He is a Fat Man and His Range of Movement is Limited

Cluj Cemetary

17 10 2010


Targu- mures, Romania



Look there at the shadows in front of us. We have simultaneously put on the beatles’ lucy in the sky with diamonds with a Balinese gamelon band, and we hear this in our ears. The shadows are generated from only the computer here, and have formed two wings that emerge from the two corners of the computer. Behind me is my bed and the springs jut through the mattress. The music has stopped, and we are here wearing our blue and white, wool djellaba, and we see the glowing fingers from the shadowy hands tapping and making spider movements in front of the blue and white sleeves of the djellaba. This is something we see. And we see the black line of the computer’s power cord set against the white background of the notebook. When we look over to the right, we see the door of the room and beneath it is an orange glow- a Halloween orange glow like from an led-lit, synthetic pumpkin, placed ominously outside of our hotel room door.



Cluj-Napoca:

30 9

307-317

Staring vacantly at the plywood covering the wide doorway in front of me. The beams are thick and dark brown and the pressed lines of wood in the thing are such that it is morbid as in the collecting and pressing of like a collection of human bones and teeth, pressed in with the marrow, which is used as a sort of unifying agent. And today at the convenience store- called a magazin, there is a vapid girl in a cheap cocktail dress staring at the floor and standing next to the register holding some cigarette promos.

And is it good that more people write via text, online comments, social networking sites? Shouldn’t it be good? But somehow it makes me nervous. And is it somehow undermining actual writing, this lowered quality of writing. When all errors are acceptable as long as the reader can discern what the writer wanted to say. Like, does this purvey a greater sense of acceptance w/r/t a lack of education. More people writing means like a degeneration of the craft. And when it becomes acceptable to be worse, then isn’t that its own kind of newspeak. First the dumbing down and reduction of language into ’t-mrw s gd day c u’ and cetera.





29 9

210-220



We are here today. We are thinking of what it means when a parent has a birthday. There in the sun is a black coin flipping itself always into the winter moon. Into the heart of the tube. Into the tube of the heat. The last chance you had was in the jungle. The first time we met was by chance in the vines of the thing. The vines dripping and underwater, really. Really it’s been nice. We were all only children then, right. And if it’s really nice, well, it’s been this, and by chance the vines have dropped into the tubes where they fill the thing in tight like tubed meat. Tight and thick, like, we see, and we see how if the sun has this object within it, then there must be low heat in one place or two, and if there is this, then no one really ever meant what they said about the woon of the minter. Break into the heart of the coldest place. Fill the fines with the tubes of the breakwater. Water time. Water break. Water boyfriend. Water with care. Water with care piso mojado. Well what. Well, go to latin america and become latin, bro. You know.









27 9 2010

1226-1236



The wine bottles appear amber and glowing. A photographer takes pictures of some sort of food in a dish. There is a man in a denim jacket and denim pants, and he rather theatrically takes his cellphone from his left breast pocket. On the wall outside, the plaster has broken away, and it looks to me as if there is the image of a wild boar with a big, weepy eye, and a hydrocephalic monitor lizard staring up at the boar. And to the right of the lizard is a fish in orange, pink and gray. The eye of the fish is painted in white dripping paint, like war paint. There is a man in a suit jacket, not a blazer, and plum colored pants, listing to the left as he walks. And there is a little lady coughing into her hand with her baby blue nylon jacket open to the wind. And now we see the salt and pepper dispensers here in the restaurant. They are the wooden kind with the brass ball affixed to the top, and you must grind your own salt as well as your pepper in this place. Outside is a bald man with just a smudge of hair in the center of his head in the place where the hairline begins. A little man in a crew cut. An old man in a sweater with his hands clasped behind his back. A little boy with a red backpack and a viola case, and little-kid hair just like my brother. And there is some graffiti I cannot completely decipher, but the greek letter phi is discernable. A man in a cream jacket with brown and green stripes on the cuffs has his left arm scratching at his back. He is a fat man and his range of movement is limited.