The objects of inattention lie in wait. These are the things upon which we trip en route from A to B. Only the foolhardy will underestimate that which has fallen into a hole and which is in fact itself a hole into which one may oneself just as easily fall.
Currently seems to be losing things yet regaining other things. Things fall into holes and are retrieved only by the vigilant.
Other things decompose, having disappeared under other things.
The underbelly of the city is the measure against which all its inhabitants are pressed at various imagined proximities. Beyond the screen, not far off, within the context of artifice, deep ways abound, beyond technology and intelligence, which are so close to their source as to appear deviant, and which will fill the willing and mobile spectator with a fear and a trembling which quivers and disrupts the surface of things in strange ways.
The blind optimist pursues another less spirited two or four-legged creature with an enormous, dark rubber truncheon. Across the rubble and round corners, for hours and hours. What joy. The breeze in the lungs, the madness of the labour. It is the not only the corners, but also the rubble which are the centre of the place. Although the latter is often mistakenly conceived of as being only at the edges, this is not the case. It is only to be found at the centre. It is how one may recognise the centre. No, I lied. There is rubble everywhere. Athens, February 2004 |
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