I

Exodus.
The instrument, washed until it bleeds.
Fixity. (or affixed to, the object of anxiety)
Entrails. The welt in the desert.
Each organ is removed over the time it takes to complete the sculpture. Or the removal is the work, rather.
The paradox is the method. As surface (broken). Remade, approximates its gesture.
A cerebral hemorrhage, December 31st, 1970. She washed hospital floors for money.
Linklines at Jupiter/Saturn conjunctions, beginning c. 5 April 4950 BC, 750 times, period 14,893.9 years.

Remembrance.
Transmission.
Becomes unfixed in the study of itself, The Unfinished Building, red.
Emancipated.
This could all be mistaken as parody.

A vibration (the work maybe) that propagates as an audible wave (the story) of pressure through a transmission medium: that which might be smoke, a fluid or solid (the air itself, or flesh). An oral tradition. Melancholy as material, as transmission medium. I used to say a true artist makes their work to protect their self from the market, and from the system (imperialism) that propels the market. The word “true” disturbs me. So lay five dead wrens around the text. Fill the room with salt.

The work: beginning with the eardrum, sound waves are translated into pitch, and then shortly thereafter "speech and music probably diverged into separate processing circuits." The input-only organism changes key into something porous. The innate urge to sing/signal wedges its way up from the atomic. What is synaptic about music is a condition of electrified carbon. I eat the dream from your ear. Spill the wine from your shoes.

Danger music sought to annihilate itself. For example, Takehisa Kosugi's composition Music for a Revolution directs the performer to gouge out one of their eyes five years from now. Sublimation in a system of total violence. Despite some of its contrivance, the limit which danger music seeks remains compelling. Exodus. I think to myself: ignoring cishet people for an extended period could be a piece of music. The moment I use the words I regret them. The moment I categorize the thing I recoil from it. Bring the curse into the house. The exception is class. Do not speak to or publicly acknowledge rich people, I tell myself. Appreciate the silent music in the absence of their constant slurring. See: Lee Lozano, Decide to Boycott Women, 1971.

Although no two organisms decompose in the same way, they all undergo the same sequential stages of decomposition, praxis. The silken skilled dismemberment of song.

Portraiture.
Effluence.
Telemetry.
The under-currency of gore that levitates our transactional creativity.

Extremity.
Transfixion.
The Suicide of Images.

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