Pipilotti Rist- (Entlastungen) Pipilottis Fehler

XVII- by e e cummings

one(Floatingly)arrive

(silent)one by(alive)

from(into disappear

and perfectly)nowhere

vivid anonymous

mythical guests of Is

unslowly more who(and

here who there who)descend

-ing(mercifully)touch

deathful earth's any which

Weavingly now one by

wonder(on twilight)they

come until(over dull

all nouns) begins a whole

verbal adventure to

illimitably Grow

Architcture by Alexander Brodsky

a reading in process

In reality, the activity of reading has on the contrary all the characteristics of a silent production: the drift across the page, the metamorphosis of the text effected by the wandering eyes of the reader, the improvisation and expectation of meanings inferred from a few words, leaps over written spaces in an ephemeral dance. But since he is incapable of stockpiling (unless he writes or records), the reader cannot protect himself against the erosion of time (while reading, he forgets himself and he forgets what he has read) unless he buys the object (book, image) which is no more than a substitute (the spore or promise) of moments "lost" in reading. He insinuates into another person's text the ruses of pleasure and appropriation: he poaches on it, is transported into it, pluralizes himself in it like the internal rumblings of one's body. Ruse, metaphor, arrangement, this production is also an "invention" of he memory. Words become the outlet or product of silent histories. The readable transforms itself into the memorable: Barthes reads Proust in Stendhal's text; the viewer reads the landscape of his childhood in the evening news. The thin film of writing becomes a movement of strata, play of spaces. A different world (the reader's ) slips into the author's place. This mutation makes the text habitable, like a rented apartment. It transforms another person's property into a space borrowed for a moment by a transient.

-Michel de Certeau 'The Practice of Everyday Life"

The Practice of Everyday Life

And, also as always, one has to get out: there are only lost paradises. Is the terminal the end of the illusion? There is another threshold, composed of momentary bewilderments in the airlock constituted by the train station. History begins again, feverishly.

-Michel de Certeau