Number 1

She looks lonely. She sits on an uncomfortable F. L. Wright inspired instrument of torture; slumps, pressing her exhaustion into the supporting pillar. She clutches a book in one hand, and in another, an edge of a blanket. She is tired, the sleep in her eyes, easily apparent. It is early, a time when the morning can easily be night, a terrifying moment inspiring nausea of chronic overabundance.
Behind her a window, reflecting the oppressive, circular, mixed temperature indoor lights. Streaks of dark Outside, shyly wax through ; Emergency Flashing LEDs reflecting off her wrinkled clothes, like some weird form of techno varicella.

She moves her body in a languid, tired asymmetry, a sort of imperfect vibration. Her thoughts collect around her, hot and wavy like air of a boiling day.
Inside the AC quietly hums along. She places her bare feet on her suitcase.
A broken callus loudly at her left heel, a red circle of exposed meat, inside, flesh; gilded edges of skin, golden-dead skin around a scarlet wound.

A gasp, we expect truth, the torrent of thoughts; "Escape! from her painful fenestration."

Collective thoughts scream, a chorus of pain.
The wound demurely closes on itself, like a black mirror, a self satisfied sheen of of thick liquid, anticipatory dew of plasma. Moist and raw, like a pomegranate.

The P.A system expands in painful feedback.
Wailing of old technology, of high resistance gives in to a defeated sleepless voice.
An important message, it begins with an apology.
With artificiality -, "This, Ladies and Gentlemen is neither due to a failing infrastructure nor to expensive oil; Forget impending doom and disaster, Forget your paranoia , It is not the end of the world" it states, "But simply human error". A pause, allowed for human comprehension.
A nod of empathy ripples through the room.
She stirs uncomfortably. She prefers the dreamy existence in between. She prefers between the waves.
"The 1st Ambassador has overslept!," they whisper , "No, no, they are not paying attention, It's the 1st Captain," she thinks." "He captains the monocoque shell, sends it through the air."
"He contains the thirst for flight, 10,000 meters far above the earth, above the clouds, where they become pillows, and fill the eyes with plump white.
"No matter" she states through teeth covered by limp lips,
"Processed oxygen will take care of these thoughts."
She elevates her body. She feels modular. Elements of body parts together, connected as she has never felt them before. Muscles acting as teeth, hair as feet, her open callus as an eye, her nails as ears; all connected, haphazardly, like the electronic cables behind a desk, unlabeled , hopefully plugged in, buzzing at 60HZ, all for, of movement and reason.
She grabs her bag and she feels the weight of her monstrosity; could she check this baggage in?
Her mismatched parts, an experiment of internal friction. The speaker promises a prompt departure from Gate 32.

To be continued...

Swimming in Miami Beach

Pictured above is one messed up, super addicted seaweed.
The black band is the tourniquet.
Notice the foamy vomitus and the awkward posing.
DRUGS ARE BAD!

My new Motorcycle '76 CB 400F

I have acquired yet another beautiful bike. A classic 1976 Single Overhead Cam red SuperSport.






Ultimately unsuccessful in the States,
it was made for only 3 years(75-77, with less than 5000 produced per year.
Its demise was imminent.
The '77 model should not count, as it was "uglified "to fit with the the then "Harley" image of the motorcycle.
Think "Easy Rider" not "Rebel without a Cause".

With clean racing inspired lines and the very sporty "European" stance , it is -in my eyes- one of the most beautiful motorcycles Honda ever produced.
Its the apparent simplicity that draws your attention to the basic shape. It's as minimal and elegant as a complex machine can be, without covering up with steel monocoque or plastic nonsense.
It is truly a naked bike, a superb exhibitionist.
Most interestingly there is an intentional asymmetry of design.
Absolutely stunning.
The right engine side reveals four metallic lines that sweep across the belly meeting into one towards the back; the one expanding continuously into an inverted cone.
Beautiful and no, not replicated on the left.

Thank you Sōichirō Honda 本田 宗一郎.

Some pornography below:

In Miami

So here I am in Miami. The city of Vice. The city of the 70s. The city where everyone is naked, tan, beautiful and branded. The city of of buzzing scooters, and no walking allowed; unless it's Miami Beach.
I flew in yesterday, on a plane. An old plane with coal blackened wings. Stitching on the back of the head rest.
I am staying at the Hilton in Biscayne Bay and it feels completely dead. It feels like no one is there. It feels indefinite. I am on the top floor. Floor 21.
The windows do not open. The view is fantastic especially at night.
My birthday is in 3 days.

Pictures in next post.

Theremin and Lenin

This weekend has undoubtedly been a very Red weekend.
I have consumed many Red things, both in liquid and solid form.
Pastarma, Carpaccio(thanks Eli), Pepperoni, Marinara, red beer and wine.


Red references in a book I read over this weekend; of N. Vietnam, and Ho Chi Minh and French Indochina , of French cooking and Gertrude Stein, who's name always makes me think of Roseability by Idlewild, all of which extended into tiresome and endless Wikipedia expeditions.


And finally as tribute to Leon, I have build a Theremin. It's a very simple yet temperamental thing, that I doubt even Clara R. would be able to control . It was meant as an artistic promise whispered through evaporating alcohol in a dark and loud chamber, but our friends are working, and youth has no place in serious work.

But there it is.
A video of a test.
In the future a telescoping antenna of the old am/fm variety and an enclosure of some sort. MeSt will be the inspiration for the latter.

Another night out

I was attracted to going out. It started at work and ended at
Darkroom. I feel so easily manipulated. The promise of sex weaves
silken links...

Sent from my iPhone