Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

January 18, 2005


On my Mac trying to use some strange Terminal-related application and I'm completely lost and in a panic when a window appears asking me to identify myself. The font is a hideous red one, and when I look at the faint shadowed background image on it, I notice the pixels are moving like some sort of microscopic organism, wormlike in motion.

I touch the letters and the screen gives and indents till I can feel the back of the lap-top lid. The letters are move under my pressed down finger and I'm worried and pull back. The screen is stuck to my finger and I hold it knowing it might tear, but I pull back anyway thinking maybe not--it rips and a sort of sparkling ruby red liquid like sparkle paint oozes out. I begin smearing it on the table fascinated and horrified about the screen.

In my old studio on Sunset Blvd. painting on an ebony block of wood--a block of ebony?--heavy and dense and extremely black. The paint is viscous but brushable; I'm painting white code from my blog. 'It is just like Babylon' I think to myself. Now a tablet. Now many tablets. All around me and in room after room are these ebony tablets--pristine, blank, and needing codes. I know I must paint them all and the feeling is a good one.


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