Experiment in One Paragraph

[alcibiades_mystery]

(Yes, it's annoying on screen, but bear with it)


Veni qui means come here what Dad used to say on the steps when are we going for ice cream it wasn’t til she saw the big wheels coming down the hill roaring like pigeons here all around tripping on lysergic acid diethylamide twenty-five on a Saturday afternoon, hell went all the way down to the video arcade only to leave five minutes later the damn lights blinking and the screeching of the machines – not to mention the terrifying thousand year old face of the Sikh with the little belt changer curly white mustache beard must have killed a god to get all those wrinkles place burned down not two years later, and already a shadow used to be an amusement park now an empty lot. That’s when she saw the murder. No, later, a thousand year old face and rumbling big wheels made up a plot killer like raising a plant, the following submission: we remake Hitchcock’s Rear Window only this time call it Side Window the problematic of the first being that the Stewart is completely immobile, helpless because immobile, but that is a thoroughly twentieth century problem like lysergic acid diethylamide was a twentieth century conceptual problem for Dr. Hoffman who was, after all, merely trying to ease birth pains with an ergot derivative. So the remake takes a different form, not that one is immobile and therefore helpless but that one is helpless because too mobile, requires a change of scenery, and a change of disability maybe, thus: she witnesses a murder from the window of an elevated train, the murder taking place in an apartment building adjacent to the tracks, such that she can only investigate her theory of the crime by taking the train past that window, but of course the train moves very quickly, so her investigation must proceed in two-to-three second increments: helpless because entirely too mobile, and of course the killer scene would be the fortieth or so time she rolls through, picking up two second pieces of information each time, but the fortieth time she looks and the killer is staring back at her from the apartment window, like how could he possibly have known that she was investigating the murder in two second increments on a passing train? Needless to say everyone thinks she’s crazy, but that’s a great cinematic scream moment with the killer looking back. Was he really looking back or did he just happen to glance out his apartment window at the passing train at precisely that time? And that’s when she witnessed a murder not in her dream movie but here in the world and then dreading the movie because it would be another film about making films and we’ve had enough of exhausted self-reflexivity degraded by now to cheap sit-com exhausted postmodernism plain old exhausted and entirely too mobile. You have to kill a god to get wrinkles like that. And already exhausted modernism stream of subterranean virtualities and all the other nonsense, none of which helps when you witness a murder in this world. Breath. Exhausted. Breath, because she never had an orgasm from a man even faking when they went down even poor Danny he was nice and fun at parties not that she didn’t have enough on her own like when they asked the sex board game question in college about where are you when you masturbate and she said on her stomach everybody laughing “No! What room? What place?” and she laughed too but it was humiliating and the question could have been phrased better on my stomach all the college boys must have had a nice visual of that one stupid fucking syntax of that question really gave them an intimate look a two second increment what are the difficulties involved in investigating a murder on your way to work number 7 train say the murder takes place in Corona Queens in an apartment building abutting the elevated seven line it takes her five trips just to get a sense of the address of the place because she’s disoriented like all riders on elevated trains from being entirely too mobile. On my stomach and they filled in the image one hand tucked underneath or maybe two maybe one behind you have to kill a god to get wrinkles like that. She’s a photographer in the movie like Stewart was in the original it’s about visual culture the speed of it doesn’t get hurt photographing a car race but in Iraq draw them in with the scene western woman with a veil leaving a small village with driver and interpreter but the car is overheating and she doesn’t want to get caught out here on the road after nightfall but luckily on the horizon – Is it a mirage? This visual culture… Dust kicked up by an American convoy all of this filmed with DJ Spooky’s Black Grass Remix of Catechism which a hatch gunner in the convoy just put on his iPod, no words just the base and the lyrics I divide niggas like religion and the convoy stops and looks her over and picks her up but not the other guys and the base keeps kicking and then the attack and this is what injures her she’s a photographer maybe call it Shutter Speed instead of side window but the premise is the same in vain and imaginary you must be insane and fuckin’ with mad theories all war movies are false because they invest us in personalities this soldier and that soldier and their personal stories, and there never was any soldier with a personality or a story in a war and that is the truth of the matter: The War is the only personality that counts, and someone should have the fucking courage already to make that war movie. On my stomach, she said, and she knew her friends had had them with men, even with the same guys she was with after she’d abandoned them so incompetent at the time even faking when they went down saying veni qui veni qui veni qui come here little birdie and the trip after she saw the killer looking at her from the window glaring then she sees him stepping on to the platform of the next station 111th street as the train rolls to a stop and that’s when you know he saw her too in her two second increments investigating his murder of his wife in that apartment building and he’s coming at her now too, for real and for sure….And she’s there in the theater with another guy who couldn’t do it for her and imagining her trailer for the remake while some other trailer showed on screen who said the trailer is the movie today some theorist or other it tells you everything you need to know but her trailer would go further had to have a lot of the initial Iraq scene even though it was to be only a small part of the film but it could get inserted when the trailer speeds up when the base kicks in I divide niggas like religion. How had Hitchcock handled the back story of Stewart’s injury? As a twentieth century problem, taking the piss on photography Stewart has the photograph on his wall, and what is it, a flipping car, a race car no less, taking the piss on photography and immobility, a race car, get it?: so fast so mobile, but frozen there in time, rendered immobile by photography, by the myth of the twentieth century, Hitchcock at once ushering these moving pictures toward an entirely too mobile future, but stuck in it, stuck in the trap of immobility, making it his theme, a thoroughly twentieth century problem, not ours. And even Vertov, Man with a Movie Camera, riding around in a car, looking at him looking at you, looking at him, saw that in some theory course somewhere, mirage in the desert, a visual culture, exhausted postmodernism making movies about making exhausted movies, where they asked all kinds of questions, and she tired from staying up late playing board games with more questions had you tell the truth about things you didn’t want to lousy syntax no where are you when you masturbate and they’re laughing because they got a visual culture by accident on my stomach, yes, and not sitting on a toilet poised for some acrobatic discharge, like Danny, bending fast at the last possible moment - laughing No! Where, not how! None of which helps you witness a murder in your dream movie or in life...

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[petgoat]

1. Vivid, and good vocabulary, but just too much work to

read, like somebody jamming a whole turkey meal down your throat.

Paragraphs are like bites; I like small ones I can savor, myself.