[Communique: 09.11.02]

I felt a strong need to respond to the anniversary of the WTC terrorist attacks today. There is so much media out there and so much of it is terrible, and the stuff that's good is often not very interesting. So I've spent the last twelve hours trying to figure out how to use an incredible sound design program called Reason. The result is a bit amateurish, and it's very clear that Reason was not designed to do the kind of thing I made it do today. It is fucking brilliant at manipulating short samples into melodies and patterns, but it sucks at dealing with longer samples. In any case, I offer you an American Nightmare. (Tragically, this is the only .mp3 encoding I have ever heard where I actually noticed some flaws in the compression.)

In other news, I will not be living with Camille and thirteen other artists in Long Island City in Queens, but rather with Timmy Jones and two other artists in East Williamsburg in Brooklyn. My disappointment about the former is more than outweighed by my excitement owing to the latter. There are some photos of the place here (scroll down).

[Communique: 09.09.02]

I haven't been writing much. At first I thought it was because I was in a shallow place, with nothing to say, but maybe the place is so actually deep that there aren't words for it yet. I'm working without discipline on a bunch of scattered projects, and reading without commitment from a bunch of different books. Today my plan is to go and excavate our basement storage unit, looking for objects that might be useful in a street performance and anything else that I want to take to New York. Moving to New York is the main vector in my life right now. I expect everything to be clearer after that, and more difficult in a way I can really sink my teeth into.

I dreamt about being an unskilled fireman in a set of twin towers where a fire had broken started and we had to get all the people out. I wasn't actually a fireman so much as an usher. In real life, I have been ushering at Cirque du Soleil in Boston. I have also been serving ice cream again at Toscanini's, where I used to work five years ago, in high school. I also discovered the most amazing artist housing in Boston, a fantastic secret world, and a fucking amazing dark surrealistic movie to go with it. I went there, naturally, to attend an event called Shadowbox VIII, which is a creation of none other than the illustrious Amanda Palmer.

Also I have been reading Barrie's Peter Pan, which is both more interested and more charmingly written than any version of the story I have previously known.

Wendy: Now let us pretend we have a baby.

John: (Good-naturedly) I am happy to inform you, Mrs. Darling, that you are now a mother. (Wendy gives way to ecstasy.) You have missed the chief thing; you haven't asked, 'boy or girl?'

Wendy: I am so glad to have one at all, I don't care which it is.

John: (Crushingly) That is just the difference between gentlemen and ladies. Now you tell me.

Wendy: I am happy to acquaint you, Mr. Darling, you are now a father.

John: Boy or girl?

Wendy: (Presenting herself) Girl.

John: Tuts.

Wendy: You horrid.

John: Go on.

This is a little bit different than the version I started writing a few months ago...

Narrator: This is a story. You can follow along in your programs. When you here the tone, you can turn the page, and the story will continue. Let's try that. Beep. Turn the page. Once upon a time, there were three children who lived all together with their parents in a modestly large two-story house in the suburbs of a major city. The eldest child was named Wendy. She was seventeen. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She sometimes wrote poetry, but it was very bad. She was an A student. She was a virgin. Beep. Turn the page. One night, she was visited by a stranger. He appeared to be a young boy. He said that his name was Peter. He said that he was looking for his shadow. She remembered him from her childhood. He had been looking for his shadow for a very long time. He had been coming to her room every night for a very long time, while her brothers slept. He had shown her how to touch herself under the covers until she was sweating and shaking and crying to herself. After that she would go to sleep. Peter came every night. Beep. Turn the page.

Peter: Show you how to fly.

Wendy: What?

Peter: Show you how to fly. Show enough. Want it?

Wendy: They mustn't wake up.

Peter: They can come too.

Wendy: No!

Peter: Everyone can come.

Wendy: They're too young.

Peter: Not too young. Watch.

etc...

Anyway... I may or may not write more here soon... In any case... You horrid.