The blast furnace dreams, warm and obliterate. Their fiery peals shooking deep. Memory feigns, a  the product of texture and decay.  A simple movement sequence folding back over itself endlessly as wings or hearts do. Each iteration tracing each before, their miniature deviations are the noise of the new.

Tracing the sunshine, broken sightlines. The city petrifies. From a window of the chelsea hotel looking down over the unsilent glows over midtown, looking down through the embers of a thousand days and a thousand nights. The rooms creak with the smolder of the gone before, the rooms creak with a sympathetic resonance tied up in the sun’s pleading and the sun’s reprimand. All the dull beiges and the lustred spires, all of them untrembling in the face of demise. All filtered through the perfect folded kaleidoscope of memory, delicate, strange and still.

The hardness limbs of distance, gold light and fissures. The space of the enclosure, the space of the opening. The way these things live out abandon, the way they trace the lines of age in sweeping details, in peelings, in the merciless gesturings of gravity and heat. Our sense of decay informing our sense of growth, ongoing.

The city speaks volumes. Smokestacks and insulation, sharp brown on dull grey. The contours trained to our eyes, and our eyes linger, over that bridge, through fencemesh and cracked panes, the silt of riverbank sidewalks, silt churned by the soles of a hundred thousand boot bottoms, our knees and ankles turning clouds.

A friend from greece complains about the curtains in this city, their brash transparency, the light broaching them at will. Gauze relief, tasseled and porous, shimmering the outside.

aggregate. time passing ever less slowly, making rounds of these inertias, making rounds.

SOUNDINGS: Washes

have been making some money sanding the varnish off the pineboard exterior of a house near St. Sauveur. Usually three of us to a wall, with some combination of handheld Dremel sanders. The harmonics get stunning, after about an hour in the insulatory space of dust mask and goggles and earplugs with the constant frictive propulsion running up through the shoulders the headspace opens again, lets the beauty back. The first day that we worked, the overlaps and the glissandos were conjuring Badalamenti’s suspense theme from Twin Peaks, the chord progression that Moby sampled to build ‘Go’. And it made me wonder whether that sort of frictive movement inspired the soundtrack, whether there was a deep evocation there of sawmills and white pine being stripped and planked.