simpleRECURSION || News
July 29, 2010
kerookd mn

1:52 PM

ey ons nou mn
teribl kerookd mn

usd tsay tme hou
wods wre nhumn neychr

hee usd ttel mee
hw hecud rit ons

hw greyt hwuz
hw greyt eywz gonnabe

hee ded nw
dat teribl mn

ennd eyem kerookd

July 19, 2010
仕事

7:07 PM

夜来ます
荒唐無稽
意味をかく

July 5, 2010
mike have drive

10:33 AM

mike have drive
drive is hard
drive is die
drive is bad

mike is cry
cry mike cry
drive is die
die drive die

mike fix drive
drive no fix
mike fix drive
drive no pix

win no boot
mike no doze
drive no file
mike no close

mike lose file
mike is sad
drive is die
drive is bad

June 22, 2010
the pictures on the walls...

10:15 PM

the pictures on the walls
of the art gallery

salon des refusés
félix edouard vallotton

le mensonge
la surprise
le toilette de sortie

the pictures change
the pictures repeat

gleaners in the field
androgynous bomb-rape

leon golub fill in the branks
stephen shames throe back
the gas grenade to

kerry j. marshall   see
ralph ellis on long
invisible legs

the train runs  the head
gently roll off shoulder
the pictures repeat

light from electric gallow
wood support wire

June 18, 2010
Stories About Nothing: 5

8:30 PM

TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam

The beat was insisting on it's regularity in his head. He has just handed a clearly-fake ten-dollar bill to the cashier at the supermarket. He even chatted her up, smiled at her, and got her to smile back, guided by his never-tested theory that no one would notice one bad bill on a busy day in a busy place. His heart almost leapt out of his chest when the girl turned to double-check the bill, but...no, it was okay. He got his change, his Korean rice ball and got the hell out of there, thinking feverishly about the bill he got from one of his students not ten minutes earlier, how he hurriedly crumpled bent and tortured it in his hands, how he gently tore one edge and how the bill still felt fake to the touch--too smooth, wrong. He walked away, down the street, his hands shaking. He saw an old man with a shaggy beard and dark glasses playing a djembe drum. He knew what he had to do. He crossed the street, unthinking, walked up to the man and said, "Hi! I'll give you five bucks to play the drum...for a while." The man asked if he was a good drummer. He opened his wallet, took out a bill and gave it to the man--a real five--saying "We'll see." The man said something about hurting his fingers and being gentle, but he didn't listen. He began to play immediately, immediately. He played his fast beat:

TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
TAM-ta-da-dam ta-da-da TAM-Tam
TAM-ta-da-dam ta-da-da TAM-Tam

He played urgently. He played well. He loved filling the street and the ears of the passerby, averse--as he always was--of homeless performance art. He wasn't careful. He wasn't gentle. He hit the palms of his hands on the surface of the small drum and he knew that it felt--and sounded--just right. It was not the austere, beatific sound of mainstream electronica. It was not pro. It wasn't anything. He played for one minute, two, three at most, but, having never done it on the street, he lost his beat, then picked it up, weaseling out of his haste with a strong, three-beat finale:

TAM-TAM TAM!

Then, he hurriedly got up, picked up his bag, and was about to leave. "What's your name?" asked the man. He mumbled something and then said "What's yours?" not hearing the reply. He shook the old man's hand and hurried down the street to his stop, wishing he had stayed longer, played longer, the beat still pulsing in his head, full of thoughts about the five dollars he had spent well.

June 5, 2010
Stories About Nothing: 3

6:01 PM

A white guy and an ugly Asian boy are making gang signs right outside of the window of the Starbucks where I am eating my octopus balls and drinking my hot chocolate with cream on top, served to me by one of the two deliciously gay men that work at this store. The white guy, his back too straight, cannot make his fingers cross just right. His ugly friend shakes his 1960s moptop and gesticulates something outside of the window. There is somehing wrong about this white guy, holding a dirty lighter, his sweatpants clashing with his jacket like night an day. There is something wrong wig so many white guys, I think, as Kevin, my Korean student walks into the store and shakes my hand vigorously. They could be lovers, I think. How are doing says Kevin, sitting down.

Stories About Nothing: 2

6:01 PM

The boy was beautiful. I could not take a picture because it would hardly do justice to the way long hair covered his eyes and concealed the effeminate curves of his face in the folds of a hooded sweatshirt. A couple of stops later, he suddenly stood up, his jeans hanging low. He made his way towards the door. He looked around briefly, furtively, the motion so natural it seemed that he made no superficial movements. Then, he got off.

snaws