Any Part, by Peter Lipson – June/July 1991
           
           
   
 
 
 
 
       
         
CONNECT
PARTICIPATE
 
 
 
 
 
 

  1. In an act of contrition, I lay down by your side. I should have known better.
  2. Closing doors; what a well made world.
  3. Please don’t turn a deaf ear to the noises you hear
  4. I’m keeping it to myself, but what’s one submission
  5. I bought a ticket, predominately grey.

I am not a critic

I am Anyone, hear me me roar.

So that on Friday and Saturday early in May, W welcomed us to LA as the natural port for embarkation of this sort, that is, as anyone in the form of the original Anyone, Peter Eisenman’s conference of signatories.

Look, I don’t know what Eisenman’s wife’, family having founded Springfield, Mass.  In the 1960’s as pilgrims has to with anyone, but I’ve been to Springfield; and I don’t care.

I want to thank UCLA for hosting us, in café in Berlin in 1929. I founded it first. No dialogue, please. I apologize for the unchained shifts. Tho anyone who provokes the general public in any indeterminate position undecidedly moves us into the 21st Century, to that K tell us that by the 11th. Any conference in 2001, a whole new group will be here. A publication to follow.

I am following all three parts, each trilogue of speakers. Rampant pretentions redundantly disgusted as Trinitiarianism gone mad/bad/fad.

E was hissed.

X Doesn’t know anyone in LA because 60% of the phone numbers are unlisted. A logical inconsistency. But while K isn’t able to tell why he is here (in his remote view), the figures, at least the signatures, represent not what, but who or rather today not who is the architect but is anyone an architect? Anyone and Architect? U replied that to talk about the individual is to talk about the architecture-the stylistic expressions of the individual. The narcissistic Anyone. Bad architecture, as one would say to a bad child. Bad Architecture, pointing your finger at the responsible individual – that is, at the architecture.

I’ve stolen the entire conference.

I do this but I don’t believe it. Ahh, the wonders of ironic distancing.

There are many X’s. The Anyone and the no one.

X: The singular is already social.

K: The singular is replaceable by another.

J: One would be paralyzed.

X: The architect will not stand up an engage.

J: Improvisation must be prepared.

This is enough. On and the game continues to play with no humor on {anyone} as 43 levels of “meaning” are not enough in the difference. I must work quicker to get to the architects (for fear of getting sleep, or worst, for you to doze off) thru group consciousness.

Anonymity is the problem ( I am Peter.) I’m sorry; I mean 11 is in favor of the anonymity.  A dirty realism reveals that Identity is the problem- a certain anonymity being preferable to the self.

Fictional recreations lead to a post modern death.

I hear me again murmur me in the mud and am again the journey U made in the dark the mus straight line sack tied to my neck never quite fallen from my species and I made that journey.

Some Part

HAH! This is not an easy job. Some F, D; some S+M. The loudspeakers greet us from some place. So that S+M could enjoin us to continue with other interventions this morning.

But again someone must resume that the signature presents the problem of the author and the public assuming an audience, which was departing for another work, another public. Each signature refuted each Signature and the public became the act of leaving the scene of the Author as unperformed work.

I believe in the motivational fear of death. 70 years from now.

Exposed to the danger of speed, it is time to capture the moment of history, the circular impossible event (that most not materialize_ of Ulysses. Any is for Friday night. Some is for Saturday, all day, until the even.

So the architect has no future or past and can think of the work as endless, his work. His conference. Someday the mask of difference will be revealed to show the final farewell to destiny. His destiny as signatory signature. His expressive lie. K. help me, please. She must not forget. I have no responsibility but to write something. The critics feel the compulsion to be Artist/Architect. The “the.” The woman is not all.

Bottom of each column add a Roman Numeral. I must be a bit out of place (M Missed the plane) but the three chapters of publicity make for some kind of diversity for every man and woman. Unity+Ethics. S+M, F is the voyeur, or rather like a voyeur. He will try it on for size. So that his denial is restructured as his singularity (and he is, as the others must be shamed in their acts of vandalism. Giraffes.)

Is that alright with you?

Enough.

Who is it, whose words have been twisted beyond recognition. Is that alright with you? Who is it? But remember that dancing with Death must lead to a last sentence, a story. “Wheat.”

  1. Samuel Beckett, How is it, Grove Press, New York, 1964

Lyrics by lewis Newman Gotobed Gilbert c Carbert Music, 1989.

Peter Lipson

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