Histories; there are so many types of mourning, and how can one come to possess through sorrow? The venue owners join for a drink and two cigarettes; it is the second-to-last evening they will host, and for tonight, they are the heroes of this experimental scene. The poet Ariana Reines is there, on the rooftop, and plays a prophet, speaking about poetry.

• • • • • A: It’s a practice that goes badly much of the time.
• • • • • It doesn’t always feel amazing in the moment, and
• • • • • it’s not always succeeding––and maybe it has
• • • • • something to do with the moment. But there are
• • • • • techniques, and as badly as it goes, it’s a–– I dun-
• • • • • no––useful thing to do, to write and read poetry.
• • • • • It costs very little, it takes very little time; I think
• • • • • it’s a helpful thing to try because we have language.
• • • • • Enough has accumulated that you don’t have to be
• • • • • a neuroscientist to see how we’re programming and
• • • • • being programmed by certain types of speech.
• • • • • You can take your experience, like a fish if you’re
• • • • • fishing, and you can reject it, throw it back for an-
• • • • • other fish. You can say no-thank-you. You can look
• • • • • at a piece of experience that you might need to keep,
• • • • • that you might need to turn around a little more
• • • • • to hold on to. It’s so humble. It’s not fiction, it’s not
• • • • • a fucking essay, it’s just like, a little bit of almost
• • • • • nothing that gives you enough space to take a little
• • • • • bit of agency with your own consciousness. Much of
• • • • • what I write is just metabolic residue, it’s refuse.

The conversation prolongs to ppl’s interest in oral scribbling, glossolalia with the tongue and teeth as stylus. Later on, an old man in a sweatshirt pulls a can out of a Telfar clutch and sprays ‘fuck cops’ on the wall. The collaboration of G and L is based on a questioning of material and de-materials, forked to the idea of puppetry. There can be a glove, strings, shadow, or dummy. A tailor is also pulling strings to shape a body. L rides a motorcycle back to the brownstone, towards G, but lingers, screenshotting outside the door, thighs still trembling from the motor.

He asked for the lighter and I thought he was sex, body, skin, one night. He looked at me and he could be future, breakfast, a few years together perhaps. He spoke and he was desire, dominance. He spoke again and I was skin color, a challenge, an old history of otherness. He didnt listen and he was whisky, confidence, oblivion. He looked at me again and he was lust I was race.

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Temparodolia describes the misconstruing of perception to temporarily view one thing of similar nature as another. There is a point in which it is one or the other, or both, or neither simultaneously. It is an interference in perception as lines of communication cross.