from Dead Letter Game

At times I got off on the collision of bad luck and good timing. Something feral, almost seductive, in the conditions of sportive engagement. The result, as the advertisement says, a kind of “electric diary” transmutable in accordance with weather, state of health, work schedule, and habits of conscious ordering.

For example, the order of actions was predictable, which made for an easy assessment of value. Meaning fell into the shelter of a long-term project. Value and meaning, thus conflated, had little if anything to do with the finished thing, the artifact. Always a vanquished meaning in this efficient use of mourning. A sense of flow and accretion, to be sure, a formal satisfaction. If not empty vessel, then the weight of the cup when thirsty.

Then, the always important follow-through, turning over (weight of deeds performed). Plus, the tendency to work in groups of three: first, the drone of experiment (improvisation); second, duplication of perceived measure (prisonhouse of habit); third, a managed resistance to failure (secondary duplication, in dead letters).