Nest

Marmaduke is a syllogomaniac.

The last week I've been in a nest of computer wires, scurrying around creating tunnels of dataflow in the middle of the ratty construction of electric hyperpatriotism that is the press office, my office.  Data is a fluid thing in the digital world, and I had noticed that Elsewhere was suffering a shortage of aqueducts to direct the data away from soaking that which it's not supposed to.  Our data is not something we want to soak in to the earth or evaporate in to the air.    I've backed up four years of Elsewhere's data, learned tremendous amounts about video editing and how to edit forty minutes of five second bursts of footage, am producing a docudrama on city, etc, etc. 

Endless data.  The world is full of many things extant, and producing new things seems somehow futile or wasteful; far more interesting to organize the world to order experience, perception.

Last night there was a series of cake incidents; twelve beautiful photo cakes produced by ms. Molly Gochman, cut with red ribbon, served to an audience; this in conjunction with her ironing ribbon with three echoes of ironed ribbon on video monitors.  This was a reference to Silvia Gray's mania/habit of ironing and washing ribbon, a kind of holdover of thrift from the great depression that is one root of the entirety of this ocean of Thing that I live in.  But then, the cake, the huge slices of it; the contrast between different methods of entering a space of luxurious texture, one through thrift, one through expenditure.

I have photos of cake fates, but they need to go through a long tunnel of wire first before you can see them.  The tunnel is getting wider every day.