Beginning to prepare notes for the Media Arts History Conference paper, “The Energy of Archive” although I will likely not be able to attend the actual conference (the problem of not having institutional backing, as per usual). And preparing an application for a post-doc at Leuphana’s CDC where there seems to be a very interesting collection of folks. And mulling a Fulbright attached to Uni Bremen / Informatiks or so. The Brico Reader hangs over Jerneja’s and my heads as a Damoclean threat to our sense of ‘getting something done’. Something that doesn’t really seem likely with the way the project is going. The texts that I have received are very rough, and in need of profound re-writing (far more than editing), so I struggle with the question why should I spend such quantities of time within a network that is of the state that Bricolabs is. A robust issue to talk about, but, also, strangely the network has been absolutely silent since Pixelache back in May.
Writing anything coherent in this time seems beyond my mental state. And indeed mental states of organizing seem to be in tatters. Names, places, slip away, although spatial memory and the specifics of method, analysis, and creative fusion remain. What is this? Externalizing memory has no good effect. Where hardened, long-term memorization may be brought to the fore on demand. The names of people, books, works, streets, authors, directors, artists, individual phenomena are tattered as flags in a wide landscape that retains an appearance of a landscape in mind, with details mapped into body, but somehow not into mind with rare exceptions:
ROMEO: But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.
It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold; ’tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Once memorized in 9th grade after a now-forgotten-named English teacher selected me deviously to read the dreaded part of Romeo over several days in class. (I wonder who was Juliet in that long-ago day? We sat, the boys on one side of the room, and the girls on the other, facing each other, with the teacher at her desk facing the gap down the middle of the room. Opposition of the sexes, probably the best policy with a bunch of 9th graders!)