Legato Detour


       Hushed out of the subway's quiet zone past humanoid sized advertisement syncopated with the aura of those cast to exist between canonized strata of information. Street level through a rich bouquet of pastries. Scent au courant in the whiff of a passing. The European equivalent to an Oriental temptation part innocence part promiscuity.

Clouds have gathered and it looks like rain.

       She is already seated. Sunburst corn rows. A Chanel two-piece prototype. Pink & Yellow. I must remove my glasses, the changing of atmosphere fog the lenses. I perch myself on the faked untreated wood next to her and introduce myself as Tomorrow. She squints briefly and extends her hand in a grace which I recognize from a year old Mocca Angel Cosmetic ad. Hits the spot. First eight notes of Bach's cello suite one playback. A squadron of neurons skate on excited glial from the cerebrum though hypothalamus to lodge itself in the R-complex before fading out into the spinal cord. A microsecond's loss of all muscular activity in the shoulders. A shiver, but not from something cold. I touch it. A serpent of boyish soprano massaged by her tongue flow from her lips. I'm Seed. A smirk, and I feel at ease because I know it's reproduced by the minutes, online, but the smirk shifts faster than my cortex can manage to relax into a new glare, potentially serious. Do you have the write-up? I would have loved to give her the scripture in question. Of course, that's my job. Or so I made it seem. I do have the competencies but the stormtroopers of counter-reality are set on breaching my perimeter, seriously, like everyday and they make such a wonderful mess. I try to explain. Look, I zero in on something. The bone structure of a syllable. Cold water running behind crisp wallpaper. I try to explain. Look, locating a needle in a haystack is a piece of cake compared to this, at least that metaphor channels two offbeat materials and I could distill it with a chunk of failsafe software or by trawling through my library. But this baby, this is like groping for a pair of contacts in a jacuzzi, catch my drift? Complimenting materialities. She just stares. Blinks. It happens at the speed with which ice melts in cafe latte. Sound of compressed steam. Espresso machine. Dread locked barista turning knobs. Café interior in a moment of dunkel pre-thunderstorm stimmung, gold and gray – imagine the last scene from Notting Hill but in gloomy weather and something very para-strategic about to take place.

       I continue telling about my attrition. How to Google and give in. In 1968 an apt entity calculated that time had replaced space as the most important point of refection because of the dominance of speed. Wait a minute? Slow itch as Peg Man blatant, casual and conveniently maps the matrix there surely is no alternative to reality. Life Sized. Forged Identity. Choice Of A Lifetime. Dogs In Infinite Water. Too Bored To Noticed The Eagle Land. Spying Trough Holes In The Newspaper. If played long enough the trail of 3/4 will at mathematically predictable points ride long the 4/4. Selected Views Of Mountain Wi-Fi Ltd. In a montage set around the industrial revolution a group of scientists in white coats are standing about in rage. Some are pacing back and forth, some scratch their heads, some smoke their pipe hurriedly, others shake accusing fists towards the sky. All of them mumble. The sound of a pendulum is heard with rapid tempo changes suggesting uncanny events about to take place. Someone snatched a gear from Clockwork Del Mundo. 'Got timing?' in inescapable front page bold races across the screen as the soundtrack rises to pandemonic levels.

       Made it past the curfew, that hard two hours of the night crawls on the skin like a liaison you're trying to forget. They switched of all the arcade machines. Seated in a powered of Sega Rally 3 listening to the batters of Kabuki-Cho waiting for Hubertus Bigend to pick him up. In this time-nullifying vessel of enhanced plastic he knows what he is asking for is too much, but then again, he is closer to fiction than he has ever been before. He remembers sitting in an equally time-convoluting piece of hardened entertainment plastics. Probably the same manufacture on the ferry where Scandinavians and Germans navigate the threshold of the Balkans. The vacuum of people deprived from their personal capsules and into a peculiar three story carpet clad waiting room of nicotine stained hollow aluminum ceilings. Terraces on each side which seem to have been repainted every day for the last 10 years. Every detail in the outer materials have disappeared under a thick layer of military strength blue and white. A ramp of paint hugs the side of every bolt and rivet suggesting either a thorough use of a Stanley or a whole new invention of tool if they were to be removed. Everyone is on the watch. Fiddling with wallets before rising from chairs and tucking it in their back pocket very fast and in one take. All eyes alert, scouting for possible threats presumably seeping from the fabric that makes up the Eastern European segment of this particular ferry ride.

       Seed straightens her back and extracts something rectangular from a Hotel Charlottenborg laundry bag. A business card. Chic. I try to explain something about my working methods and how these may have obstructed my ability to achieve satisfying results. How by mapping the methodology I can't help but poeticize. I do most of my thinking while moving. No fixed address (address being interchangeable with material, style, theory, level of engagement, etc). Perpetually carried along a path which has no axis and no center. Where centrality is replaced by faux deja vú (the active-writing- in(introjection and projection) of fictitious elements in the events and signs surrounding oneself) and synchronicity. Where value is relationless and Tokyo just another street name. Where the enticing bliss of status quo is constant but interlaced with multiple thought-soli, awestruck by pivoting planes of insignia. Where the counterfeit physics first encountered in video games is suddenly lived out across every surface. Where the sense of home resides in the small packets of time spend (in this example) in Starbucks replicates, or other spaces with its stem cell cast in an now-opposite(defiant) polarity, reading into the liminal zone of ones own notes. Impossible to curb the urge to render it In Fantasia.

       I admit being contracted to another company, Walls & Blood, while employed by her. She shrugs. Lets out a sigh. She thought it was exclusive? I think of ways to ease the misunderstanding but the glyph I'm able to summon is based around intricate systema decipherable solely b cats in my frequent proximity: No-Reservation Grunge. C'mon man. What I've lost while gaining a language! Zero-g inside the dream logic of ones own creation. Or like that guy on every billboard, his head reclining on a soft-looking pillow subtitled: This Man Reserves The Right To Not Give A Shit. A mellow and utterly satisfied smile adorns his nonchalant visage.

       EXTREMELY POWERFUL MULTIDIMENSIONAL SELF CONNECTION roars through the simulation as I shake the lace cuffs into a more suitable position. The velvet seat adjusts to the contours of my buttock while I thrust my hands on the delicious keys of the petite harpsichord. Walnut boot heels the rhythm where marble meets tatami. A group of Japanese school girls waltz through the room. Texting each-to-each giggling. I greet an imaginary jury with slow and eased nods to the left and right while hands flirtatiously work out the motif. Presence like a cloud. Graceful white cough. Cyclopean connoisseurism.

       Seed turns to the window, flips the business card and looks at the throng of wet pedestrians evading puddles on their way home with Trojan Horses in the shape of shopping bags. I'm sorry but I really must reserve the right to shift on a dime whenever I see fit. You see the way I deal is a mix between something therapeutic and escapist. Time is rapping by and I'm lost as it's the only space to orchestrate my existence, right? Isn't it obvious? The future match zero-emission. It's just weightlessness, a ceaseless unfolding Chinese box of pure surface, 24 carat void. And if there is something in the maelstrom preceding this void which I can put to use, I will, inevitably. All the centuries of improvement and still no realistic timezone, man. On my way to the rendezvous I experienced myself pencilled into the ultrasonics originating from the sub of a passing Volkswagen. Waveform cavity. Mapped with sonar, the inner mechanics of bats. Visual identity. A pitch of fluted airstream aluminum. Punch-in take from a time marker, contemporarily of beat. Neo Asian Metal Trash. McDonalds plays The Model by Kraftwerk at 3 AM on a Monday morning.

       COGNITIVE PARACETAMOL, RETAIL THEATRE, MICROPEST, PHYSICAL ACCURACY, PROCEDURAL DESTRUCTION, SHOPPING HABITS OF A LIFE TIME, LAXATIVE MASTERPIECE pirouettes in from nowhere and I'm back in Tokyo, in the temple of Shinjuku station. The sim transition is a peeled egg reassembling itself in sync to the frequency of a switchblade, bass kicks in coils before fusing the egg and blade in impeccable gyroscopic balance. Impressive personal ident. With my W.H.Y release form and Diplôme Maître De L'Aliénation in hand. Scoped that Intellectual With A Dash Of Hangover would reach national exposure. Focus on something colorful jettisoned on the sidewalk. I bend down and pick up the swollen Pokémon card. I'm hit with melancholy but it's not personal it feels like a sign of mini apocalypses happening at a fixed rate.

       Preemptive Entropy Theory. It's over, already. Now and also in 1 second and also in 5 minutes. 1 year in 24 hours. 1 day in 1 week's time.

       Sobbing with the clenched Pokémon card in hand a tear slips into a crack in the asphalt and a weed instantly sprouts. Before unfolding itself towards the sun it's sent ablaze by the thrust of a handheld gas burner. I look up with wet appropriated eyes as the real estate agent says don't cry son, it's just a piece of cotton. He grimaces the emoticon for Hot. Another thrust of compressed gas ignited and my teenage mustache is blazing on the curb. Take your business elsewhere kid. A blackbird rinses in a pool of mud. LCD screen in the mist. Third-world in the sun. Solo violin. Firefox in the rain. Quantum physics cloaked as cereal. Something inside wiggles the wrong way out of the mouth. In a weak oasis of moussaka a dread lock and a book of rizla floats in an empty zip-loc bag of zigzag filters. Someone titled the plastic bag with a silver marker The Remnants Of Spain. Across the street an Italian mime runs his hand from hairline to chin exposing La Faccia Triste.

       Seed gazes on the pedestrians. They move in the rain as a single slab of wet chrome. Umbrellas are up now. The door to the café opens. The hiss of rain whipping multiple pylons of stretched nylon fades into the juke infused medieval motet coming from the cafés sound system. A pair of café guests with mugs of steaming liquid passes. Their convo oscillates in bee-line to my receptor. Yeah I like it but my boyfriend is against it. You know, it's like. I mean I'm pretty down with it and all, like I really dig the vibes and the philosophized aspects but my transient lifestyle just doesn't allow for fermentation. You know what? Last night in the living room he ran his fingers through my hair, closed his hand around it and pulled back hard to force my eyes and mouth to open. For almost an hour he whispered I want to escape, into my mouth. Oh really? Give him a Q-tip and tell him to get lost in the jungle and erect a shopping mall. But it was quite vitalizing, almost otaku, you know what? After this I came on his brand new Nike Free. What? Yeah! They are so much more sexy than the words coming out of his mouth, semiotically that is. You know, sometimes I wish for any feeling to wash over me like a tsunami. Oh right, manifest destiny girl! Yeah but instead it comes to me like blowing a dandelion or not even as poetic, it's as numb as stepping on a molehill. Some years ago I shot at the town hall tower clock to make it stand still. Shut the fuck up, you shot at it? Yes, with my grandfather's rifle. We went back to the cottage, the roast was in the oven and the table set. We were waiting for the revolutionaries.

       I think about the lifestyle of a Gecko. About the multi-functionality of Q-tips and Lemons. About the 3D chicken having it's skin attributed with the physics of silk. About the composed smell of fashion. How Great It Is To Be The One You're Not & Damned With One Face. The possibility of bodily resurrection past visual styles. All The Fucks I Give About Aesthetics.

       Seed turns to me, eyes open wide, nods. I agree, it's fashionable yet irritatingly elusive to define. She hands me the business card, you'll be hearing from me, and hurries out. Eyes focusing on Pink & Yellow and corn rows crossing the street until they are lost in a morse code of stuttering citizens, the pistons of commerce. A stance of neoprene clad yoga students doing their thang in the open studio across the café comes into focus where the corn rows evaporated. I walk out. The rain has dispersed as hard rays of sunshine dries the puddles. Something behind me demands my attention. New billboard. Downplayed serifs on white: Still Life On A Moving Screen. Trademarked. I look at the business card which whimsically, in relation to Seed's seemingly professionalism, states Catch Thy On The Flipside in a reworked Comic Sans. And damn it if not the saxophonist on the corner plays the note I've had in mind the whole day -- and for the duration of the note X,Y & Z kiss right where I want them to.



 

SQ