rain means change

what was I writing, what was the worl? dick describes a whorl of world that pads the voice of the worl from me .

whorl, dick repeats, it doesn’t stop. all ten pies in the air, fifteen pounds of horse in ten pound bag.  I begin to suspect myself of infinite withstanding abilities. but I wouldn’t want to push it.

all the work comes out of a worldly whorl. For the upcoming installation, all the parts and materials are at hand, visions have been had, and sketched, now to show up on time and manifest the vision, large point by large point, letting natural suggestions of the site dictate an installation whose success is in its ease.

please, i invoke the deities that protect me from pretty things and fussiness, let’s just let the materials do the space by themselves. i have seen where to place the light in space, I have seen where the Seeing takes place, I have seen all the aspects of the bodies of the work.

I feel certain only of the certainty of sculpture, where the gravities collide and how to stand, and where is the heaviest object, where on the three dimensional grid of the sitespace, where does the heavy hang, and where the harmonic of heavy, the fulcrum, the heavy goes at the fulcrum and from there the light is weightless and I pick it up in the shapes of the vision.

five days. monday throo friday I have five solid days to pre-fabricate and 11 days on site. which could tragically turn into 10 1/2 if I can’t get another deinstall moved. I breathe slowly and think of all the fabrications I can do in advance of being on site, pieces of wire in certain shapes and lenses wrapped, i can’t wait for morning when I will rise and make coffee and begin with the meditation of the work, and continue with the fabrication, one thing at a time. I bicker with myself about how it will be on site, but it doesn’t make a difference. better to listen to music and insects and make like it tells me.

in the morning, I put muself to the work. I find it even more strange when I agree with dick. to shake free of wide-eyed curiosity, I write, mentally, that Philip K Dick has come to me incursive, and vies for presence in the writing, vies for writing through typos that wrest the letters from my thought to his. At first I felt he was just messing with me, but then I saw, clever fuck that he is, how he was using the typos to convey meaning. personal like he’s talking, and it has my hackles up. if I’d known I was going to be inhabited by a dead writer, I might have wanted to pick which one.  Fine as he purportedly is, pkd wouldn’t have made the short list. i write all of that on a mental list of withstandings.

in the morning, I put muself to work, and I will address the stairwell fixture, because I can’t be doing much rotating my thumb in the air, guessing one-eyed from scratch which optic goes in every planned place, when I have 11 days. I pre-decide which optics, I pre-see, and note it on the sketch.