Catalogue

• "This is an atmosphere....[where] [t]here is little call for timetabling, or for the precise scheduling of social events, for people are usually available or else willing to make themselves available for group activities at very short notice. Nor is there much need for the creation of formal channels for the circulation of information, since people use the channels that arise through constant, informal contact with each other." (Buzo 8)

• "'Hayi! Yes, indeed. Because it is thus you have passed us on our roads. Now that you have passed us on our roads... far be it from us to speak against it." (Heath, Zuni, 25)

• The subdivisions of the divine madness, as given by Socrates (Plato), are as follows: prophetic, ritual, poetic, and erotic (173)

It is a luxury to believe in one's own wretchedness, one's own madness, whether it exists or not (I cannot say, because in many cases the belief itself is the root, and no less legitimate for this fact). This is one I indulge in frequently, because it tempers my childish aversion to having to do many things now that I do not want to do. It releases me from the obligations of maintainance and allows a love of uniqueness that cannot be destroyed by competition because of its association with [popularly] undesirable icons and ideas--while this association, like a stench, tends to draw great criticism, it also keeps the luxury safe under the shadows of the undesirable, where it is unlikely to be contested or snatched up.

There is a naive bud inside--it is dark and sweet and its color can be sensed, but not known. It grows quickly and violently given any one of several right variables; in its mature form it is blindingly terrible (in the way a bear might be terrible). But it quickly slips back into its original form if the environment is not right.

Thump

thump

thump

I depend on

very much

In an attempt to remove myself from systems of looping, I find I have only internalized the process. I will not call it a bad one--it is that by which we remember. By trying to avoid it, then, am I trying to forget? I don't feel like I'm trying to forget anything--I just feel...disinterested. And things forget themselves on their own, really.

It is accepted, the wanting of xy.

It is acceptable, the wanting of x.

But y1, y3, y7

Even when we deconstruct, there are certain lines along which we do so; there are certain cuts of meat that are preferred.

If you ask for the eyes of an animal, rather than any other cut fit for eating, there will be some slowing of the hands filling the order; perhaps a butcher may even throw down his knife and wave the offending organs at you and yell, "Don't you know? There's nothing to eat here!"

The assumption being that the use is and must be, like its brother parts, for consumption (organic conversion).

It is acceptable to ask for the whole; it is also acceptable to ask for particular parts of the whole, which are considered vital in some sense. It may not be publically accepted to do the latter, and yet it is accepted all the same through popularity. But to ask for the seemingly functionless parts of a process, to ask for the eyes and the ears and the snout--there are two possible responses to such a request:

1) condemn the inquiry, for the request (input) does not match the normative function (output)--that is, conversion to energy, or consumption, in this case.

2) assume the input is intended to produce another output, and then, wonder as to what the fuck this might be.

The butcher must question the question if any headway is to be made.

What is wanted is known; but what is wanted through these seemingly unrelated scraps?

It is true, many roads may lead to one place.

But one must also consider the possibility of alternate places.

The comparison here is not one of houses to houses, but houses to holodecks.

But it must also be considered that this is another attempt to ostracize and befoul a beloved thing.

Why do we laugh and disparage those things we love the most?

Because we want to dissuade others from them; because we want the secret of its sweetness to be ours and ours, wholly, alone.

Some of our trash is just trash; the majority of it must be, to hide the most loved things we cache in them.