jet lag

jetlag dream: it's the broken house of my dreams, with large sections i had forgotten about, and i'm living in one of those sections, it's night, and it's berlin, and i'm supposed to put everything in my bag and go, but. i'm in the middle of a conversation with a roommate i haven't met yet, about documentation of ritual knowledge, oral culture and digital epistemology. and in my bag are three books i didn't need at all here, and two books i'd forgotten about. and now i'm half awake and thinking this is a library, a version of borges' library, that intersection of people with their embodied knowledge, and the exchange of secrets: how do you access this knowledge this year, how do you represent this knowledge this year, how do we change to remember earlier ways of knowing? our bodies are texts, the alleys in the text where we make marks and are marked, spaces that refuse capture.

How do you cite yourself from Facebook and why oh why would you want to?
How do you cite the Dead, and why wouldn't you?
How do you remember yourself when you are not yourself, and how do you find ways to tell yourself, wait just a little while, just rest for a little while, just wait, do not speak, just rest and wait, do not speak and do not make any big decisions and do not think this exhaustion is permanent, just wait?

I remember Alexanderplatz, and I don't remember the station marked Alexandria, but I think I was there.  It is the busiest metro station in the world, there are hundreds of active lines that cross there, but there are also thousands of dead lines that still cross there, and the diviners and quantum physicists have access to the thousands from the future that cross.  

(to be continued) 


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