1 b palcamp rm________________________ lying on your back, the stars over your head turned the night into this delicious cavity of distance. in your mind, they make this half circular turn you see on the longterm exposed photographs. suspended from the force to conquer, to swallow, to proceed the collision with the parked car (wich you couldn't see coming because the hood of your jacket would constantely cover your admittedly drunken eyes while you tried to steer the bike straight) left-behind someone like you, someone resembling you on the asphalt coating. "if you fall, you will deserve the most conventional funeral oration: puddle of gold and blood, pool where the setting sun... you should not expect nothing else. the circus is all convention." said genet to the proud tightrope dancer, who without end used to wrestle with the angels before he left genet unregarded and unheard in his goatish longing. you, instead, feel like unknowingly you've been riding a backwards-brain-bicycle all the time, but because of an uncertain spell, some ironic magic trick of the universe, the inversion of the nostalgia that drove you forward, was only revealed to you just before the collision. the opstacle you collided with, the lazy parking car, nesting in the second row (as it used to be the bad habit of this city), was just to much contemplating the idea, that the infinite speed with wich the earth was rushing through the universe could be considered his own (it dreamed of this maximal accelaration with great joy), to regard you and your greeting - because it somewhat felt only slightly distracted (the bulge this event left on it was minimal) the rebound was more intense on you. - "conditio humana", you think. but nonetheless you feel very happy in this position. the night, the silence, the truth of simple rejection. and just when you think you finally would understand the sublimity of kafka's exile, you hear a woman's voice, concerning about the mess you made, asking for your name, your passport, your adress. "what did you think?" she asks "see, the damage you made on the car. this has to be reported." but not to conceal the last twist of it: just shortly after, you hear also a man's voice talking to the woman and before you understand you are released to your remaining way back home - you never hear of any insurance company concerned with the compensation for the damage you caused. still now you could triangulate the arguing voices of the man and the woman with the mercy of having this glance upon the stars. "two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the oftener and more steadily we reflect on them: the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me."*
(* quote: immanuel kant, critique of practical reason)
2 sf rect________________________ history had guessed allready that there once will be the time a motorbiked angel-army, cheering a song with deafening timewarped trumpets, would need to come over us. the motor of their sled has a round piston in which a rectangle cube is decreesed, barren of oil it makes a similar impression like these tree harvesters, that pull the whole trunk through a hydraulic fist, ripping off all the small branches. "steam coming off the planet, clouds of fleecy steam as boy and girl populations clash in religious riots, hot and whistling like a graveyard sodomist our little planet embraces its fragile yo-yo destiny, tuned in the secular mind like a dying engine."* shouts the leader of the party, who turns out to be leonard cohen in his orange ti civara. "but some do not hear it this way, some flying successfull moon-shot eyes do not see it this way. they do not hear the individual noises, shh, hiss, they hear the sound of the sounds together, they behold the interstices flashing up and down the cone of the flowering whirlwind. do i listen to the rolling stones? ceaselessly."* now, even the other samaritans look a bit confused (some might just not have read all of earth's history books) but it only gets worse when the whole pack is landing on the 4 track motorway, bouncing as their 6-dimensional wheels touch the very normal, very normaly rotten asphalt. the sudden substraction of complexity makes a shrieking sound. while their bullbars are cleaning the driveway of skinless bones and chalky skulls, which seem to be the expected marginal ornament for an apocalyptic projection, i wake up inside the sound of the crash barrier, our car had entangled itself in. the car is lurching a bit and then it stops on the side-strip. yes, i know, it's a too steady, inert song. i fell asleep, too. sorry dear, are you allright?
(* quote: leonard cohen, beautiful losers)
3 bre 41306________________________ august 10, 1882, alfred lies in the grass in the garden of the house, that belongs to his uncle, who works in stettin, where he soon will go to school (he thinks), just some miles away (his mind, instead will end up some years later with the idea of a fellow just released from prison, who finds himself quite astray at alexanderplatz). his mother in the kitchen makes kitchen sounds with the dishes, the purling water in the sink - again some obstacles and an accident, but undetected this time - the smell of the birthday-strudel, max and sophie (unconsciously) trading. chin in his hands, elbows on the ground, he lies there and looks hypnotized into the scenery of the gras. imagine this microscopic pull: working insects, the digestive sounds of lazy spiders, friction between grains of sand ants cause while they try to cut and lift some grass-trees, which will become some rotting material in their den, oozing downwards, as a soup of almost black composted juice, leaking past the corpses of the not longer needed comrades, still twitching a leg - you know, like this opening sequence of blue velvet, this extension of metaphysical horror in the smallest detail, the strangely suportive buzz of the fen fire that leeds alfred to the anticipation of the next 2000 years of mankind: "Jetzt spreche ich - ich will nicht du und ihr sagen - von ihm, dem Tausendfuss Tausendarm Tausendkopf."* a ghostly whisper that hums: "come closer to me, come." the nearer you get though, the more you see all the pores, the sweat, the dirt, the sickness, all the things only doctors need to inspect. but what should you do? you wouldn't want to be ideologically predetermined? so you have to see, you have to get closer. and what is pc in the matter of material anyway - protect the germs, because playing in the dirt enhances the health of your child? georges braque was found still, sevearly wounded on the head, lying on the ground between the corpses and the burned earth long after the battle was over. he was waiting, unable to move, but he remembered: hollow-ware, jars, pots, vases, aberrant vessels, malpighian tubules...
(* quote: alfred doeblin, berge, meere, giganten)
4 mmcr vnqr________________________ the symposium by plato starts with a quite bizarre scenario. appolodorus visited socrates one evening and while he was in his cosmetic preperations (to go to a party in a fancy dress and nicely combed hair apperently) appolodorus asked where he would go. he said, that he would go to a dinner party at agathon's and if he, appolodorus wouldn't like to come along, while it had been some time they've seen each other. appolodorus was quite hesitant if he could go to a party so uninvited. but socrates said it would be allright, and they would discuss this further on the road. now it happened that while walking down to agathon's sokrates saw something in the backyard that seemed to interest him alot. for appolodorus there was nothing to see but some desperate, thin chicken pecking in the dust. sokrates said: "well, go ahead, i will follow shortly." appolodorus so went to agathon's house alone. he was let in by a servant and as he stood in front of the gathering, with all the illustrious people, he had some difficulties to explain why he was here, and where, if he was coming with socrates, as he explained, socrates then was. "well" said appolodorus "he was just with me walking here. but he suddenly stopped and told me to go ahead, as something currious seems to have come to his mind and he had to think about it for some time." they then sent a servant to socrates who came back with one of this typically antique no-li-me-tangere-experiences, when socrates told him to piss off. so they waited and appolodorus sat down to eat with the others. when sokrates came an hour or so later, agathon said:"here, socrates, lie down alongside me, so that by me touching you, i too may enjoy the piece of wisdom that just occured to you while you were in the porch." socrates sat down and answered: "it would be a good thing, if wisdom were the sort of thing that flows from the fuller of us into the emptier, just by touching one another. for if wisdom is like that, then i set a high price on my being placed alongside you, for i believe i shall be filled from you with much fair wisdom. my own may turn out to be a sorry sort of wisdom, or disputable like a dream."* would there be a reason to not trust him? maybe not... until he'd start arguing about his immortality before he drinks from the cup of hemlock just to comfort the others gathered around him.
(* quote: plato, symposium)
5 keys t________________________ with tiny planks we constructed bridges across the foddenbach. clogged the ditche's flowing with stones and sticks. truged along its sandy soils and scared the tadpoles in their shadowy hiding places - with our legs we caused devastating, all darkening desert storms underwater. we slid down the steep, with the rubber boots ahead and some fictional weapon out of a rotten treebranch in our hand. in the evening, we went back home cross field through the corn. We took the rubber boots off in the workshop. two cast concrete steps: sitting in the door lintel, the panorama of the machine park and the carpet ornaments under some woodshavings. in the background noises of the kitchen: dishwasher, or pots and pans that are always to be moved somehow, cutlery in the drawer, or dishes from the cabinet. the sound of the kitchendoor with the slightly loose glass top. surely, we lack the words. "now the summer is gone, as if it hasn't been here. in the sun it's warm. but it is not enough. everything what could come true, like a five-fingered leaf, fell straight into my palm, but it is not enough. neither evil, nor good was lost in vain, everything burned in the light, but it is not enough. life kept me under its wing, took care of me and saved me, i was lucky indeed. but it is not enough. the leaves were not burnt, the branches were not broken... the day is clean like glass, but it is not enough."* the metaphors of childhood they proliferate, beacause they are bound to the symbolic constitution of material. today a gigantic bridghead for the upcoming freeway a33 crosses the small distant foddenbach.
(* quote: arsenij tarkovsky)
6 degrid skt________________________ a busy intersection, lets say in brooklyn, new york. broadway - myrtle ave in williamsburgh to be excact. you see the green trafficlights reflecting in the water of the cracks, constantly disturbed by the rubberwheels of the turning cars. yesterday a bunch of funny new yorker girls smashed some balloons at your show - you flinched with every burst, because you thought your equipment would break down. their laughter had a doubling terror. you had to go to a 24/7 to get something distracting and bought some kids some beers - "at least one good deed a day!" a theory of modernity as the times of viral superstition crosses your mind. in the shop a bird is rampaging in a cage. its green feathers look torn and sick. mom gives him some bird seeds - some are round and pink. when you exit the shop the bird gets silent and sleepy. she turns to him and caresses his beak - is it a technique of projection or production to tranquelize the animal till it is defenseless enough to be shepherded? "...meanwhile every possible cognition must not only be wrested from that which is, in order to be binding, but for that very reason is stricken with the same distortedness and neediness which it intends to escape. The more passionately thought seals itself off from its conditional being for the sake of what is unconditional, the more unconsciously, and thereby catastrophically, it falls into the world. It must comprehend even its own impossibility for the sake of possibility. In relation to the demand thereby imposed on it, the question concerning the reality or non-reality of redemption is however almost inconsequential."*
(* quote: adorno, minima moralia)
134p78________________________ there is a new experimental robot, which has a rule inscriped to prevent it from harming itself. when it walks towards the edge of a table (it is a small toy-like robot) it suddenly stops to not fall off. the way to bring it to walk on is, you say: "i will catch you."
8 614 12________________________ the window is silky shadowed from a years city-dust. it is so thick that i see the twisted and hackled bushes, the decorational efforts of my cellmates, only through a cloudy foil, as through water or another liquid. a force-field but the landscape. i regard only abstractions of forms: contours, curves, a friction in the lightpatterns and stinging unsaturated colourfields. i had adjured the saving outlook from my lighthouse, now it's a wringed deserted waste land of naked trees and dull housefronts. a graffiti on a house nearby used to state: "the wall does not run between east and west, but between the top and the below." the east is up-north, seen from my window facing the steelboarded spree (which tends to flow backwards sometime, i've once heard). "the hidden certitude that 'beyond' is only another mode of being 'here below' when i am no longer simply in myself but outside, close to the sincerity of things: this is what draws me constantly back toward their 'sight,' and turns me toward them so that the turning back may be accomplished in me. in a way, i save myself no less by seeing things than i save them by giving them access to the invisible. everything hinges on the movement of seeing, when in it my gaze, ceasing to direct itself forward with the pull of time that attracts it to goals, turns back to look 'as if over the shoulder, behind, towards things,' in order to reach 'their closed existence,' which i see then as perfected, not crumbling or being altered by the wear of active life, but as it is in the innocence of being. i see things then with the disinterested and somewhat distant look of someone who has just left them."*
(* quote: maurice blanchot, the space of literature)
9 cl vb2_ v 2________________________ the moment you switch on a computer it calculates that many numbers to start up the system you wouldn't be able to recount in your whole lifetime. 'it's only a hunch': it seems to me that something of goedels incompleteness theorems played in the hands of computation. the (informal) trust you would need to provide to an axiomatic system to start with it (that could never be completly included in the system itself), is embodied in the allgorithmical machine. the difference between the real and the computational complexity is, that for the last you would need to switch on the machine (that calculates) to see if it turns out to be real what you suspected. the suspicion in between the time of knowing and expecting the knowability could be called the present age and the trust that is feeding the process of suspicion the sentimentality in it. (images are traditionally familiar with this relation). i'm not shure if i've read this right - did they include a sort of fee on the stockmarket to help the global political efforts to get hold of the cilmate now? "you should default on your student-loan."
10 verl________________________ - you came here all by yourself? i hope you didn't get lost on the way. - no, it was allright. i looked for the shortest way, but was distracted by these tiny flashy things they have here, how do you call them? - what do you mean, what things? - you know these round, illuminated small, colourfull ... ah, never mind. i won't find the words as i don't know what they are for. glad to see you anyway, how was your day? - allright, thanks for asking. i'm sorry i couldn't pick you up. - it's fine realy. ....
- you came here all by yourself? i hope you didn't get lost on the way. - no, it was just fine. i had a nice look-around. - did you visit some place? you have been here before? - no, it's my first time. nothing particular, just wandering, gazing... - oh, i hope the wait wasn't to long. sorry i couldn't pick you up. - but, say - these lights...? ....
- nice to see you. you came here all by yourself? sorry i couldn't pick you up. - no, it's fine realy. i had a small walk around - realy nice. all these colours and lights. - is it your first time here? - yes, i've never been. - i hope you'll like it. i've been here some time now and i still don't know how they call these small colourfull flashy things they have here. you saw them? - well, yes. i was about to ask you about them. you never found out what their purpose is? - no. i just got used to them beeing there, and now i only rarely wonder. but i guess they must look strange to you? - well yes, i was asking myself about them. what do you think of them? - honestly, i don't anymore. i had speculations and theories. but now, they are just as suggestive as the trees to me. ....
- hey, nice to see you! you came here all by yourself? did you find it easily? sorry i couldn't pick you up - it's a bad habit to get to much entangled with the processes living here. - no, realy, it was fine. i walked for a bit and had an interesting look around. they have interesting decoration here - these flashy coloured lights around, you know? - ah, yes, these. don't bother they are kind of a boring mystery. - what do you mean? - well i had a time i was realy kind of obessed finding out about these. i asked everyone i met - but noone seemed to have a good explanation for them. then i thought and researched in the library, looked out for them, even went on a hunt to catch one. but as ellusive as they are, they always stay in the distance, you can't come closer to them, even if you are very near, the would have a sort of suspicion that would warn them, if you would even think about trying to grab one of them. .....
- there you are! you came here all by yourself? how was the trip? - thanks. allright, i guess. i could have been here earlier, but i was a bit confused about the colourfull tiny light-things that appear around here. i never saw them before. - ah don't bother them. they are harmless... - it's just - it seems to be impossible to get closer to them. - they are kind of elussive, aren't they... well, i guess it's some kind of smart machine or so, but i still don't know. - you never wondered? - well, of course i did. but with time i gave up on finding out about them. they seem to just be there. they don't care about you as long as you won't try to come closer. - but isn't it strange that there is almost something like an awerness with them? to notice that you would come closer, or even just think of getting closer? it makes a bit an eerie feeling, irritating realy. - maybe it's just that what they are about. i don't know. but if you blend them out, they become just a part of the landscape here. are you hungry? you must be tired. ....
11 713 2________________________ of all things plastic bags may have an extraordinary extensive future... i could imagine them tumbling over deserted plains forever.
12 arct_1________________________ works of art (in general) are not messengers, political assertions or just enjoyable commodities of expression - it's a sign, a trace of communication itself. while the symbolism in them leads towards the common ground of listeners, the idiosyncratic orientation they have reaches for an intimacy not simply provided through the comfort of this communality or symbolism.