and i sat down, my buttocks making contact with the curb. i felt the cool dampness creep up through the copper, through the cotton, and settle into my sacrum. felt much better. Who would win a fight, Varesse or Xenakis? two men struggling on the dusty ground. Xenakis is bound, held by Varesse, face pushed into the pink dust. drool. Suddenly Varesse let's go, clutches at his chest, enters a preprogrammed myocardial infarction module; i can't escape the module, i can't escape the module, he can't escape the module, "He can't escape the module." Xenakis is screaming. In the hospital, he is placed on a firm sterile table. it's clean bright metal, black firm synthetic material. "it's fitting". a cardiac monitor is attached, a crisp pure tone mimics the heart beat; "heart rate dropping", automatic blood pressure cup is fitted on his left arm, "it's dropping" central line is placed in his groin. Arterial line is placed in his wrist, he is almost adorned appropriately for death. Two more i.v. stands are wheeled into his room, of a bright matching metal to his bed. the tubes are connected, they are piggy backed, branched to allow the mix of fluids to enter his body. the temperature monitor makes a quiet vibrating low pitched tone, the arterial line's soft bleep, the bright metal, the hiss of the cuff, the pure tone, the synthetic material, LED lights refracting through clear tubing. "i always wished i was a folk singer." whispers Xenakis, and his spirit joins the tone, the materials, the pure synthetic movement, the gloss reality, the hogs hope.
