doggerel

We don't go near the doge

Because it has a nose

Its nose is full of snot

Something that we want not

It tries to touch your trous

With its dirty nose

There to leave a trace

Of its nasal space

One day the doge we'll've caught

And before it we slaught

Perversely we will say:

"Thy nose we chop away!"

vision

People’s motivational states—their wishes and preferences—influence their processing of visual stimuli.

In 5 studies, participants shown an ambiguous figure (e.g., one that could be seen either as the letter B

or the number 13) tended to report seeing the interpretation that assigned them to outcomes they favored.

This finding was affirmed by unobtrusive and implicit measures of perception (e.g., eye tracking, lexical

decision tasks) and by experimental procedures demonstrating that participants were aware only of the

single (usually favored) interpretation they saw at the time they viewed the stimulus. These studies

suggest that the impact of motivation on information processing extends down into preconscious

processing of stimuli in the visual environment and thus guides what the visual system presents to

conscious awareness.

The neon sign

The neon sign

[Now we’ve entered the tunnel again.]

Cue took the coffee and went down the stairway. There was only one free table, just in front of the bar, which wasn’t open yet. All around the walls were pictures in the current exhibition.
Above the bar at the back was the sign, flashing. There was something different about it that struck Cue without his being aware of what it was. He watched as the different parts, flashing at different intervals, lit up, now together, now apart; it gave the impression of never actually repeating itself.
So here was the proof, if it were needed, that that time had been, that they – Vic and he – had lived, worked together. [expand/relocate carrying, choosing spaces, knocking in nails, hanging the pictures, the constructions.] And the sign, all the sketches, designs, the assembling, the bright colours, and then the stuff Vic has smeared and dripped, squirted and splashed – Worcester sauce, dust from the vacuum, oil [expand/clarify - the photo: The artist and her work – Cue’s photogenic cat, engaging the viewer] – the moment when the finished sign was illuminated the first time. Cue smiled. Then he saw what it was that had changed: the sign had been cleaned! The bright colours again!

[In France!]

So that was it: the dirt had been removed, the sign cleaned, the past – their past – wiped out; [rewrite just like everything else had been wiped clean by the wrath of a jealous boyfriend], but this time anonymously, innocently.
Cue drew in a breath, curbed the rising hysteria [anger?]. He looked around: all these people, couples, groups, individuals, all submerged in their lives in the present. In half an hour, or an hour at the most, they’d be gone; a group breaking up here, a couple parting there, here someone presently alone off to meet a friend or lover, all moving on in their ever moving present.
But Cue was here frozen in a dead past, cut off from the people and events around him. Even the sign was no longer the sign: it no longer existed as he had seen Vic create it. Joe had won. Time had been on his side. Time was always on the side of newcomers. For Cue, time hadn’t so much run out as simply stopped.
He looked around again. Everyone seemed to be doing something: talking, reading, noting something down, active – alive. Cue was seized with horror as he felt his isolation. He lit a cigarette, drew in the smoke deeply, exhaled. He took a sip of his coffee, tasted, swallowed. His actions, even his sensations, seemed false. Was it the same as for the others? He watched a man sipping a coffee like his, saw the steam rise, tried to imagine the smell, the taste that the other experienced. A woman over near the stairs was just lighting a cigarette. Cue watched the flame surround and ignite the end [substitute tip], saw the smoke curl upwards. Was she feeling the same dizziness he had? No. She was living, they all were; not him – a [wine taster], an actor, a ghost [images don’t fit together, don’t work (mutually contradictory)].
A ghost, surrounded by the living, dreaming of other ghosts: ghost-people, ghost-objects – a ghost past.
But what if he broke with the ghosts? Could he? Undoubtedly, he could. Did he want to? To live again? [sketch: sunset] He wanted Vic. But Vic was different too. Because of Joe. Yes, but was it really that simple? Had Joe changed Vic, clean[r?]ed away his feelings for Cue, or had Vic himself effected the change? Or was it just time? [elsewhere Men are mortal, but their mortality is partial, enacted by degrees, more or less radical.]
Murder, suicide, or senility, the result was the same. Vic was dead – long live Vic!
Cue sighed. He himself had undergone, was now undergoing the same process, not yet complete. He had to hurry it along. Action. Engagement. Life. There was no substitute. He looked again at the sign, blinking innocuously, [] flirtatiously. He told himself it was like any other work of art in any gallery or square. Anonymous. He knew nothing of its past, nothing of its maker. It had no past, just an ever moving present, always different, for each time, each viewer even.
He got up, paid for his [sketch: sunset again] coffee and left.
(Still marks on the sign/light new each time)

[NB: written before reading TV’s letter of 95-08-07, posted 95-08-11, which I read after returning to 44 rue Coriolis, after midnight, so 95-08-15. Nausea. > did the extreme ‘depression’ ‘cause’ my illness?]

Class of '99

A chew-the-cud ‘Baby Jane’ muncher; an emaciated (thru rejection-induced very high profile ‘overwork’) to the extent the head’s about to drop off Frau Blau clone; a hideously cholesterol-eyed galleon-hipped would-be lesbian; a frustrated gay-boy-befriended manic depressive; an “I’m so desperate to be macho (tho I don’t know my own sexuality at twenty) that I suck up to a clapped out old twat (‘cause he’s the only other male apart from the queer teacher)” invert; the aforementioned “I let myself go before I ever had hold and make up for my complete lack of masculinity by insulting women” fat-hanger; an is it a silly attempt at femininity or the first onset of Parkinson’s? ‘Dusty Springfield’ without voice head shaker; a random language generator; a “where did my scab go?” greasy-eyed German-style snapper; a ‘Mary II’ bulbous visage; an “I can speak English if I want, but I’ll pretend I can’t and blame the teacher”; a pig-eyed ‘frizzy blonde’ Adult Channel reject.

The two exceptions: Bahar and Christiana.

Was it really that bad? Oh, no – it was much, much worse!

Looking around the room was enough to make Mark feel sick. On his far right sat Fat Hanger. The name was a perfect fit – which was more than could be said for his skin. His body hung like an old suit and his skin had the texture of a party balloon several days after the party. Lifting his face would’ve been a challenge to the best Hollywood surgeon – you’d need to detach at least half the skin before that face kept still, never mind taut.
Opposite, far left, was Pot Hässlich. A looker she wasn’t. She’d been christened by the class bitch (who considered herself to be the class beauty, but merely had the biggest tits, with glasses to match). Still, Mark couldn’t disagree with Bitch Tits – Pot Hässlich was just that. She had the Edna the Inebriate Woman look, only she’d gotten there a couple of decades earlier than that old girl. Yes, booze and fags, along with a few other things he’d rather not visualize, had certainly made a feast of her.

Number 36

As Marek arrived at number 36 and rang the doorbell, two lads turned up behind him, as if summoned by its chime. Perhaps expecting them, one of Pani Kowiak’s daughters opened the door almost at once.
“Is Vitek there?” Marek asked.
“He’s not in,” said the daughter apologetically.
“Oh…” Again!, he thought. “Ok, tomorrow then.”
“Yes, tomorrow morning.”
He turned to leave and, no longer impeded, the boys stepped forward to enter the apartment. Not two metres away, however, Marek heard a throaty voice and turned to see Pani Kowiak, herself now hindering the callers, trying to get his attention.
“Evening!” he said, returning to the door.
“Evening! Come in! Come in!”
Smiling nervously, she quickly led him to the lounge, where he saw two more visitors sitting on the sofa. They both gazed blankly in his direction, making blank eye contact, as if they’d never seen anyone – or anything – like him and didn’t know what he was. Both were about Pani Kowiak’s age; the man had greying billowy hair that seemed to be escaping like dense vapour from his head; the woman gave the impression of being wrapped in cling film.
“These are… friends of mine,” said Pani Kowiak, hesitating over their designation, as if they weren’t that at all, though what else they could be was unclear. The friends’ unblinking scrutiny was enough to stifle Marek’s already hesitant greeting and he directed his attention back to Pani Kowiak.
“Here’s the rent for October – five hundred,” he said, and started to leave, but then remembered he ought to mention what would happen about the next month. He hesitated, and Pani Kowiak, smiling helpfully, repeated: “For October.”
“Yes…” Marek risked a glance towards the inert guests before continuing: “It’s possible I’ll be moving to Poznań in November, but I’ve already started looking for students to take over the apartment.”
To avoid further explanation, he showed her a copy of the poster he’d hung around the university. She quickly read through the details and smiled at him approvingly. He noticed she’d made up her face and had plucked and pencilled her eyebrows into mathematically perfect arcs, presumably for her friends’ benefit. A faint smell of sweat undermined her achievement, though judging by their reaction to him, it was doubtful whether her visitors were either impressed or disappointed by her efforts.
“Ok, I’ll be off then,” Marek said, turning towards the door.
“Bye!” said Pani Kowiak.
“Bye!”
“Bye,” said the lads, an indifferent chorus, as he passed them in the hallway.
He felt his usual elation at leaving that place, a result of relief rather than success. But what about those friends of hers! It was just as if she’d propped up two corpses, skilfully tilting heads and directing eyes towards the lounge door, ready to gape lifelessly at a chance visitor. Still, their inertia was preferable to Victor’s erratic behaviour: sentimental when drunk; irritable when sober.
Marek now made his way to the supermarket. He was suddenly very hungry and wanted to buy the few things he needed, get home and eat.

Anna's painting

Anna had painstakingly stretched her third sheet of paper – the first having come unstuck, the second having split as it dried – and then she’d gone and splattered it with aquamarine acrylic. Despite her carefully but swiftly scraping it off, the paint had left a pale blue heart-shaped patch, a third-way across and down – right at a compositional focus, in fact.

She knew the heart would disappear without trace under her brushstrokes, but still felt an almost irresistible urge to scrap the canvas and start over. She also knew this was her mind’s familiar trick to put off further making a start. The balance of her indecision finally tipped with the thought, The painting’s underway – the bluish blob is a start. And she went back to the pigment, already drying at the edges, loaded her brush and laid down the first thick strands of aquamarine darkened with umber, not over the heart, but in a widening arch in the top left of the white square.

As soon as the first paint was on the paper, the first deliberately placed mark (if the blotch really had been accidental), the awful restraining tension eased away and was replaced by its opposite – the urge to move forward, to expand the covered spaces, to overlap and overlay, till the whole plane was filled with textured colour.

Fragments for later work...

...maybe:)
Yeah, this is where I'll post bits & bobs that I might work up into something later.