Terrible Writing Debacle.

I notice things, here and there, or rather, it seems they notice me, as if my subconscious is a different person and sometimes from up in its citadel of a more fluid bandwidth it calls down to the little race car driver that is my daily self, a guy with a slight twitching somewhere, a kind of splayed out thing like a smear with an edge that has suddenly sprouted an array of primitive eyes, a trilo- byte dollop attempting to coordinate the immensity of time into some wished for narrative, but knowing how gyroscopically untenable it can all sud- denly become, some nudge on the armature sending us all reeling into outer verities.

A friend of a friend comes to investigate some dry-rot in a porch, and after it's removed, it resembles a sort of anagram of the mouth of a green skull, and then, how suddenly, porch, anagram as optical translation / imaged encoding, and 'green skull' begin to be a reflexivity of writing itself, a simple "metaphor" when poised as a small formula: Green = Fertile, Skull = Inanimate; Literature (then) = A fertile inanimacy. But then it goes further, and supports itself.

The green skull is an anagram, or rather, is like a skull made flat, like a page, as if the page itself is revealed as a sort of skull, but yet, has depth. This is also echoed I suppose by the holes made into the porch which seem like they could be either the teeth or the gaps between. It isn't a direct translation. There are no eyes, and no lower jaw, and a kind of abstract space opens up like a weird plane upon which the feeling of "Alas poor Yorick" has become the tines of a comb, and stands in for any content, the rest of the house being that body which holds forth the skull, but then that skull that recieves, is also the entry. And somehow the skull, fork, comb reaches for a door, the whole linearity of the parts and the whole begin to intermingle post-deconstructively.

And then at some point I see a sort of picture of time like an associational map wherein all the moments I have had where architecture had entered my thoughts are shown like little cities: Yesterday, inspecting the beam armatures at the resale store while waiting in line. Talking with our neighbor, a woman who is a young mother, and an architect whose office is in her home. The recent work involving architectural fantasies. The recent fantasies. There is something more like language in architecture, and something more like architecture in language that bothers me, and seems to restrict both of them, and yet to give them propulsion, and this seems almost like a cliche', or rather, it seems like something about taste, and habit in music, sensibility, which further displays; sans ability, sense-ability, or the range available to the senses.

Why aren't buildings more haphazardly useless? Or couched in a different way. Doesn't the sort of protocols that surround building "bilding" enter our minds in a way that renders the social aspect of language too transparent? Or is it that the giveness of language is just one aspect that is glossed over in favor of quixotic sequentiality or rather logopoesis, what the less informed might call everyday irrationality. Only in a world with purpose can there be something called rationality, and then to base that so-called rationality upon the construction of wrods ro brilding? Gum shoe snake from elastic violin hat fountain scar.