Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Explanation as Composition: Provenance #9

The provenance of this work was written during a collaborative writing session at LACE on 30 January 2011. Writers include: Amanda Ackerman, Harold Abramowitz, Kate Durbin, Sarah Shun-lien Bynum and Teresa Carmody. Event writer collaborators: Aimee Bender, Allison Carter, Mark Z. Danielewski, Carribean Fragoza, Veronica Gonzalez, Janice Lee, Harryette Mullen, Janet Sarbanes, Anna Joy Springer, and Stephen Van Dyck.

It is unclear at what point the work passed from Applegate into the hands of American rock musician and songwriter Wolf Temple, but selections from Temple’s diaries, recently published by Akashic Books, indicate that by 1982 he considered himself its rightful owner.

THE WORK is now in my possession. The question occurs to me, of course. What a waste. Or, rather, why waste? Why the waste, at first? And then why the waste later? It occurs to me that it is all waste. It is all waste. I have wasted my life, but have now obtained THE WORK. I must explain. Or must I explain? It must be explained that I am in love with a certain feeling I get. I wake up in the morning and I am very happy. I was happy this morning. I woke up in a very particular way. And then I think of THE WORK. The ways I view THE WORK. Or, more importantly, perhaps, how THE WORK came into my possession. I am dreaming of living a good life. It is the life I have always desired to lead. I am leading strange and wonderful existences. Or if I have to get out of bed in the morning. I find that I am filled with leisure and the color of the other works in the room makes me feel good. But this is how I know what I know. I wonder what on earth could have happened before. I am in trouble. It is that sort of day. All of my communications have been bad. I don’t do what I used to do. I am out of the woods. I live in the woods and it is dark. But that is only when I am on vacation. I wanted to live in a room and look at beautiful objects. I wanted to say to them that I was on earth for a purpose. But then I belong. I long for the rope. I long to put the rope around my neck. It is 1982, but I have gotten ahead of myself and away from the things I wanted to talk about up to this point. I was waiting for THE WORK to arrive. I was always in such a rush. But that was then. I have to remember that it is 1982. I love that it is 1982. Why such a year? What things can possibly occur. But I will have to wait to explain that. I will have to open and close my heart. I will have to carry my eyes. I am in love with color and with other opportunities. I have obtained THE WORK to this point. I am a caretaker of THE WORK. The way I look when I get up in the morning. And how things have changed. There is a bit of music in the room. I am looking now different. I am older. Things have changed. You have chased me. I have not chased you. But the ways we live. The manner of things. How I have gotten what I wanted. What I would say to future generations is something I think I say all the time. Something I say when I am not thinking at all about it. But there used to be a clock. And there used to be time. THE WORK was stolen once, I think. I think about how things are stolen. I think about the ways in which I take what I need and don’t take what I don’t need. I was using my microwave oven just the other night. It is not often that I indulge myself in thinking about such things. But, as I have said, things have changed. The time is different. This is not yesterday, after all. It is right now. I was going to hang my hat on a stick and then tell the whole world what I thought. I was sitting in a chair and I was wondering what I would do now. Next. I meant to say next. What would I do next? I was wondering that. And then I realized that THE WORK was in my possession. I have obtained THE WORK. This is what I realize. And then and now. And in the middle of the night I wake up and I wonder what it would mean if things were otherwise. A wall or two or ten. And I think about crates. And the way I have to unpack things. It is morning and I am writing in my diary. It is 1982. And I have just obtained the work. I have a picture on my wall. I have a list too. I have a list of all of the things I expect to do. But this does not become you. It does not become you just because you let it be. I can sit here I think, and I can feel all of what I feel. I can tell my diary about everything. There is some much more I can say. I want to sit here all day, but I am concerned. And I am red. And I am establishing all sorts of things. I live by myself. I have very many possessions. I have a tree. I have slow days, and then I have better days. I am on top of the world and then I fall down. It is the rejection I feel the most. However, nothing bothers me. At least. The least of which I can say is that it is today.

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