March 1st, 2002

benpeek

(no subject)

in the rocks, there are people who are paid to paint themselves so that they resemble statues. they stand around on a box, holding balloons and candy, or they walk around, tempting children like your parents warned you people would one day do. the couple of times i have seen them, they have been painted silver, and they've not said a word, just walked through the streets, looking like miniature statues of liberty.
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benpeek

(no subject)

quote: 'what one sees when one looks at geographies is stubbornly simultaneous, but language dictates that a sequential succession, a linear flow of sentential statements bound by the most spatial of earthly constraints, the impossibility of two objects (or words) occupying the same precise place (as on a page).'

wouldn't it be neat if you could come up with something that didn't have a sequence to it like this. i have no idea if it is possible. i imagine that only a single photograph would be able to tell this, or a collage, perhaps?

impossible, perhaps, for prose. mixed prose? a comic? no. to tell a narrative you've got to have a sequential narrative, something that builds rather than is everything in mental barrage.

to form a story, narrative is built upon introducing elements. it follows a pattern, doesn't it? even work without a traditional narrative is following something. it just doesn't exist, and a written description, even, follows its own pattern. no. the issue is too much. even a sentence has a structure, a pattern. remove that pattern and you might have something like 'wallbrickroadskyskyskywhitecouldroadcarcarpersonsmokerdogfruit' but even that follows something, is sequential because you can't place the words over each other. but if you could? wouldn't make sense, yes?

this is probably not worth thinking about. it seems pretty obvious, but the quote is interesting. it's from edward soja's Postmodern Geographies.
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benpeek

(no subject)

a three legged dog walks down george street. weaving through legs, avoiding the curve that edges the road, passing mcdonalds, across a street, looking with his dirty brown muzzle of a face each way before crossing in his hop skip of a trot. down towards the green grocer and his cart, where, crawling beneath it patiently, he waits for a piece of fruit to be dropped with a wink from the owner.

'always 'round this time, aren't you,' the voice says. 'should jus' give you a name.'

the dog has a name. when he first arrived in sydney, two years ago, he'd constantly tell men and women who stumbled out of the three wise monkeys's pub in the early hours of the morning: he would sit on the sidewalk and hold his head proudly, and speak. but his audience would either scream in drunken laughter or throw up in the gutter, so now he says nothing.

but if he was asked instead of being given an apple, he'd say that his name was winston.
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