15 Flight Paths
Pulp architecture took a break and decided to lie out on the thick St Augustine grass.
It was approaching summer, the Glazed Hams were juggling with just about everything in order to convince themselves that they had completed something. And just as I dozed with the New York Times Sunday edition under the pecan tree, so Pulp Architecture dozed.
A F14 fighter plane passed overhead.
That’s not usual, the neighbour said from his wraparound-barbecue-Jacuzzi veranda, they don’t usually take that flight path.
He knew. His father, decorated in Korea, had flown supply missions into Pnom Penh.
So were they on their way back, or had they not even started the war?
Pulp Architecture lay there discarded. It began to suffer. Nothing much had happened in the last few months. And months had a habit of turning into years. The fear of litigation ruled everyone’s mind here in Texas. Few wanted to leave their own comfort zone.
The New York Times spoke about the French artist Pierre Huyghe, pronounced Hew-ig, they explained. A script, ‘scenario in French,’ Huyghe said, is just another way of designating not the finished object, not the finished film, but the state just before. It is the idea that things are still potential, still possible; scenarios are structures with which we can speculate. Things can be crossed out, changed, reinterpreted. They are not fixed representations.’
As I lay back with a particularly salty blue sports energy drink at my side, I thought about taking Pulp Architecture back to North Wales and the Hotel Architecture where it all started. The hotel would greet its old friend. It would be good to be back in a 300 year old cottage, so recently pulped by the flood. Everything could be crossed out, changed, reinterpreted. The fighter planes, the Hurricanes, would pass over the Clwyd Hills in training on their usual path.
We could then fire up the barbecue and, without any sentimentality, throw the manuscript of Pulp Architecture on the flames, before grilling the lamb.
That would be the end of Pulp Architecture. Or one of them.
It was approaching summer, the Glazed Hams were juggling with just about everything in order to convince themselves that they had completed something. And just as I dozed with the New York Times Sunday edition under the pecan tree, so Pulp Architecture dozed.
A F14 fighter plane passed overhead.
That’s not usual, the neighbour said from his wraparound-barbecue-Jacuzzi veranda, they don’t usually take that flight path.
He knew. His father, decorated in Korea, had flown supply missions into Pnom Penh.
So were they on their way back, or had they not even started the war?
Pulp Architecture lay there discarded. It began to suffer. Nothing much had happened in the last few months. And months had a habit of turning into years. The fear of litigation ruled everyone’s mind here in Texas. Few wanted to leave their own comfort zone.
The New York Times spoke about the French artist Pierre Huyghe, pronounced Hew-ig, they explained. A script, ‘scenario in French,’ Huyghe said, is just another way of designating not the finished object, not the finished film, but the state just before. It is the idea that things are still potential, still possible; scenarios are structures with which we can speculate. Things can be crossed out, changed, reinterpreted. They are not fixed representations.’
As I lay back with a particularly salty blue sports energy drink at my side, I thought about taking Pulp Architecture back to North Wales and the Hotel Architecture where it all started. The hotel would greet its old friend. It would be good to be back in a 300 year old cottage, so recently pulped by the flood. Everything could be crossed out, changed, reinterpreted. The fighter planes, the Hurricanes, would pass over the Clwyd Hills in training on their usual path.
We could then fire up the barbecue and, without any sentimentality, throw the manuscript of Pulp Architecture on the flames, before grilling the lamb.
That would be the end of Pulp Architecture. Or one of them.
posted by frank heron at 5:47 PM
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