As the post from Here led me to Here and then to Here led me to observe no embedding permitted I went here and then here before I found a stall where I could acoustique. It was a nice day, as the photographs show, although I couldn't help but feel all black and white about that period in history before the advent of colour. Am I the only one who needs to look again at all black and white photographs ever seen with the new colour of life added in, doesn't it add to our perception of continuity as opposed to disconjunctive break with the past (a past not truly, properly conceived?). I like sitting in front of Traci too, always a pleasure to see her face, this still I thought particularly fetching and evocative.
Of course if you stand around a lot, like I do, then you get to see things a lot as well; any sketcher will tell you that it's why we drink coffee; why we pause at all.
Anyway, at that time, just after the conference alerted me to the new speculative realist perspective (with the ontology of objects not yet quite clearly formulated in my mind, and without the benefit of Latour's remarks about the lack of play that critique supposes, and in fact as I was then also without mentor or any guide whatsoever in the annals of Diogenes there had never been such a Lampostier professor as I, all talk and no grab, all silence and no lingus.
I was not sure if THESE were or were not, are or are not entities anything less than works of art in themselves. Everyone knows I love books, but not how much. I secretly stow into the New York Public for a donut and a fizz, spending ages outside eating pretzels afterwards looking through the plants and biosigns for parkage I stumble into Pierspointe's Morgans place and stand around there for a while, thinking of ole Blighty, and the years before ponting round the Thames.
Shelby shows me her video from the iphone and I say, "Look, that's exactly what I'm talking about. It's black and white and yet, we know, we know for sure that it was all experienced in colour. It occludes our perception. I know it does."
The swarming flies around the side of the Thames; the stunking rat sewers of accelerated origins brought to a halt with the tides slippage. Spat stank shower muffin?
A stranger strange hands me a Muffin, con blueberries. I think about the time. And off round the corner, Hammersmith and Windsor. "I can't really tell what that one's of. I like it tho. Do you?"
It's a weird one, conic and irregular. Forshortened by something. A occult of the eye?
'Ere mate. Can you juggle four?
Geezer hands me his balls and I spy they are MSX c5's, and yeah, I do wanna have a feel of those. The juggling takes my mind off Southwark and Traci's art. My mind changes gears into something that isn't yet performance, but not just practice either.
There are dogs. Tourists. Pedestrians. Peter's mother Brenda and her little dog. A mobustier pushing for attention in the breeze. And a birds eye view of yesterday's event, proliferating in the breeze. So this is London eh? Peter Ackroyd's London. Blake's London, and Wordsworth London. Smithsonian. London New York Museum. I step out of the way of a cunning downslider as the pattern goes off and I drops.
Hands the balls back to im. "Nice. I like those. Garfield rekomend em?
Harfinkle.? Jason...I turn round, thames. Nile. southbank...festival. I hear:
'Here mate. Over here."