matalogue #3
I have the same tiny father that everyone
else has:
He teaches peasants how to read
His cell was body-sized
He’s hypnotic
He treated his child like a grown up. This is something all children want,
equal status with adults. You know how the old saying goes- “the
tiniest of fathers make the wisest of husbands.”
This is, of course, why I keep charms under my bed to prevent truth from
being elicited during those moments right before falling asleep when the
mind is most suggestible.
William taught an illiterate tailor how to read Spinoza and in return
he was given a heavy winter coat to keep warm in. At six months, he said
his first word, “door”. Wanting to freeze this moment he bought
remnants- three pounds of cotton, and sewed the days coins, maps, stamps,
and the New York Times into the lining of his new winter coat.
It’s November fourth, my birthday, and I just hit my head. I cant
remember who I am.
I cant remember anything at all, I’m just like a newborn.
matalogue #4
What are those little guns called? Oh...
it'll come to me. Anyway, no, I didn't really kill anybody. I find that
ridiculous. I sell cigarettes, or at least my face does. In real life
I give them away for free, here take some. This is my picture on the cover
of the tin, see. I can't get over it really, my face in a photograph,
so little and so stuck at the date they took my picture- June 1st 1910.
Every time I look at it I have a severe identity dilemma! I mean, it's
only 1910; it's not normal to see a real photograph of your own face!
What is this frozen face thinking? Did I have a stomachache? Do I have
a stomach ache right now? What is a stomachache? I watched my father take
the stomach out of a fawn once, it was disgusting, so my stomach must
be disgusting too. Why can't I just be a photograph? It has no stomach,
nothing but the moment. Why can't I be a photograph? I can't remember
why I can't I can't remember anything, I must be a photograph, photographs
can't...photographs don't remember. Perhaps I’m a photograph, because
I can't remember, I don't remember...
Matalogue #3. Mata Hari’s father bought
her a carriage pulled by goats for her sixth birthday.
Matalogue #4. The best way to grasp the human significance of photography is not to think of camera, film, and tripod as external to human nature, but as evolutionary developments as much a part of human nature as the opposable thumbs; photography as an additional memory cartridge for our minds. How would you like to be documented?