with Danny Dawson, Brent Edwards, Krin Gabbard, Farah Griffin, Diedra Harris-Kelly, Yulanda McKenzie-Grant, Robert O’Meally, Jason Vigneri-Beane’n’em
3.
Michael Veal (v.)
Rebuild, from scratches, from parchment, literally “give a name to” a bunch of times, electronically, as in on beautiful, the corner,
from late Old English dubbian "knight by striking with a sword" (11c.), a late word, on vellum, perhaps borrowed from Old French
aduber "equip with arms, adorn" (11c.) which is of uncertain origin, but there are phonetic difficulties, embellishments, and lyric
hermitage. Meaning "provided with the name of out our name" is from 1590s. Meanwhile daub, the application of paint on sound in
poetry, the pinning of roses. Related: Dubbed; dubbing, (off speech with pains taken from Kingston groundings, Lagos) powerdub(,
London Klein bottles).
6.
The lost, desiring floe and glacial building of the book folds Larry Young into something like nothingness. Monk says, “The inside of the tune, the bridge, is the part that makes the outside sound good,” He’s performing a little palestra so we can study our intervallic activity and feel fly. There’s some kinky equations tiled across space in overlaid telling, and swing got tessellated, ruffled and fractured, pressed and stretched, in trade, I mean, trane. Swing in freetime turns poetry grave when you think about gravity that other way, to unsettle the social clock by stacking time in space. Did you remember the erotic is manual, holding hands with materials that form habitable, protuberant, persistent high densities of soft grind? Housing be grooving fête–massive masceration of the particle, whose traumatic ground–factuality derives, in calculate drift, from evasive, ante– and anti–propositional downslide. Their duress and ours, their violence and ours, unfolding in architecture till, anarchitecturally, we breathe what we share. Grasshopper is free. The joint is jumpin’ if the source is open. The definition is a tray of concepts for the spaceshell in freshtime, the hambon’d visiting and carving of its textile, then break that shit in a set of rules we make. If I zoom into the definition, I start to see beautiful ingredients. But we came here to be tortured, our skin alight in gri’d subdivision. Can I walk around it and look at it, see how it curves? Stepping round it drives bursting range out of sounding hollers, open appositionalachia in the labially supple violins of Spenser Dinfiddle’s trio x + n. That’s the general music of our general circumstance, hiding our subspace flex–material in that brutal, petty world you made on the sea. It sounds good as the subside in our leaves, been leaving, gone. Building structure is a subset of shaping change until the hold, having become fleshly with amputation and embrace, is our ship—a circle with a fold in the middle on the move. Man, ain’t nothing free. The joint is jumpin’ if the sore is open. It’s like we measure it in time, time measuring moving, till we feel the space, space tilling feel, feel her need, her stretch thick deprivation into all them extra meals, sit down around a chain of uneven tables, and underneath the students listen, all in preparation, all out of place in tuning, the circle with the margin in the middle. Man, Joe McFree in fleshdance. Leave the body like a flying lotus, storyboard unbildung. Brent says, “Let’s detach the history of the music from the history of the album, its transmedial framing—visual accompaniment, discographical accompaniment—packaged as commodity.” Because the music is more + less than that, all not in between every scale off scale, analibrially down and out a long time, like Joe says. “But how can we retain the multimedial affordances?” Brent asks. But how can but not for me not be for me? Is it the transfer of heat, thread to thread by pulsethread, in warm, anorthogonal waves? Fournier analysis roils the water, to keep it simple, as that curatorial thing drones on. Watch ‘em remix all that trap onscreen, something like listening to something like gimme some drum in Cuba, some Cubie in New York, while Danny says give the drummer some.
with John Akomfrah’n’em
To spill the frame and auditorium, it turns into a problem of the turn and not the cut,
the blue traversal when we fall, point of entry
point of view’s displacement,
cut just to let the page (re)turn, like that old way of reading through incision, cut so it can turn in cursive torsion, twist and shout
out to the open book, the verso, el converso, of the turn(ed) into a common place of turning, the murdered refuge of the world,
the scarring of the story, the story of the score in fractured
rounding, the terrible chance of her global positioning, her insouciance,
dutch mastery’s resistant animation
tuned in burning. Turned
in blur’s serration, in serially unfinished conversation, her contrafactive forcing, the music of the water,
look how we turn the history of the turn, in the co-presence of the page, in the two places
at once, for the nonlocality.
You can’t get here from here, and no one ever really comes and goes in this endless homelessness.
The cinema of the open book of the common place is a general amniosis. It all but won’t be cinema, after all, all sinned against in cinematic sinning,
the fluid absolution
turned in binding, in terrible refusal of beginning, inseparable in surf and
rain and circling seizure,
serving,
turning, in the break of our unbroken act of faith.
with Isaac Wayne Vancuren, Arti Gollapudi and Bianca Biberaj + Blanca Ulloa’n’em
in a world of trouble, arti cuts the lining of the colored sky. she’s lou rawls.
earth shudders, having been reduced to infinity.
the automobile: white on white in white.
solange lays her performance on the surface of white’s impurity.
blanca y bianca fold.
a festival of poverty in a brace of sharp embraces.
the most important thing about white, which my mama pinned on me like a rose, is that it is not
what it is. that’s the most important thing about everything, but it’s most important here, since white
always be trying to grasp the essence of what is in a fog of graspable essence called what is, which we can
see through, though it’s less important than our golden circle, which surrounds that fatal cloud with feeling
good.
we been swaying on the
red corner of 47th and South
Parkway, northeast corner, for a
long time, and so brutally,
sacred to ourselves in profaning one another, that it’s not about infinity, so fuck that illusion, or the illusion of movement, or the general
delusion of illusion—just slant groundedness in the grind and
layering absorption.
contact theatricality,
in refusing the construction of a false depth,
shuns perspective like echo and the bunnymen, isaac’s shade over white in the thick and thin and crucial three, shape and
bump
irregular as loubna lining out
the sky’s last skies,
anagrammatical,
ante-supreme.
indigenous spray,
whatever you came here for what you came here for is y’all, profane between l and i that i writes over as the pen steps off
the surface, having been underwritten by l, having all but fallen altogether all to dance, and preach what you
practice,
like barry white.
ana sound like ani,
being not then
one more time,
continually naughty, full in nothing and more, hurtfully
loving being different
in tangled detail.
all but unplayable as the upper room of bluiett’s ebu, like bluets’
hues and all around her unpayable steeple, in blue
viewly, ani and ana almost always be ma, sometimes
none, sometimes more, mu in a
mechanics, an ecology, of dispersed,
cin’em’atic mama, see,
she my play mama, my kids’
grammar, my grandma’s daughter, in debt, exhausted, ain’t quite
breathe
right in that heavy water.
anti
as the river antes, indent
all that and, and yas yas
always
unfolding, exing, exiting in affirmative hell naw, in stop killing my auntie,
my only chance,
unmissishly dancing, afformative offa ann’s unmerciful unmerciful me,
in geeshie and l.v.’s geechie las vegas,
that elks’ club wild goose way
to stop in and out of step with that
blew up out of none and two past due pine bluff duet they in and out of, the dust of its explosion that be all up in all our kin, ana,
ani, steady reciting through their sighting, it’s so exciting, we
so wrong, we be itching to inscribe black spiral and incite. we gon’ be aiight?
an be one way and another and we just keep on, haven’t gone and ain’t gon’ get there, not-in-
between, the words be sea-through feeling through our hands.
the other half of the
half that ain’t been told can’t be told till
no one tells it
nowhere
and everywhere
through everyone.