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BALLHAUS KREISEL

BY DERICK DUPRE

Years before, lives ago, Iíd found myself at a yard sale. I poked around and browsed. I loitered and I looked. I was disappointed to find out that the yard itself was not for sale. The same for various garages, sidewalks, and fires I had wished to purchase. So I looked and I left. This was during a period in which I was demented with the mania of owning things, as well as other various manias. Now I have next to nothing, apart from my hat, my shades, my knife, and a small fortune in my pocket. Although that was a period in which I spent inordinate, manic amounts of time in front of a phone. I would watch movies on the phone, movies that were before my time, in order to incorporate them into my time. It was not unlike the curiosity provoked by the idea of life before birth, or by bizarre and unsettling dreams. Although in this case, I was confusing life with art, a common misconception of the self-employed. The world as it was before my time was not the world of the Warner Brothers. But during this period I rarely felt a schizoid. Although I was always alone, in a dark red room, living in a fantasy world, victim to the power of streaming cinema. To see Margit Carstensenís face collapse waifishly on a five-inch screen is to witness the fantastic. To see Leo G. Carroll turning the gun on himself is to witness the power of streaming cinema. But in that time I would gaze at the phone almost lovingly, looking at the news like a parent would its child. The digital ticker informed me of the dayís exploded stars, the career supernovas, black holes of depravity, delirium, tragedy, and neglect. I looked at links to news of Turkish bombings and refugees in the Balkans like they were films, thinking which looks more interesting, more likely to make me feel, is this anything like the one I saw about Yemeni orphans. I was curating my corruption by the power of streaming cinema. I misread poverty as poetry and felt like a total and utter fuck. This was the end result of the power of the stream. But signs of the divine lurked around the corner, in a stray thumbtack or on a pistolís knurled grip, things that were real in the world. They were there. I wanted not to think independently, make sense of the material at hand, construct meaning, not to tell myself, but to be told. It was surely a sign of the exhaustion endemic at the time, perhaps no better symbolized than by a $40 phone case bearing the chemical structure of seroquel. Whenever I left home, the people of the crowd had been the unwitting guides of my astonishment, my curiosity, my delight at the history being made with each footstep, a short walk to the corner a herald of relief from anguish. I felt I was in a constant state of yet-to-being. And yet wherever I went, black plastic bags hung in the tree branches, looking like ruptured alveoli, as though the tree was struggling for breath, mourning its life, emphysema on the sidewalk. Towering reminders of exhaustion and death. But now Iím content to stroll around and worry the fortune in my pocket:

I wish you every happiness and paranoia,
any desperation or welcoming,
some hope and reluctance,
no trust or belief.

Cryptic and bleak and vaguely prophetic. Soon itíll dissolve like tissue paper and then Iíll have less than next to nothing. And thatís all I can ever know. A series of small disappointments that over the course of a lifetime amount to total annihilation.
[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/dupre.html]
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Note: due to the demise of Atticus Books,
the Eyeshot editor now has a shit-ton of copies of
his profane novel, The Shimmering Go-Between
-- published in 2014
to very mixed reviews, which makes sense
considering its form and more so its content --
available for like $4.37
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AKA $7