A tad jittery he leans over the table to show her what he’s scribbled on all those napkins: A parade of little machines in stumbling procession–a drunken congo-line swaying in every direction. Running through them all are bundles of cable in every conceivable color and size; connected here to a clip and there to a finger-tip or breast. Wires trail the ground and trace frantic lines in the air. The whole thing smells of ozone. Everywhere are the bits and pieces of general assembly (broken gears and ruined teeth, fingernails and spare parts to name a few). They are kicked about, scooped into baskets, swallowed, shat out, squished, ground into dirt and dust, uncovered, duplicated and forgotten.
And all of it so very noisy. Up and down the procession, all these sounds. So many fragments of numerous mouth-machines and bellows and strings all plugged together. One note per machine and that’s it until the next (and already here it comes). Pips and Doppler harmonies; the production of Markov chains, flitting vectors of plus or minus one. Familiar tunes speed off to the horizon as others approach from behind. And cries of pleasure. And simple jingles that flow in reverse to compound their doubles. Far away, a wolf-tone to witness the rise and fall of empires. Yes, and the air is fit to burst from all this noise.
This mumbling and tumbling about: Ear-machines and machines speculating on parts and length. Machines covered in moss, machines of a blazing fury. Smelling machines and explosive charges. A laser-jet printer, a music stand that squeaks when looked at. Yes and, and—Stacks of aging carbon copy that suck out the moisture of new rubber bands. Ballpoint pens on napkins busy scribbling an astounding variety of coincidences. A machine for converting paper to pulp and another to squeeze all that pulp back to paper. This one here for erasing and yet another for writing down. Excess, redundancy, moans and muscular spasm. A machine for spilling coffee; a machine for the infinite continuation of flesh in every direction. Yes and, and—Dotted lines of intensity that span the oceans. Tongues of fire; the boulder that hears and pours forth water. The contagion of proximity, the immanence of sweet nothings. Yes, and—
They wipe their sweaty brows with these very same napkins and then lick the ink-stains from each others faces.