Only two paragraphs, just two paragraphs, then you have begun. This situation, when too much to write somehow manifests itself as too little, is a regular occurrence. To write of nothing at all provides the easiest route and so it is this site remains isolated, impounded by its own consistency. There is no engagement here, just a rehashing of ideas better written elsewhere - it is an affront to the world wide web, offering nothing to the network - no means of interactivity, no compulsion to return fire. Three people will read this, find their thoughts confirmed, and leave.
Unless of course I list. Lists! The only respite from silence. How I long for more lists of objects in my daily life. And not just objects but collections of things that alone mean nothing, but together patch together some kind of history, miniature recalled oscillations of the everyday.
Saturday. In an art gallery, on the second floor of a disused brewery, I heard Otto Roessler implore a small clutch of listeners to support his charge towards his versions of science. There will be much more to say on this. The day before I returned to that small radio studio, which I had visited almost exactly one year ago, and gave an impromptu tape score to Chris Marker's Sans Soleil. The day after we visited a no-mans-land (that endless motif) in Kreuzberg and watched a handful of scientists, paranormalists, musicians and hackers tune into varying levels of messaged static. Yesterday I hurried and organised and filed and printed and then read and read until my eyes fell asleep. Things continue to expand.
A new routine approaches too, one that may banish these lists, both in content and in security. There should be little more time for these inanities, this dull, wordy excrement. Things stretch out ahead. I am awaiting an arrival from the airport.
In waiting for an person, we undergo a special process regarding the future. That person exists in many simultaneous states; right now Cara is on an U-bahn, a bus, a delayed plane, in an airport terminal in London, in a flat in Hackney and returning on a train to Newcastle. All of these have unavoidable impacts on my own future, her decision to get on a plane or not echoes through the days of my future. These futures are incoherent, they know not of each other. The future is a word that we used in the past to describe the now.