Club Heidegger

Lands whose context-maps bear no legends are finally owned. A poetic fragment is found which is finally complex enough to make the eerily insubstantial streets come into focus sufficiently for there to be the cessation of desire for more of these streets, more of those hideaway swimming pools: more having been a thought which before that gave the illusion of eventual completion of focus - the way to grasp the focus; and now it no longer did.

The stores look regional only insofar as they seem glamorous in spite of their ordinariness. They look papery and like they are only a few miles from the ocean. A building of pink and tan marble on a street where pedestrians have learned that they are supposed to look small and ashamed may have at least one secretary in it who is cheerful about the property's owners and the financing processes of both the lot and the building and also the official documents on file, located in various places on the premises and in several city bureaux. And a figure of endless summer approaches a fairly heavy black steel door without interest in the lawyers who have figured in the building's history, and without any disorientation due to the sharply heightened sense of context maps with no legends.

There were once occasional venues in New York where a sense of firm reference had been removed quite thoroughly and some of the more outstanding ones lasted into the late eighties, but it was somewhere else where there were the blinding miles of summer streets of double-life: streets where actual business transactions were always occurring, state and federal laws were in effect, and cars and buses slowed for actual traffic lights. But you found the exact same streets in a filmy fiction, where the same money was nor recognized as legal tender; where even real estate agencies in minor areas took on a weird pastel romanticism, especially if they were out to hustle. And this was also where the figure of endless summer would for a very long time seem to be the only thing real.

The streets were neither elegant nor littered.

ArtFiction@palpus.com

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