the destroyer > text > Mark Cunningham
Dear Believer in Progress: when you speed up the film, everything looks energetic and fun. He took that pie chart right in the kisser. If you repeat “Jacques Lacan” over and over, it sounds like you’re saying “Chaka Khan.” She’s standing closer to the magnetic North Pole, but I can wave my hands higher in the air. The Hare Krishna threatened to hold his breath until he turned blue, so we settled in to see what would happen.
Now that my hairspray has helped destroy the ozone layer, I have to use even more of it to protect against the solar wind. Something about the Paul Celan Fan Club didn’t sound right, but after we changed the title of Pierre Joris’s translation from Lightduress to Liteduress, Singles Nite really took off, so I just went with it.
Martha Stewart’s drone is controlling my desserts—and, so far, the results are delicious. First we sold the refugees on the idea of maximizing their full material potential; then we introduced our line of plus-size jeans. Just a little switch in emphasis, and “content feed” changes from cause to effect. “Four minutes can be an eternity”: Christian muzak.
The summary on the DVD case read, “The pressures of work, family and finances become too much for him and he experiences a nervous breakdown,” and the blurb from the San Francisco Chronicle promised that “Fassbinder fans will find plenty to cheer about.” Without warning, she fell 1,500 feet from an airplane, but as soon as she landed she acclimatized. Even as the raft circled closer to the center of the whirlpool, the idea of a “sucking void” made us laugh out loud.