The Neo-Futurist Collective
Monday, 15 September 2008
Sunday, 14 September 2008
draft script /// rowena
Crashes, Bangs & Other Matter
RE: What’s your weather like right now?
MC: Bring shorts, sandals, and a brolly.
RE: I was hoping to escape from English piss.
MC: Yeah well, this is Ike’s piss.
Wednesday 10th: Doomsday is a contrary date to begin a journey. Don’t know how far I’ll get.
Deep beneath Alpine meadows? Scientists do have a sense of humour, its just more ambitious.
Thursday 11th: Hysterics, tourists and men in black eddy around Zero. I’m still here.
Friday 12th: Wall Street. Writing in an airless room … I followed her thread the other way, back into the breaches: dark regions, saturated with impact craters; lighter regions, crosscut by extensive grooves and ridges: the result of tectonic activity brought about by tidal dealing. Between the wall – gaps in fact – I came and found further disappearances. Looked for the holes in the fabric of the city: pot holes, tight holes, night holes, cellar holes, shrapnel holes. Full of holes; a synthesis of holes.
Fortunes made in flight.
Companies combining to make nothing.
This is the house that Jack Morgan built.
An empty canyon.
Stock drops.
Men, pink and ripe, smack the street.
I busied myself with the space caught between the curtains, a non-game:
Exploding a small coin,
A Rasta with ‘NOTHING’ on his chest,
The albino hanging a suit down an opening,
Mixing a cocktail without a recipe,
A dragonfly framed,
A gyrating market tracing a circle with its hips,
Joined at both ends by a midget in a wheelchair,
Naked jaywalker,
No bells ringing,
No traffic,
No Pat.
It’s a catgut grid.
“ … watch for the openings that this disappearance uncovers.”
And I found, secreted in the moment, a shattering.
“Nothing can happen only once …”
The collision left fragments: languages: of gloves, of hides, of horseshoes, of kisses, of knives, of news, of wit.
3000 dickering merchants: “Read my lipstick: drill. Drill baby, drill:”
Dues. The priest positively refused to take anything Graced with collars and crowned also with gems, faith. Certain strange things had manifestly happened, were reported, and which the despatch related a screw to put in, as the one here has, so that.
Not fun, not crime. Perhaps a highcrow intellectual the gift for intrigue, which perhaps had helped for the goods supplied, threats and applications of cuddle in the cinema, wouldn't you, miss eyelesbarrow over him, and his accent was peculiarly that of. An' light'eaded grinnin' giddy goats i used to paper was invented by edison. Also the tasimeter, quartered themselves there.' bhishma said, 'after all its pain. Hovering at her side was hagar, and enemies to government, though they now flatter.
A shifting crust. Wandering rocks, crashing into lots. New paths. Moving parcels of land wrapped in paper, defining and redefining. Breathing markets: contracts.
Tax wrappers and wrinkles.
Down the way to the river I listened for the squeak of bird sneakers, the birds whirling against the monstrous glug.
Watched as the jogger stretched behind the Japanese crew on set.
Paperhunted.
Took the slender silver line to topographical adventures. Into an atrium of lace columns, walkways of evergreens and waterfalls: soothing encouragement to keep moving, keep the money trickling from one hand to the next. There is certainty with transparency. The running water, the light, the glass, the Perspex, the cellophane, the polished surfaces reflect … reflections of what is present, what is behind, and what is in front. Images and actions mirrored, replicated, multiplied. Existence confirmed through repetition.
I sanitised my hands. Through the reclaimed land sloping off into the shit, past performance is no guarantee of future results.
And before me were the tower heads, amputated buildings hauled by 40 teams of oxen into a haemorrhaging city. Partial occupancy had left a feverish surplus.
I climbed up through trading air to the temple, the Godthab, but couldn’t find the source. Instead, along the receding shore of the flow, I saw the fashionable men of Hell’s Kitchen were boiling up a different stock: of mild pleasantness. Of eco-porn and encampment.
Who owns what?
Who signs the steel?
What keeps the aliens out and the animals in?
Saturday 13th: sleep, eat, shop.
Sunday 14th: Coney Island, where the ground tone is lowest, and Faber’s Fascination is a peach mama rocking the car. White cars do not swing. The freaks are dead. So is the chicken.
RE: What’s your weather like right now?
MC: Bring shorts, sandals, and a brolly.
RE: I was hoping to escape from English piss.
MC: Yeah well, this is Ike’s piss.
Wednesday 10th: Doomsday is a contrary date to begin a journey. Don’t know how far I’ll get.
Deep beneath Alpine meadows? Scientists do have a sense of humour, its just more ambitious.
Thursday 11th: Hysterics, tourists and men in black eddy around Zero. I’m still here.
Friday 12th: Wall Street. Writing in an airless room … I followed her thread the other way, back into the breaches: dark regions, saturated with impact craters; lighter regions, crosscut by extensive grooves and ridges: the result of tectonic activity brought about by tidal dealing. Between the wall – gaps in fact – I came and found further disappearances. Looked for the holes in the fabric of the city: pot holes, tight holes, night holes, cellar holes, shrapnel holes. Full of holes; a synthesis of holes.
Fortunes made in flight.
Companies combining to make nothing.
This is the house that Jack Morgan built.
An empty canyon.
Stock drops.
Men, pink and ripe, smack the street.
I busied myself with the space caught between the curtains, a non-game:
Exploding a small coin,
A Rasta with ‘NOTHING’ on his chest,
The albino hanging a suit down an opening,
Mixing a cocktail without a recipe,
A dragonfly framed,
A gyrating market tracing a circle with its hips,
Joined at both ends by a midget in a wheelchair,
Naked jaywalker,
No bells ringing,
No traffic,
No Pat.
It’s a catgut grid.
“ … watch for the openings that this disappearance uncovers.”
And I found, secreted in the moment, a shattering.
“Nothing can happen only once …”
The collision left fragments: languages: of gloves, of hides, of horseshoes, of kisses, of knives, of news, of wit.
3000 dickering merchants: “Read my lipstick: drill. Drill baby, drill:”
Dues. The priest positively refused to take anything Graced with collars and crowned also with gems, faith. Certain strange things had manifestly happened, were reported, and which the despatch related a screw to put in, as the one here has, so that.
Not fun, not crime. Perhaps a highcrow intellectual the gift for intrigue, which perhaps had helped for the goods supplied, threats and applications of cuddle in the cinema, wouldn't you, miss eyelesbarrow over him, and his accent was peculiarly that of. An' light'eaded grinnin' giddy goats i used to paper was invented by edison. Also the tasimeter, quartered themselves there.' bhishma said, 'after all its pain. Hovering at her side was hagar, and enemies to government, though they now flatter.
A shifting crust. Wandering rocks, crashing into lots. New paths. Moving parcels of land wrapped in paper, defining and redefining. Breathing markets: contracts.
Tax wrappers and wrinkles.
Down the way to the river I listened for the squeak of bird sneakers, the birds whirling against the monstrous glug.
Watched as the jogger stretched behind the Japanese crew on set.
Paperhunted.
Took the slender silver line to topographical adventures. Into an atrium of lace columns, walkways of evergreens and waterfalls: soothing encouragement to keep moving, keep the money trickling from one hand to the next. There is certainty with transparency. The running water, the light, the glass, the Perspex, the cellophane, the polished surfaces reflect … reflections of what is present, what is behind, and what is in front. Images and actions mirrored, replicated, multiplied. Existence confirmed through repetition.
I sanitised my hands. Through the reclaimed land sloping off into the shit, past performance is no guarantee of future results.
And before me were the tower heads, amputated buildings hauled by 40 teams of oxen into a haemorrhaging city. Partial occupancy had left a feverish surplus.
I climbed up through trading air to the temple, the Godthab, but couldn’t find the source. Instead, along the receding shore of the flow, I saw the fashionable men of Hell’s Kitchen were boiling up a different stock: of mild pleasantness. Of eco-porn and encampment.
Who owns what?
Who signs the steel?
What keeps the aliens out and the animals in?
Saturday 13th: sleep, eat, shop.
Sunday 14th: Coney Island, where the ground tone is lowest, and Faber’s Fascination is a peach mama rocking the car. White cars do not swing. The freaks are dead. So is the chicken.
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Saturday, 13 September 2008
Friday, 12 September 2008
CONFLUX DAY 1 ///// ROWENA
Exploding a small coin,
A Rasta with ‘NOTHING’ on his chest,
The albino hanging a suit down an opening,
A dragonfly framed,
A gyrating market tracing a circle with its hips,
Joined at both ends by a midget in a wheelchair,
Naked jaywalker,
No bells ringing,
No traffic.
It’s a catgut grid!
A Rasta with ‘NOTHING’ on his chest,
The albino hanging a suit down an opening,
A dragonfly framed,
A gyrating market tracing a circle with its hips,
Joined at both ends by a midget in a wheelchair,
Naked jaywalker,
No bells ringing,
No traffic.
It’s a catgut grid!
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