Linda Marie Walker
Archivist of Spatial Delinquency
and Irresponsible Writing

view office

Spatial Report 4

I've been writing my recent reports under the guise of 'research'. So far I have managed to put together two research reports (and their web addresses are below, and you will see how public this 'de-guise' is). Research is 'big' in the Southern Hemisphere. It's a doctrine. It requires space which is not 'of this world'. Strange Times Research. REPEAT: research is big. So given this: this report is from the dark. It's my birthday tomorrow. It's 8.51pm, and sunset was around 7pm. The lights never go out here. I've been reading about exhaustion.

My last three reports were from far away (from here). I've returned now (to here). You can find me at home again.

These reports, given the new circumstances, of the war (for example), will attempt to attend to issues 'on-the-ground' (the surface, in other words). There have been two deaths: JC and AB. We mourn their passing. Both funerals were 'great occasions'.

There's very little one can do in the space of the dark. Still, there's always the surface — it never goes away, even though it never 'entirely' appears. Love's another matter however. Matter: everything matters. That's the trouble. Welcome To The Desert Of The Real is the title of a Zizek text (after Morpheus's greeting (in The Matrix). (I think if the wind was blowing a gale I'd be more unnerved by the darkness.) There's a little spelling error on the first page — almost a graffiti moment: "... the Thing Antigone confronts when he violates the order of the City ..." He. Have I misread. That is possible. One can get close to the space — and it disappears, as love. You can't be home 'empty'. Otherwise one is not at home. (The lights have come on.)

But it is still the dark. It is dark like rain. It is raining. Let us think: what is 'raining'. Oh, well, good thought. Raining down in the dark. (I do miss Richard and Suzy.) Lipstick is one of life's gifts. It could become a public space: Lipstick Space (all over the world). We know the world is full-of-guns. The landscape of ... is passed thought. This space is death-space. Words are useless. Good grief, joy goes to the dogs.

Web Address One:

Web Address Two:

With Muchos Besos Lovos, LM (your loyal servant (no caps.))