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¬ work / plot 51 (print)



















¬ p l o t  51

n -> (fragments) The full complexity of a myth is a MOTIONless phrase. disembodied characters, zeros and ones, transitory natures, shapeshifting dancers, m - t - v the beat, the murmur of a rumor which we forget, swallowed alive or lost. We lived transparent months. After being alone I find you in different ways. Now I'm walking at the same pace. 6 months, I said. But then I started a thousand words and deleted hundreds.
(IssuE) The shaded world effectively defends its streets one Sunday morning. There is the town's assisting tourist, passing the boundary between herself and the rest of the world. Afterwards, despite this photo (-a form shot, whatever-), landscapes on a Sunday - through the lens.: two strangers meet in a disturbing scene.
(source) Sectors of the world like kingdoms on the map and fractures distort a successful description. Sitting lazy to adjust, I accumulate a contained Image, went, became an adventure, the town, the very cool, I thought. And I feel the return of another <image>, give up and watch, then go off with razor blades throught a sickening suburban wound. Friends asked me why but first impressions first, they would be in something invisible; minutes become weeks again. There had been outbreaks of historical reconstruction, inevitably memory would reveal the real nature of simulation. I took a mask, institutional and willfully blind to make up for the gaps in between the start of today and a series of events including natural fierceness. In either case: lists, and the past three changes in the concept of totally similar answers. we . move . are . mobile . connect . anything . now . anytime . anywhere . lost . time . we . move . wont . stop . maybe . another . time .
(ImagE) and there are burnt out dog-ends along the wall. this time it sounds like that creeping feeling towards a final solution. Like appendages I searched for another toxin, another trick to wonder about, modern materials in agreement, really give it and turned away. and we were doing nothing to get used to pain, some organs non functional. I got even more confused. wrong you have just wanted to; do. Uh. I would rent a riot: Past that drain. trying to replace the past.
(evidence) s/he is easy to sift through. if you talk about it, I wrap you, will be the next. it seems like our doors are an escape from our bodies: I was somewhat reluctant at the end while she got the first flame. to argue about personalities themselves is a bad philosophy; Find him walking in the background, had typed evidence in completely different versions.
(ImagE) a photographer was sitting there was in to be captured by hand from behind. stream identity, communication conventions quite willing to the time and we are supposed to line up additional options to do with a modest expectation; finally realized I was free. I want to know; sitting I don't dare moving: October when you can't perceive, told a few things, and walked through the mist around me! I wandered around in cities; the gutters between the people or a wall, are a voice explained repeatedly for all to see, and for someone to tell me: they could have it: through all I have been living in: the lights and everything that I learned of bookcases shuffling up before I decide what we really say isnt just talking, then drowned in them. To give away was actually live philosophy, and it had him in a tubed mask. it also seems like some friends were in a whimper, instead I'm getting at what is was like with his face down, clutched for a month but I wanted to exist there. Simplicity, the root sign, and I said you were battered and I am, opened the door with my knee. Pause; exterminate all that she says then everything else will change into . the sound of trees and the minimal light and I said ..u are u may be here until they lock you in some other form of Land. I tried to imagine it after a sleepy moment shows the old poisoning. nowhere else I kept thinking I wanted to follow until I physically shrink. in the long time my ability to listen seemed gone.
(conclusion) inwards or inverted texture. and it doesn't occur to him: this string of words is like passing a set of points and positions. two strangers meet. After stopping in a suburb, we find an area, places where flowers grow. now. forget what day it is fact. they have arrived stoned bored quietly said"fuck you" our lection is due. free,and I crashed: the early morning in a thick mist and u are alone. Acceptable: a day, the same as their huge grins into a tomorrow. Then finds a collective skill: bursts activities as evidence: instincts of suspicion too many walking tatoos all dressed in the standard speak in good faith.
(ImagE) alone we can see the mirror. noxious contents for mouth and nose, breathing food, hardly looking up from looks from all and everyone in a mask, slowly expanding knowing when the sickly orange street screeches off to an even younger supportive of history . We are here, and we are merely a glimmer. s/he'd fall over if s/he was to listen, s/he's screaming going to swift out of the way arrive with a refused dialogue rubble of broken temporary solvent. We reach the plexiglass road: a perfect stop and a path towards figuring out what had happened. See the signs: I try to make our controled routine-feeling particular. invisible arms I am a glass human six men with 51 hands. I am shouting my final emptiness.
(convenient) I remember your feel; matted like some scorched rubble. said that we sat on a loop. One point on the wall was a Toxic Lookin Moving Image. asked someone so we spoke. began with anything. Toxic looking because a new and random, incomplete scene already has everything that would name your feel; and I just discovered what sparks probabilities and I'm telling you; know where you are and time has everything.
(void) we talk about thinking in terms of scale, sat still for months of which the most felt like millions of years long. just several small black lichens have grown and little yellow spots wander across. I have to struggle through the streets barren of life. Had the time for crashing which looks like essentially bare land. We have not enough time left to 'feel' ourselves into another example: She cuts a hole with her teeth, emerges, makes her appearance. Blue light is left behind when I slowly disappear for a moment and I say: we can watch and stand upright and sat down. I could easily make up further evidence later: the babies' look comes with braying sounds. many flowers here, i say. I come to the sides of the the city and hear the sounds that come from my empty glass. I no longer see the gesturing slow cameras, the tape is about to run out, no one can touch me. She makes movements with her lips and I feel like a glass human. Inside what used to be the protective wall old people move in slow motion and a second light allows us just about to make out another person staring. I tried to understand his blue-ink tattoos as they grew like a sinister thought. She reaches out and pulls me inside her gaze and his body has no understanding how someone else is feeling. So my fingers need to think in terms of less than a couple of years. The bodies are silent: years, back in order to doze off. Sleep becomes a message. Sometimes, I walk back towards the bypass, patiently my eye is deflected back into someone's home. it was the first time she's seen a world beyond there. seeing it live, in a flimsy neutrality. Once more there is no horizon: I'm feeling like this: We leave the drizzle nights: streets far too far around and simply invisible, just looking for flowers, I say. pretend that I am familiar or that I have a history attached to characters, zeros and ones, no longer coded but deciphered carbon copy. And they r in~potent, fought their way into reality, although there's echoes around, a mock-reflection in his back. three hours of the seven for fun. streets which defy the daylight try to protect not guide, but I'm at the end of the walk home, it will happen tommorow, will proceed. A load of plastic fools have obtained some of my childhood. the moist scent of that exists out there. (afterimage)incorrectly close and less dense than usual, until expectations break before our eyes when they finally emerge from an endless passage. The colour laden with the duration of a wiped off street at night, or a beginning of a sleepless night as the streets shimmer in the rain. instead i think it offers us a diluted landscape: Cant...Wont.....Show...Elsewhere...Maybe...Another ...Time... a land one can never get tired of. narration without beauty, laden moment with a hint, the individual torn from a shadow or from the crowd. With its own trace of anger or amusement and opaque reality. shaky handwriting showed signs of hesitation. the tape has run out and s/he could touch me.


plot51 was performed by ody jarmann and max ensslin @ dcoa, UK 2oo1