|574> dubble sewer-sided blank tape of mitico d'Irge + SSea horse teeth in ill lofty attico, 66|
2 Mar 2018 | Rome> Rione iX... not dat wheel be roaming rione Pigna in this ere post, dear Inurnet.. or inny udder rioni of Rome, but as of ieri we inhabit rione iX. No need to Rom 'er, eh? Chilling in the ill attico of palazzo Colonna. We blog alot about wiping the slate + whatknot, seems life/art's all about starting ova everyday, blank page, blanc canvas, nostro cognome è White dopotutto, tho she dont always feel dat weigh en realità. Muster as we mite to sea things in a new lite when dayz turn nuvoloso, to git a clean start every mourn... well dis feels like quiet a cleansing fo shore, dis empty attico. B'yond jus the fizzickle move, feel a big mentoll shift gong up in the hedspace yet tbd. High time to kick dem feet up + hang in 1 plaze, questo posto, P.zza S.S. Apostoli, 66, illin' drizzo. Tho @ ill momento we god nayer a chair to set in, seduto on newly polished parquet floors dat still stink of shellac so we gots the doors + windows wide o'pen tho it's still freezin' out + rainin', onelie a few d°grees warmer than last week. Who wd of thunk th weather worse here then NYC, where our bedder-½ remains professoring, she dint git to xperience the move-in initiation rites, come ogni altra cosa con dis palazzo mind-boggling in ceremonial formalities + burrocrazy, no capisco ½ da shit day a'saying, probly bedder dat weigh. Butt we was handid keys + eccoci QUI. Spent the 1° day runnin' round findin' stuff to survive ill nite... sure, we cd of just gone down to a trattoria, but we god engrained survival instinks when it comes to food + H20 @ least to halve sumping edible on hand, specially coffee (still using a sock), nada worse than waking up en qualque parte sans cafe. Knot alot of supermeerkatos in these parts, vicino a piazza Venezia, offishoal bizness for mayor party + touristic crap (next door to the wax museum). But Monti (the original Suburra) is a 5 min walk, no ce male. Or Campo d'Fiori. Quasi tutti a 5-10 min walk da qui. Best casalingo store in these parts case u curioso is in da ghetto. God all the fixings to make a pot of pasta (tho forgot to git cutlery so ate w/ la spatula) + wash our clothes + bwody, butt a towel? Aint ez to come by no ware in Rome, lemme tell u. Italians love dare clothes, scarpe, purses + occhiali de sole, bud aint noware will sell u adam towel, or «sugarmama» as we like to call 'em. Scuzi, dove posso trovare un sugarmama? Eventually found a pakistandin in p.zza Vittorrio dat hat a stash of 'em w/ «Mitico di Irge» embroidered on ea 1, wich we god ningun idea wat dat means, the myth of urge? + no comprendo Italian granmar, how come they wdn't rite dat as «Mitico d'Irge» since u aint sposed to have 2 iis butting up aghanst each udder comme si, wich sounds mo like a mythical dirge. Also got a dustbuster to vaccuum the loft where we slept last night (the onelie carpetted parte). Hat to climb a ladder up int.o the apex of ill roof, just like we did cada noche in DC. Did halve the 4site to bring 1 of them blow-up airpads + a sleepingbag, same bedding mattereal we slept on 4 a fortnite or 2 when dem Trump-loving mover hicks came + took our shit to d'liver to Frank Sabaca who then ship'd itall to Naples ware it sat + sat + our contact ignored all our emails + phonecalls but yesterday thank dog finelly came thru + sed they was incommunicado on acct of ill snow, eternal cheetah crippled for dayz cuz of a few cms of neveca. So dat ship, the main shitment, comes loonydi, if day can git past the groveling gatekeeper, who hems + haws, shakin' his head like whoa man, dats a big ask, bringing mobili int. yo casa + on the movers end day insist on startin' @ 06.30 cuz of Roman zoning laws, folks sin permesso aint allowd int. la ZTL zone during daylite hrs, like we's vampires in el centro storyco. But hits all just the Italian way, to make hit seam like nada aint gonna b ez, u god to fallow entrenched protocall engrained into dem DNA since J. fuckin' C. (Julius or Christ, take yo pick). Opposit of NYC where u kin request the impossible + xpected risponse is to shrug like no problema, boss. Doorman in NYC can a'range sex w/a doped up giraffe on Venus if dats yo thing. All we want is for them to let movers or Maisons du Monde or the Mercantino where we god abunch of ship to let 'em deliver a bed to sleep on, dog forbid + a table to eat at + a harmonium to play. They come a'round eventually, always due, they just want to let u know what a hassle it is + dont say its about the moola, gringos, cuz it aint, u cant slip 'em a benjamin like u can in Amerika, bud Italians jus want rispect or to eggknowledge dare clout or who nose what, to follow sum fossilized formalities dat halve bin in plaze 2000+ yrs + day never halve stop'd to wonder porque + neither shd u, homes. Communque, so took our 1° piss, ate our 1° meal, slept our 1° night, etc. like a lone woof. Sides shopping for mediate needs, spent the day wondering round ill empty attico not knowing what Ls to due, talkin' to ourselfs (wich normuley we aint prone todo, but reckon we dig the sound of our vox echoing in the emptynest or may-b we sad cuz our bedder-½ aint hear to shair the xperience) + wandering ware shit gunna go when/if ever it a'rives, setting in ea room, visualizing wah will go on dare, wether we gunna sleep dare, or eat, sleep, write, exorcise, make art, music, etc. 1° thing sposed to come today's a memory-foam mattress from IKEA (onelie ting we resorted to dem 4), dats sposed to come inny secund now. Spose we shd go stand down dare to make sure the gatekeeper (portiere—same word for doorman + goalie, what does dat say?) lets 'em in, may-b Ikea aint okie kosher for such palatial standurds. And when we say portiere we aint referring to 1 sentry, dares a whole higher-arky of 'em, the «adminstrazione» as they call themselves, 1 guy in pertickler dat just does scheduling, so everytime u gid sumping d-livered u godda run hit by hym + he fills out all dis paperwork, what, who, when + then he sines + seals it + gives u a wink like he's doing u a grand favor. Souprized Kafka came from Austria + not Italia. Maybe Kafka's from Checkyoslavakia or Germ'ny, we cant check cuz we don't god Inurnet... dont even git us started on dat ese. We god a skylight we can peak out + see the lower tier of gatekeepers (the rest of the administrazione officiates from the inner sanctum) + b'yond dat the over-the-top wedding cake. We was gunna refrain from showing pics til we god our shit in plaze but ecco ci qua, sum of the aforementioned view pts:
Sea, the seehorse seams to bee a reoccuring motif in our lives, like sums sorta sine or messedge from a bove... see ch 10 of 'SSES" 'SSES" "SSEY' + numerus refrences in A Raft Manifest, inklooting hack bio-engineered scorpion-seahorse hybrids on pgs 226-227... tho theys probly too tiny or lost in the spine so we repost dem here so u kin sea bedder:
03:11 am 3 Mar > This memory foam mattress sorta freaks us out, w'happens if u roll ova + sleep on yo back o stomick or udder side? Instruxions (in typical IKEA fashion, w/o words) show a die-o-grams of sum1 sleeping + then day giddup + comeback to the indented bed w/«72» written above in dem speech balloon, as if the mattress's gunna member dat position for 72 hrs (or minits, days, secunds?) Or may-b u need to abide 72 [units of time] to use hit a gain? Dose hit member the hole seakwinds of tossin' + turning thru-out the nite? Slept bedder then la notte scorsa dats fo shore, sides ill air mattress them shellac fumes gave us a ripping headache. We don't god Inurnet to read how to «use» this new-fangled mattress. And whys it dat all the peephole in dem IKEA wordliss instruxions look like Akbar + Jeff? We sed don't git us started on lack of Inurnet, dear Inurnet, but hit sorta ties int. wah we was a'saying initially a bout wiping the slate clean. Maybee's we bedder off w/o hit? We was thinkin' the same thing about iphones, dat weed try to vivir w/o bud caved in + god 1 (albeit an droid) good thing we did as wd of bin impossibile to househunt + whatnot cuz gli Italiani do tutti ova ill phone or textin'. When we scured dis plaze we m-mediately sined up for hiyh speed Inurnet knowing hit wd take a wile based on horror storys we herd... dat was 2+ weeks ago + we ain't herd squat since, just can'd emails dat our order has bin proccessed + dat a technico will be in touch w/in 30 giorni. Try calling + u git passed along in an endless loop, all in Italiano cuz nun of them speak in glish... 1 thing to comprehend Italiano + a nother to capeesh the bazarre logic of ITalian telecommunication cumpanies. And emails + letters in witch they communeacake? Even if u stick dem thru a babelfish u aint god a clue what day mean, weed take the wordless IKEA landgauge to Italian burrocrazy babble. So yah, to post dis wheel halve togo to sum Inurnet cafe or sumping. What dose dis all god todo w/wiping ill slate? Perhaps we shd forsake Amerika + language + ill Inurnet all together, stop bloggin, stop writing (@ least in none landguages, wich weve ya startid down dat road in these past few books we rode) + just make music? The universal language or however dat corny sayin' gose. Dat might be the turn Cal A. Mari takes, twards cassettes, + in yourup + u k. Bud 4 now we focussed on the homefront, espatially w/o our bedder-½ gone feel like 1 of dem bower birds, going out to collect shiny objects + a'range dem in the threshold, weaving a trail thru the rooms w/newly awkwired mobili due to a'rive this morning (inklooting ill harmonium!), leading to dis memory foam mattress still on the floor cuz we dont git the «Java» bed from Maisons du Monde til 7 Mar (tricky scheduling as dare's a filmshoot going on in the courtyard they gots to workaround). Not xactly Ulysses, we dint bild no bed out of a single olive tree or however + but we kin recount the make + model + onelie then will she recognize us aft'r a 10 yr absence, wich as Markson points out is quiet proposterous cunsidering Penelope spent the whole time fighting off them suitors + weaving + unweaving dat dam rug or whatever in her sposed undying love, we dont member the d-tails or the x-act way Markson puts her + aint able to google (xcept on our phone wich we aint inklined todo) but hits a meta4, dramatic perhaps since weve bin sepurated from our bedder-½ onelie 5 dayzz not 10 yrs, but all dis bowery bird + bed manufacture tock all ties into dis new overarching Roman pairofdime... sides music purhaps we aim to dive deeper int. ill arte of casalingo-ism in ill lofty attico, hone our madd culinary + int.erior d-sine skills. Did we menshun we aint cumplete sans our bedder-½? Dat x-NY Tyrant dawg dat now lives nearby was giving us shit the udder day how we cant go nowhere sans our bedder-½, dis coming from the bro dats always tweeting 'dubble sewerside or it aint luv'... well if u aint living yo dolce vita insieme ogni giorni hit aint luv neither yo, joined at the hip, til death dose us part.
4 Mar> Mo stuff form ill mercantino a'rived, our new desk, bookcases, chairs + dis hear beauty:
Oh + the spacebar on our laptop keybored is still semi-fucked, thanx for aksing, we just gitting bedder at slamming hit.
6 Mar> Aint bin able to post this 4 lack of Inurnet, bud now our bedder-½ be back + we walk'd w/her in rain to FAO ware day got high-falutin UN Inurnet, jus like the 1 we used to bogart in Nairobi. + we god our shitment yesterday! All unpack'd haphazard on the floor cuz we din't want to deal w/ recycling them boxes + stuffing, god to weave paths thru our ol' possessions to function, but piano piano, or poli poli as day say in Nairobi... piano piano we unpack.
|573 <( )> 575 > Romin' da ghetto (R.XI) w/Zeno's Conscience on our conchus, narrated, in synthesis, by the most rudimentary sound|