smithers:

[Aside] The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep. Rivulets of sweat flow into tributaries of liquid linen. Shards of disconnected thought mosaic the global electronic conscious and the matrix of the unconscious. Material and immaterial bridge centuries of temporality. Experiences gained and lost.

The athletic body can’t touch his toes. But what does the body have to do with serenity, anyways? Tactile burden. Trembling hands. Don't get burned, whatever you do.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever ://

Flow.

A loaded word. Don't think about product, think about process. Grey areas. Resolve the macro, the micro, the nano.

But does it equal love? The poet maudit might say so, but the sadness lining his eyes suggests multiple interpretations.

Bodies without organs.
Bodies without bodies.
_____ without _____.
Fill in your own fucking theory.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious ://

Writhing mass. Flashes of bright yellow punctuate the deep ochre. Praxis. Be careful now to code what we think, say, archive … control. Writhing neurons envelop all.

Can I get a wit(h)ness?

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep ://

"Yes."

Who knew the multiplicity that could flow forth from the desert of this 0/1 as if a fountain flowing forth from the mouths of stone goddesses and gorgons in a public pool? Ambiguity ensures a cloak of defense and self-preservation.

Or perhaps insecurity invites a straitjacket of excess signification.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented ://

Go do some writing, says the destructive poet, infecting sportsBabel with his dada rap parable, all matrixial psychobabble and encounter events. Asymmetrical. Banal. Cabal.

Shall I cavil?

The hand taught the mouth to speak and the notebook is where the black magic juju is chanted. Rhizomes of blue and brown. Red painted skulls and beauty. Nonlinear meaning percolates to the surface through layers of white noise …

abc …

I muse.

Therapeutic? Hell, I'm burned like a freedom fry.

The sleep comes, but it is the fragmented, delirious sleep of a man with dengue fever. Tortured sleep. Rivulets of sweat flow into tributaries of liquid linen. Shards of disconnected thought mosaic the global electronic conscious and the matrix of the unconscious. Material and immaterial bridge centuries of temporality. Experiences gained and lost.

[Exit]

(To my friends in Saas-Fee.)

Storm Sequence.
Shaun Gladwell.
2000. Video. Duration: 12mins
Videography: Técha Noble
Sound: Kazumuchi Grime
Commissioned by Peter Fay

This was one of the very first works of art I saw yesterday at the 52nd Venice Biennale and was immediately mesmerized. Later in the afternoon I decided to return to the Italian Pavilion to see it once again. My thoughts on Gladwell's work of art, recorded — freestyled — as the video played:

wet concrete
pounding surf
skater looks to camera
and the dance begins.
tender relationship to the machine
wheel: ancient technology of motion
letting go, then returning to the board
just living.
atmospheric music …
you don't hear melody when in the flow
crouch, extend, pirouette,
the line the skateboard draws
not horizontal, not vertical
but curvilinear
like the ocean waves he embodies.
death spiral on wheels
spiral of life?

See also: Lightness and the Tactile Burden