It felt like everyone was using their own strategy to avoid being monitored by the surveillance cameras that you'd instated. The rare miracle of trustworthiness and emotional intimacy had occurred, and this was your response. You were constantly anticipating the immolation of the building by Yves setting light to his bottle of slivovice in particular. Yves had no history of pyromania or even alcoholism and this was a strictly celebratory bottle of the house regular. As you stole his responsibility: he discarded an empty glass and walked outside to the pavilion, never to be seen for the rest of the night. In some ways I believed you were thinking about how you couldn't invest in an extension of your body without tearing it apart. The electroacoustic musicians didn't receive any assistance from you in creating an extension of yourself, which frustrated me in a way as they were constantly studying you and interpreting your actions into sonorous form. You unraveled as they stole your likeness and imposed no limits to their prepared bass and sandpaper pianos. Many sheets of beautiful graphical notation were forged from their performance and you looked on completely phlegmatic, even after considering the sacrifice they made in providing the exquisite written record.
When relevance clears both ways, a myth is written about the person's agency whilst they're away. Two perspectives on Holger's regime remain that brutally collide together in a way that doesn't leave much truth behind.
"I was never precipitated in the matters of Holger's architecture. At times I struggle to think how painstakingly immaculate the architecture became. For at least a short period, I found it remarkable. It happens to be within the boundaries of my astonishment. Whether this is going to spark some verbose argument and cause you to run off again, I don't know. I simply cannot know, even using this helpful brown powder you have given me."
"Armin, listen very carefully: it's not prophetic. You won't become clairvoyant by eating some drugs. I have implied this often enough by tasting it frequently. I never came to bodily harm through my addiction to a weak hallucinogen. You shouldn't either. This is the sad part: you're the sort of person who will believe me in spite of my tone of voice. Emotional literacy isn't a constant between us, I don't think. You just have words to get right."
"But you have to admit the the architecture was beautiful."
"It's better kept 'less said'. It becomes less beautiful if you repeat the same sentiment about that foul dictatorship again and again. Holger as a leader doesn't exactly produce a feckless leadership. Wouldn't you also say this about him?"
"You oversimplify. I think in the past, I would. But now I tend to redirect any of my feelings towards a particular person towards the products of their enterprise. Like their architecture, which served as surprisingly attractive housing in our endless hours of 'you put it best'. It reminded me of Soviet Brutalist Architecture."
"This weirdly disguised contempt bores me. Are you going to figure out what that level does anytime soon?"
"This is my intepretation: Despite how small it is the level indicates the curvature of the earth, and seems to imply the curvature of objects which to our natural eyes looks naturally flat."
The disquiet collection of arguments they conveyed to each other in the forest were almost as beautiful as silence. Yves noticed that luxury was obviously temporary. Yves and Armin were the only reason Herbert had appeared, if even for a brief window. They were too distinct to ignore.
"Let me out of this corny interview room before he arrives, please."
"I'm the one who introduces him anyway"
"He's not a disease, Yves. You cannot refine a person into a substance with particularly sensitive reactions because he's not 'mercurial mist' or 'leucine extracellular repeats.' If anything, he's a bunch of these multifaceted materials overlaying a porcelain sculpture."
"No human has ever refined themselves to the point at which they become a moving statue."
"You may want to consult Herbert. Herbert's getting close."
"I remember you using the former to describe him once."
Armin was convinced that Yves would be more likely to accept by means of pleading. Herbert had wanted to understand what both of them meant by this deal.
There would be catering throughout the event, rather than tempering a batch of meatloaf slabs from the fridge. Diners surrounded the counter but seemed to acknowledge that Herbert wasn't aiming for the comestibles. Yves had brought along a plate of something that looked disintegrated and red.
From a narrator's sensory library, which is always complete by the point at which the narrator wants to describe the taste of something: the sandwich tasted exactly like the scent of a septic spider puddle.
A number of distinct themes originally concieved on 13/06/2018 started to ricochet from some faraway vanishing point. It was backed by a drum, appearing to be played in a massive ampitheatre even when it clearly wasn't. In shorter terms: it was a sound that came from the night to be played in the daytime.
"It's the electroacoustic troupe."
"Electroacoustic troupe: the wise. Electroacoustic troupe: the fringe entertainment group"
The troupe's non-musical improvised lyrics began:
"Idolizing Peter Caviza, I decided to take a little roadtrip down the country roads he first explored as a kid as a kind of pet project. "Look, a truck" I claimed, lavishly from inside my car. Out of the window I saw Caviza's chiselled Cornish face. He went on ahead. Later on I found he'd hoisted himself over a stone cairn to meet with a broken leg coming down the other side. I looked at him and told him I would vow to use the nearest 911 hotline to call for the support of local firemen. I didn't forget to do so, but it was impossible to tell whether the firemen forgot the urgency of such a thing or simply didn't remember me. I forgot what became of childish, naiive Caviza."
- Ullmann Treir