Stare.
 
2004 Notebook: Weak XXXVIII
 
   
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18 September 2004
No. 5,829 (cartoon)
Everything’s covered in blood.

One of us is bleeding.

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19 September 2004
Ideal Waste
I’m sitting in Shonagh’s studio looking at the Ideal Waste Material Company and letting my mind wander. What a waste of time; it’s ideal.

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20 September 2004
The Show Continues
New York City is a mammoth film set, and I’m enjoying the show.

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21 September 2004
Tree Sea
I finally made it out of the loft today for a twenty-something kilometer walk. I saw a sea of trees in a cage flowing between tall apartment buildings, among other things.

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22 September 2004
Not Just a Statistic
On the way to the airport this morning I spotted a couple of photographs of American soldiers killed during the occupation or Iraq. The large reproductions, glued to a wall, featured a standard caption, “Not Just a Statistic,” along with the serviceman’s name and a word or two about him.

Bruce Miller
Liked Poetry.

Tyler Fey
Snowboarder.

I thought the words and images were remarkably effective, for indeed I used to think of the tens of thousands of people killed as more or less statistics. Now, I have some faces to associate with monetarily cheap oil.

What a pathetic waste.

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23 September 2004
A Token Loss
I don’t have a lot of material possessions; that’s one of the great benefits of doing conceptual art. And so it was that I was surprised to discover that I’ve kept a New York City subway token—ostensibly good for one ride—since my last visit there in 1990.

I used the word “ostensibly” because, at some point in the last decade or so, city officials scrapped the token-based fare program in favor of a computerized system. And so it is that my little, metal token is worthless.

Actually, I’m not really disappointed. I should know better than to hang on to objects.

24 September 2004
I Can See in the Dark
I was cooking a late dinner when June walked by and asked me if I’d like the lights on. I was so busy trying to avoid burning things while keeping my wine glass full that I hadn’t noticed that the sun had set some time ago.

“I’m fine.” I replied. “I’m a photographer so I can see in the dark.”

June looked at me quizzically. That’s when I realized my reference to night vision enhanced from working in a darkroom is almost meaningless in a time when individuals rarely develop their own photographs in trays of chemicals in very dim light.

I haven’t been in a darkroom for a decade, and probably never will again.

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©2004 David Glenn Rinehart