Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt,
Heh – Die Welt, Ha – Die Welt, Haha – Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die
Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Heh – Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt,
Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Heh - Die Welt, Die Welt, Hehe - Die Welt, Die Welt,
Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Haha - Die Welt, Die
Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die
Welt, Die Welt, Die Weeeeeeeelt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die
Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Weeeeeelt, Die Welt, Die Welt,
Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die
Welt, Die Welt, Die Weeeeelt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt,
Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die Welt, Die
Welt, Die Welt…

About four years ago, as I recall, something seemed different in my life. I had been
happily married and busy and productive, and I was teaching school, and I have two teenage kids, and something seemed empty. I could not put my finger on it, so I discussed it with my husband, who is very busy, and was very busy, but he didn’t take much account on it, and I said I felt he was ignoring me. And I was dramatic and said I would leave him if he did not pay more attention to me. And I think I remember this was around October, so he said all right I will try to pay more attention to you. And I didn’t think it was sickness, as a matter of fact when I was admitted over here I didn’t think it was sickness. I thought he was sick.
And that I was well. Well, all that kept on for about a year and a half maybe even two years, often with times of a feeling that there was something wrong with my life. Things were not turning out the way I’d expected, I don’t mean fairy book stuff, but really, I felt odd and kind of empty. So my husband said … well then I decided, well, if he is different to me there must be somebody else. And so he said »if you think there is somebody else«, and of course he cleared there wasn’t anyone else, »if it is somebody else then come up with something«. And I thought it must be something other than just having an affair, there must be something legal … illegal mess involved. So there is a lot to go into to tell you. But the thing that climaxed it was that there was a bank robbery in Merlin, and it just happened to be in the area where my husband works, and I was sure it has he. And I was terribly concerned they were going to do something worse, so finally I went to the FBI and I talked to a very important person there, and he took me seriously. Well, I was convinced! And he took me so seriously that he called an agent in Merlin and they dragged my husband, not dragged but arranged to have him go up, and he had take a lie detector test, and he came through with flying colours, because he wasn’t involved. And the person up there, that had been so very nice to me and was most sympathetic and concerned because I was suffering so, called me to tell me that my husband was not involved, that they cleared him and I said: He conned you!
I didn’t sleep, all summer. I was sure that my husband was gassing me. That it was coming in
through the attic or the water, or fossils or something … And I slept out side on the lawn, and I slept in the car on rainy nights. I was still working on my proof positive that my husband was ill and needed help. Then in working on that, I stumbled across family snap-shots. And still working… oh this will do it! It appeared to me that there were images in there, in the family snapshot, some pornographic images … somehow it seems contrived of my husband under my foot, and really corny. Well anyhow, this was going to be the proof positive. When I had these, I called a psychiatrist and made an appointment for my husband, thinking he was indeed ill and here wasthe final proof. So we could save him from his terrible fate. So we went to a psychiatrist and the psychiatrist talked to me for about 15 minutes and talked to my husband and then he handed my husband the papers for me.

Today is my forty-second day of detention. These six weeks, when I look back, have passed at full speed, and when this day has passed, which will be the same as every other day, I will mark each spot of pure time to tell myself. »Only eight more hours and it’ll be one more day.« I’m going through each day very slowly, counting almost the minutes, and each day seems never to end, but when I look back, it seems to me that they have gone by so quickly, precisely because there is nothing to fill these days with.

Snail time, snail time, ba-baba snail time, snail time ba-baba, crawl across the floor-a, crawl across the floor-a, look back at the door-a, look back at the door-a, time to do the snail, time to do the snail, hold your little baby, hold your little baby, hold your little baby, hold your little baby, till she turns pale, time to do the snail, time to do the snail, snail time, snail time, ba-dada, snail time ba-dada, snail time ba-dada, snail time, snail time, snail time, snail time, do the snail.

I’ve been sitting here for ages. waiting for the ceiling, that you are looking at, to start moving, because I came into the, into this room last night and opened the window, and it made me jump actually, a gust of wind came through the window, and the ceiling started blowing around, all these different tiles and they, and the suspended ceiling started flying up and down. It is really, really nice to watch so I’ve been hoping it would be happening again when I’ve got my camera, but I haven’t got much luck so far. Heard a little bit flapping, but nothing like last night, but anyway, I will give up in a minute. But … oh, you can hear something happening, yes, something is happening there. The reason that the ceiling is moving around, that part of the ceiling is moving around, is that basically we are in a hotel, and the hotel have just been decorated, just been renovated. I think they actually just opened this week, so it is obviously … strange I am looking through the camera so I can only hear things, but I can’t see where they are actually happening, but the lens is as wide as it goes so I don’t think … I am catching everything, but ok … the reason … the reason it is flying, as I say things needs to be fixed in this hotel, but it is actually a really really nice hotel, really comfortable, but just a little thing that needs to get sorted out. A bit of a dee—— thing. Hold the ——stay out ————. But apart from that it is a really really nice hotel, so, very friendly and I fairly recommend it. It is the Bethlehem Inn, Bethlehem Inn in Bethlehem, Palestine. And … the reason it has been closed for a long time, being done out, and the reason for that is that it was …it was … what is the word … requisitioned by the Israeli army in 2000 when the second intifada started, and they took it over and they were here for ages, so by the time they left it was completely trashed and had to be completely renovated, so as I said, it only just opened again. But … one of the reasons, the main reason that the army requisitioned it was that it …the hotel is actually on top of a really, really high hill, so it gives you a very, very, a very good view, spectacular view over the whole city and the surrounding, so.

Familiar materials had acquired a different »feel.« In the dark, the bed sheets at times seemed like silk. As I had not been born with a golden spoon in my mouth, or other accessories of a useless luxury, I believed the detectives had provided these silken sheets for some hostile purpose of their own. What that purpose was I could not divine, and my very inability to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion stimulated my brain to the assembling of disturbing thoughts in an almost endless train. Imaginary breezes struck my face, gentle, but not welcome, most of them from parts of the room where currents of air could not possibly originate. They seemed to come from cracks in the walls and ceiling and annoyed me exceedingly. I thought them in some way related to that ancient method of
torture by which water is allowed to strike the victim’s forehead, a drop at a time, until death releases him. For a while my sense of smell added to my troubles. The odor of burning human flesh and other pestilential fumes seemed to assail me. My sense of sight was subjected to many weird and uncanny effects. Phantasmagoric visions made their visitations throughout the night, for a time with such regularity that I used to await their coming with a certain restrained curiosity. I was not entirely unaware that something was ailing with
my mind. Yet these illusions of sight I took for the work of detectives, who sat up nights racking their brains in order to rack and utterly wreck my own with a cruel and unfair Third Degree. Handwriting on the wall has ever struck terror to the hearts of even sane men. I remember as one of my most unpleasant experiences that I began to see handwriting on the sheets of my bed staring me in the face, and not me alone, but also the spurious relatives who often stood or sat near me. On each fresh sheet placed over me I would soon begin to see words,sentences, and signatures, all in my own handwriting. Yet I could not decipher any of the words, and this fact dismayed me, for I firmly believed that those who stood about could read them all and found them to be incriminating evidence. I imagined that these visionlike eff ects, with few exceptions, were produced by a magic lantern controlled by some of my myriad persecutors. The lantern was rather a cinematographic contrivance. Moving pictures, often brilliantly colored, were thrown on the ceiling of my room and sometimes on the sheets
of my bed. Human bodies, dismembered and gory, were one of the most common of these. All this may have been due to the fact that, as a boy, I had fed my imagination on the sensationalnews of the day as presented in the public press. Despite the heavy penalty which I now paid for thus loading my mind, I believe this unwise indulgence gave a breadth and variety to my peculiar psychological experience which it otherwise would have lacked. For with an insane ingenuity I managed to connect myself with almost every crime of importance of which I had ever read.

Channel: CBS
Programme: Live at the 53rd Grammy Music Awards
Reporter: Serene Branson
»Well a b-very b-very heavy, heavy bw-urtation
tonight. We had a very dw-erson … by, lets
go terrs-tayson ... goes to-thew they-hav-thepet ...«

It is really pulsating, how it is closing, and opening. It’s beautiful, it opens. […] I am
really afraid, Jesus christ, I don’t know of what, but boy am I afraid. I can tell you a hundred, million, thousand thing that I am afraid of. […] They are all sharp. There were thousands of visual patterns of fear, and the fi rst was not breathing. I was in … and I died. I was terrifi ed. I went through. I was afraid of being thirsty, I was afraid of being alone. And I was not just alone for a little while, I was alone fort billion trillion years. And then I was afraid of what time brought. And I was pock-marked, hideous, ugly, cobwebs and ugly and old and older and older and I was just bones old.

… and I said »ok, you stop right here, the party is over! Get up against the wall! Just because you’re steelworkers, you are bums, you are disgusting slime, look at your arms, your blood dripping, I mean—plastic is leather, fuck you!« But my husbands started to kind of act really
strange. He said »Come on Honey! Calm down. I don’t know what she is doing. I don’t know her, I really don’t.« Well it was then I realised I had to get rid of him. I mean, come on this guy is a nerd. He doesn’t play along. He does not come over to my side. So naturally I called up a friend, and I said to him »you gotta come over and get me« And he came over, and two weeks later he called me up and he said »Susan, what did you do with the gun?!« I said »what do you mean?« And he said, cause my mother found the gun with blood dripping. And I said »what?« You gotta talk to your mother and father, did you call the police? Well he said to me »Susan, I cannot believe you did this! I really trusted you. I mean I loaned you 200 dollar and now my wife thinks that I am crazy. She is crazy, and she won’t fuck me and you won’t fuck me. What I am supposed to do?« Well, it was at that point that I knew that I had killed my
husband. Or anyway, I could have. And that brings me back to that idea that I really wanted to talk about here: Antonin Artaud. Because Arthaud is really into astrology, you know. What’s that line? »Just because we are behind bars, does not mean we’re not behind bars.« Yeah. »Just because we don’t think we’re behind bars, doesn’t mean we’re not behind bars. Just because we don’t think we’re behind bars, doesn’t mean we’re not behind bars.« And this is becoming a very literary confession. Because I have this palm reader, you see. And that’s why every time I have done a re-enactment of this scene I have always worn gloves. Because I called him up in Paris and I said look I need some advise about Roché. And he said, Susie guess who I just got out of bed with? And I said »Who?« and he said »your fi rst husband«. And I said »ohhh«. Well, it was then that I knew that my pluto was linked up on a very signifi cant level to Artaud. And my feeling about all this was very insignifi cant. I mean how many
other people have ever felt insignifi cant? How many people have ever been to jail? No,I am a person who really had to experience what it would be like to be in jail. But when I got there I was very unhappy because nobody would talk to me. Now if Artaud would have been in jail he would have been a hero for stealing pantie-hoses, but I was insignifi cant. Leading me into this destructive self purge, this incredible self destructive self purge which sent me further and further out towards pluto. And connected me on a very basic level to Artaud. And the illusion of being connected to Artaud. Which brings me to my second husband.

But that is when the accident occurs: black fl ash, collision in the unregulated
fringe where I am half asleep ... a silent blasting in my temples, my cheeks, and once again my eyes are open. ... That’s when there is a limitless lucidity, the room as screen dissolves, it loses its closed aspect, city, country, period, makeshift and hidden box—it radiates beyond me, everything begins to wake up, to be punctuated by waves, in sheets (which depends on the eyes and the inside of the eyes in a vibrating medium that seems as if it is beyond air). It is all at once an upheaval and a spawning living in a curtain of atoms, of blue points.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fl eck of russet showing clear.

She said that there is power in vibrations, in fragility.
That there is power in stories that are told over and over again. (This
is where you meet the gaze of six night hags.) Their castles shall
be overgrown with vibrating ornaments, their fortresses with desire
and wet undies.

Endless steal-blue eyes and they would look like a button, one screwed in and
one screwed out, and you had to be very careful, her vision depended on it. She only came out once
every eight months, looked around, saw that her eyes were screwed in and screwed out right. Took
a little walk, whistled through her toes, and with all three hands one her hips, went back in for another
eight months. I don’t know how she did that. She must have had a pipe-line to a store because she
ate regularly. Had to eat just like we do. One thing was crazy about that woman. She had to drink
rusty water. Oh yes, all the kids in the neighbourhood running after rusty water. hmm. funny. One of
natures mistakes. One of natures mistakes. Wirehair she had, yes. Animals, couldn’t get near her.
Her backs went up, the stiff , the grimmest They … Oh I’m sorry have another cup! Have another cup.
Would you like something a bit stronger? Hm? Cider? At fi rst we were all afraid of her. All the kids
had to stay home, couldn’t pass her house, then we dug a fallout shelter. And everyone that past her
house had go down in the fallout shelter. Take a shower before they came out. But that was ridiculous,
she was not radioactive! I knew that from the beginning. She’s been there to long. Besides we
all watched her grow up. She is only young, you know. She was a baby. She was a baby, she had little
wires hairs. I knooow. And she was put together in three. In sections of three. Very nice girl! Oh, very
nice girl, no-one ever saw her mad. God knows what would have happened if she got mad. Huhh! I
hate to have her point at me. Well yes, her fi nger is lit up. Some sparks fl ew. Yes her toes too, she
couldn’t wear shoes. No, she wore scooped out cement blocks. I know, very heavy that why she
was so tired.
Her name, oh! Hilarious Strompet. Stromp, not Strump. No, very funny wom ... oh Hilarious was an
old roman goddess, I guess, or at least she was a princess or queen. I know the Strompets were normal.
Normal pair. Can you imagine having an electric monster like that? Poor Hilaria. No, nobody knew
her well enough to call her that. Sad, isn’t it. All through life Hilarious, without a nick name. Huh, So,
waste somehow.

Third floor, room 259. About 300 feet. Inside are two bedrooms. There are bunk beds in the bedroom, made of wooden boards, the color is brown. bInside there are sheets and pillow cases, pink patterned with small flowers. In the room there are two cabinets filled with some underwear and books.

In a lucid, heavily incorporeal torpor, I stagnate, between dream and wakefulness,
in a dream that is a shadow of dreaming. My attention fl oats between two worlds and blindly
sees the depths of a heaven; and these depths interpenetrate, mix together, and I don’t know where I
am or what I’m dreaming.
... I float in the air between being awake and being asleep, and another species of reality arises. I, in
the middle of it, don’t know which is which.

It is the land of beginning again, we thought we’d like go there, everything starts
all over again, if you have a good day, you live it over, so you fi nd you’re reliving all your days again, yes
it’s highly commercial, you pay a certain amount, and then, yes I do believe you can, you can stay there
you can live there yes, yes you can yes you can, I like that yes, it was nice, I don’t know I’m a little afraid
to go back, I’m afraid to go back, sometimes it’s not as nice as you think it was, it’s scary that’s what it is,
it’s scary, it’s scary, there are some things you didn’t understand, now you understand it, yes don’t go
back don’t go back, don’t go back don’t go back don’t go back, I don’t want go back I don’t want go
back I’m afraid of going back, I’m afraid of going back, no no no no, you can if you want to you can if you
want to, I don’t want to I don’t want to, I’m afraid of going back, I want to go ahead I want to go ahead I
want to go ahead I want to go ahead I want to go ahead, we don’t want to, fi x the future fi x the future, I
want to go to the land of, coming events, land of coming events, I don’t want the past I don’t want the
past I’ve seen the past I’ve seen the past, I hate it, I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it, I want the future,
future, future perfect future perfect, get me one of those, get me one of those, get me one of
those, get me one of those, get me a pass to the future perfect land, I want to go the future perfect land,
I want to live there, I want to live there, I want to live there, I want perfect future, the present is squalid,
future land future land, let’s go to future land, future land, oh that’s terrible, oh that’s terrible no, that
would be my house in future land, oh what’s that woman doing sitting there in that room, that woman
can’t sit there in my house, she’s threading a needle, she’s putting little beads on a needle, each bead is
an hour of my life, but I can’t stand it, she’s only got one trunk full, look at that there they go, slow up lady,
slow up lady, oh she’s putting my days on the thread, maybe if the, if the thread breaks you’ve got to
rethread it, scrabble around and pick up all my old hours and days, oh please break the thread break
the thread, drop some of my days drop some of my days, drop some of my days drop some of my
years, oh would’t it be grand, wouldn’t it be grand if she dropped some years, if she dropped some
years, drop some years lady, unthread those needles, unthread the needles unthread the needles,
drop the beads, drop the beeeaaaa …

Am in a kind of gym or barbershop.
At some distance from me, Dm., wrapped up in
sheet, is being massaged or having his
hair cut. A phonograph is put on for him. It is a
record I made to amuse him—I’m singing
an aria (from Bor. Godunov, perhaps),
but it is less funny than I had hoped, the tune is
quite unrecognizable and even the
»ha-ha« laugh into which I break off at the end
sounds false.

Sleepless night. The third in a row. I fall asleep soundly, but after an hour I wake
up, as though I had laid my head in the wrong hole. I am completely awake, have the feeling that I have
not slept at all or only under a thin skin, have before me anew the labor of falling asleep and feel myself
rejected by sleep. And for the rest of the night, until about fi ve, thus it remains, so that indeed I sleep but
at the same time vivid dreams keep me awake. I sleep alongside myself, so to speak, while I myself
must struggle with dreams. About fi ve the last trace of sleep is exhausted, I just dream, which is more
exhausting than wakefulness. In short, I spend the whole night in that state in which a healthy person
fi nds himself for a short time before really falling asleep. When I awaken, all the dreams are gathered
about me, but I am careful not to refl ect on them. Toward morning I sigh into the pillow, because for this
night all hope is gone.

This morning I woke up in another part of my brain ... When I opened my eyes, I
woke with a feeling of confusion and a sense that something indiscernible had shifted during the sleeping
hours and now I was somewhere else, not in another place physically, but something similar. The »I«
of my self had crawled through the thickness of memory and consciousness to some other plane in the
structure of the brain and emerged within a new gray coil. When my eyes opened, I felt I was viewing the
once familiar room through a four-foot thick piece of slightly yellowed glass ... I fought the urge to lay
down and return to sleep in order to regain my proper place, to shift back into a developing place where
for thirty-odd years I’d been waking up.

I, Zhuangzi, dreamed I was a butterfl y, fl uttering hither
and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfl y. I was conscious
only of following my fancies as a butterfl y, and was unconscious of
my individuality as a man. Suddenly, I awoke, and there I lay, myself
again. Now I do not know whether I was then Zhuangzi dreaming
I was a butterfl y, or whether a butterfl y is now dreaming it is me.
Between Zhuangzi and a butterfl y there is necessarily a barrier.
This is called transformation of things.

Who do I mean when I say »there’s nothing wrong
with us«? The fat ones. The ones who are out of
all com pass however precisely they are located.
The ones who are not conscious when they listen to
Les McCann. The Screamers who don’t say much,
insolently. The churchgoers who value impropriety.
The ones who manage to evade self-management
in the enclosure. The ones without interest who
bring the noise of the new general interests by refusing.
The ones who refuse to subdue muted noise
and mutating grammar of the new general intellect.
My Cousins. All my friends.

It happens to me that I walk around the offi ce upside down: head down,
feet on the ceiling. I can’t reach my fi les. I don’t know why they stay on the desk and don’t fall
down on the ceiling. Sometime I expand so much that I can’t get through the door. I blow up until
I fi ll the whole room.
Then I have to wait till the end of the working day to defl ate. When I go to the copier, often I
can’t fi nd the way back. So as not to lose face.
I act like I’m visiting the offi ce of a colleague and feign interest him.
Corridors very often change their angles and lengths. Sometimes it takes days to get from
my offi ce to Liquidations. With every blink of my eye I become someone else—the CEO, the receptionist,
the accountant. It’s always me, after all. Sometime I try keeping my eyes closed longer
resting at the same time but in the dark distorted offi ce supplies start to appear behind my eyelids,
changing proportions, growing and shrinking and I’m afraid to rest. I think there is some kind
of hierarchy operating here that’s based on sexual prowess and subordination. They’ve never let
me in on a conference. I go to the toilet, but the corridor leading to it keeps getting narrower. I
keep going as long as I can move. I fell it squeezing me. I go to the toilet again. There’s no one
here. I’ve been working here several years and I’ve never met anyone. Sometimes I don’t pay attention
and go through a door badly. The door jam splits me vertically into two pieces. Then it’s
hard to be one and be in one room.
Behind every door is a diff erent room. Behind every door is the same room. I’ve been working
here a long time. I haven’t found the exit yet.
The angles of all the corners in the rooms are sharper than 90 degrees. I know that for sure.
Due to that, the whole building is collapsing on itself. When I open a door a crack and the right
conjugation occurs, I can see along the corridor through the ventilation shaft and on the refl ection
in the mirror in the ladies’ toilet to the back of the seated CEO. I gave notice. My colleague are
looking at me askance because of it. It makes me giddy.