Fiction like a twelve year old skateboarder endlessly assaulting some handrail in a stunt he is never going to pull off, isn't that what we need? Isn't that where we are? If we are to balm reality 'like to like' in Fraser's magical sense....
The pictures are just to hoax the value up. Just as in a recent Nova (I think it was Nova) a researcher into a palimpsest on which underneath addenda was a text by Archimedes told how some of the additions were obvious twentieth century forgeries. "Why would some one do this?" he is asked. "Because that would make it 'Art'," he says, " and subject to a quite different scale of value." Something like that....
Beth says: "Yeah, but the forgeries were really subtracting from the value..."
"But do we have evidence of that? Perhaps the collector was entranced by the forgeries. This is Maltese Falcon stuff and everybody is weird and whacko... "
We take pictures of Beth as Conquered Europe. I sing these John Donne songs. Beth works on putting City of Dog pictures up on the Web. Everything takes forever. Everything is Fucked Up. Misery Manifest.
On a hoarding amongst posters for Bands and C.D.s and the Amateur Strip night at Webster Hall there's a poster drawn in what used to be the appropriate squiggly style of gritty urban comix and when I stop to deconstruct it I find it is an advertisement for Tylenol.
I started working on these John Donne Songs Saturday morning I guess and have employed upon them a methodology pretty much of hammering. You just hammer the damn things by repetition into the very limited chordal structures i picked out. In John Donne everything leans to being Fucked Up and Misery Manifest too. A Like to Like Balm. And no Tylenol.
6:51:27 PM 
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