DISCo.TEKQUE
11639
Earlier this winter I was hanging out with a two year old and her father and some friends, we were watching hockey. The two year old asked me to read to her and proceeded to remix the books, like I want this section twice, then that one, then back to the first, in a really insistent kind of way. So it got me doing that kind of operation with other kinds of reading and writing. This is something in that vein with confused but searchable or known authorship. Treat it like an oral/aural script retranscribed, maybe:
I did enjoy dinner last night I don’t think so much the food (the salad was pretty tasty) but more the place and the waiters and the italian accents, yes a romantic sweepaway from whatever you know can do that to you, sort of flip you over and pretty soon you find yourself enjoying. Three dimensions.
It is seven o'clock and I re-examine an ex-speakeasy in East 53rd Street, with dinner in mind. A thin crowd, a summer-night buzz of fans interrupted by an occasional drink being shaken at the small bar. It is dark in here (the proprietor sees no reason for boosting his light bill just because liquor laws have changed). How dark, how pleasing; and how miraculously beautiful the murals showing Italian lake scenes––probably executed by the cousin of the owner.
There is a famous restaurant in Kyoto, the Waranjiya, one of the attractions of which was until recently that the dining rooms were lit by candlelight rather than electricity; but when I went there this spring after a long absence, the candles had been replaced by electric lamps in the style of old lanterns.
Teams of horses and oxen, I thought, must have hauled the stone in wagons from far countries, and then with infinite labour the grey blocks in whose shade I was now standing were poised in order one on top of another, and then the painters brought their glass for the windows, and the masons were busy for centuries up on that roof with putty and cement, spade and trowel. Every Saturday somebody must have poured gold and silver out of a leathern purse into their ancient fists, for they had their beer and skittles presumably of an evening.
Beowulf, Ecgtheow's son, replied:
"Well, friend Unferth, you have had your say
about Breca and me. But it was mostly beer
that was doing the talking. The truth is
Everybody in the city has relations in the country and everybody in the country has relations in the city and everybody in the city expects to return to something in the country all the employees of the state all policemen all workmen of all sorts, in fact practically everybody even the shopkeepers do expect to retire eventually to the country, that is where inevitably you live when you no longer have to work for a living, when you have a pension when you have saved some thing and you grow vegetables and you build yourself a little house and you hope that money won't change so much but that you can live on what you have. Anyway you can always have some vegetables and rabbits and chickens and that is always something.