Surrealist Game Time

December 3, 2007

Here is the idea for this little game. It started with Raymond Queneau, a surrealist of the Breton persuasion. He at one point in his life published a text titled Exercises in Style where he started with a Récit and then rewrote it ninety-nine times in differing styles. I have written a Récit and will follow with some styles shortly but I would love for people to submit their own styles, make sure to name your style.


This short description begins at three in the afternoon in a little campus coffee shop attached to the grand central library. The crowd packed round the water cooler. Each person waited patiently for their turn at the device to fill their little plastic transparent cubs up with the ice infused water maintained inside the metallic dispenser. It was when this crowd parted that a singular college aged individual of male features approached the register in the hopes of purchasing a muffin containing some kind of fruit flavoring as well as an espresso based beverage. What he had not prepared for was the excruciating wait time that was thrust upon him until his hot beverage would be ready. In this time he found the mundane routine of circulating somewhat pleasant but was annoyed to find myself observing this awkward task of his. He soon departed beverage and muffin in hand, for another more secure location. I remained however, to watch as more students of various ages packed themselves neatly into a line in order to maintain order while each in turn exchanged money for nourishment.

An hour later a meeting started involving myself and commenced at a different place roughly a quarter mile away from the coffee shop in the residential offices of the same university. The meeting was the third of three to be had this semester in regards to sexual assault on the campus and included students, faculty and administrators. It went long.

The 20th of November dreams of the 16th.

November 22, 2007

– An experimentation in the combination of automatic, creative, constructed, poetic, and prose writing… by Huysmans

I met a man sometime after the 16th of November who reminded me of a time long ago where there was a guerilla sitting on a hump that looked like some string from the fourth of July parade back in August. What then was the meaning of these jumbled months looking like moths? I say, if they go after the light one more time I swear that I will write down every god damn candle that looks in on itself. Calling upon my previous knowledge I now must admit that I know nothing, or is it something? I can never remember, maybe that is because I know nothing. WAIT that’s it, that’s the answer. Oh Socrates you’d be so proud of Walter, only if you knew that he and Surrealism never really got along.


                                                                        A long pause was then taken by the author of the above text as he contemplated the ridiculousness that he had found himself in when dealing with such creative processes. Was Breton on to something grand or just on to something, something like all the other somethings that never amounted to something in their lifetime? The author thought this over for a period of fifteen seconds and a handful of milliseconds only to then start writing about writing under this process of thinking. He began by stating the obvious, “a long pause was then taken” (see above). He then moved to discuss how this writing was being produced in his mind, or at least that is what he thought as he wrote, “the ridiculousness that he had found himself in while dealing with this creative processes”(see above, but not the first above reference). Following this she moved to compare her work with that of Breton, presumably Andre Breton, the Surrealist of a century ago, while not exactly a century but a long time at least. This didn’t get her anywhere and eventually she had to begin looking back on looking back. She first calculated the exact amount of time it took for that pause, she had to estimate the milliseconds. After stating this time, “a period of fifteen seconds and three milliseconds” (again above, but again after the last two references to above statements), she moved to talk about how she responded to the writing exercise. This discussion did not last long as the reflection did not match up with the quotation, “this writing was being produced in her mind” (see see see see see above see). So again Breton was brought up followed by a clarification of who Breton really is, Andre Breton the great Surrealist. Funny enough thinking about Breton brought the writer back to nowhere and the process began all over again. It had to look back on looking back and assume responsibility of cataloging everything one more time. Beginning again again with the pause and a reflection on the exact account of which the pause took, this time stating the amount of milliseconds it took. Again following the “four millisecond” (do not see below), it lost its quotation abiligy, yes abiligy, not ability and definitely not agility and found itself back at Breton. Oh no, not Breton, my apologies, Andre Breton the Greatest of great Surrealists. The account here begins to get confusing as variations in the reflection process caused a fourth return to the original but this time going straight for the incalculable millisecond count that brought out lost quotations, “abiligy, yes abiligy, not ability and definitely not agility” (I think that came from somewhere). I eventually found myself again at the great Surreal, Bretonist and again nowhere. In this final review of for the twentieth time I noted the variations, or at least I referenced the fact that there are variations and then the confusion with the milliseconds and quotations. Abiligy became a word and Breton became a movement. So with this textual procedure going nowhere I looked in the text for the answer, there I found the symbol, oloioloi., I found the symbol. :765893094. So in finding this I asked it what it was: “Are you a P, but backwards?” It rudely didn’t answer. However the seven did, it said that we all had one chance to talk and that it didn’t want six or five to share anything. But while it was decreeing its decree the double dot mark spoke out and said that it liked the backwards P and wanted to be friends with it. Here is where everything went BLACK,


well except for the B, A, and K that is. These three formed a new work: BAK, to always be preceded by the double dot mark.


              We have to take back the page. Cried We. But who could we do it? All we was was just a two letter word that indicated the presences of the plural first person, the many I, if you will. Well in reality we couldn’t do it. It failed miserably because it was undefined. Who was this we? How did it get there? But one could argue that it had one, the page was being taken over once again by the typed words. It all came to ruin once again when Berlin Sans FB Demi came into the ring.                                                                                     This font couldn’t hold out against the paper.                                      It kept loosing ground.                                                                                                  Eventually. No we need to…                           Finish the stor………………….y…………………………………………….   Comic Sans MS came but all was already lost. What a stupid font I am.  Good bye to all that, Franklin Gothic. I don’t want to hear it anymore Mr. Graves.             I have thought long and hard over the countless nights how I was to avoid capture. I hid beneath the sheets of yellow and white along side a fish named Bob, he was a likeable fish except for the fin he was sporting on his back thigh, I thought it looked rather pretty but ugly at the same time. You know how that goes, an object of unbelievable mystery that intrigues you to no end except with its unmistakable ugliness that outlines this mystery. What contradictions these objects maintain. I frankly hate it. But sadly I had to deal with it and the fish named Bob under the sheets of yellow and white.             So there we hid, hoping not to get captured by the love birds, those sick hate filled lovers of dysfunctional generation scared of the fishes. I felt a great need to bring them back to reality. I tried, in vain, to introduce them to Bob, it didn’t go well. They hated Bob and everything he stood for, happiness, prettiness, ugliness. They hated him so much that they turned into great big monsters with “Love?” printed on their chests. This was the sign I had feared, they turned evil and sought to kill us. I grabbed Bob and ran for the yellow and white sheets, they were the only objects that could repel the evilness that was this questioned love.             Well audience I have caught you up, please allow me to now give you an idea of what the dialogue was like between Bob, the fish, and myself, the writer:  BOB (a fish): These sheets make me visibly ugly.  Me (a writer): Trust me, we need to hide.  Bob: I know but I am a fish.  Me: But I am a writer. Bob: Are you not a fish?  Me: Why can’t fish write? Bob: Because fins can’t hold crayons.  Me: Is there a crayon store where you live?  Bob: Why would there be one?  Me: Don’t you people eat crayons?  Bob: Why does it always become a reference to my people?  Me: What would you like it to be?  Bob: Why does it have to be anything?  Me: Don’t you think it has to be something?  Bob: Why do we have to bring something into this at all?  Me: Why not?  Bob: Do you really have to persist on this issue?  Me: And you don’t think you are being just as persistent?  Bob: Are you suggesting that I am trying to manipulate you?  Me: Are you suggesting that I can be manipulated?  Bob: What then are you suggesting if not that?  (Before I could answer the fishes redicoulous question the sheets of yellow and white were removed and the lovers entered the scene.) Lover 1 (a boy): Are these the two?  Lover 2 (a woman): Who else could they be?  Me: How did you find us?  Lover 2: You really think sheets can hide a fish?  Lover 1: Who’s a fish?  Bob: Are you sure one of us is a fish?  Me: Are you guys looking to eat fish?  Lover 1: Do you know any good fish stores?  Me: What kind of fish do you want?  Lover 1: What kind of fish do you recommend?  Lover 2: Are you seriously asking these questions?  Lover 1: Am I not supposed to ask him questions?  Lover 2 (to the fish): Where is the fish?  Bob (remember, the fish): Did you lose a fish?  Me (to Bob): Can you help them find the fish?  Bob: If I help, will you eat my friend here (points to me, the writer)?  Lover 2: Why would I eat your friend?  Bob: Don’t you think he looks like a fish?  Lover 1: What’s a fish?  Lover 2: If he is a fish then why do I need your help finding one?  Bob: Don’t you think that I just helped you?  Lover 2: Did you just help me?  Me: Has anyone else noticed that we are only speaking in questions?  Lover 2: We are?  Bob: Why are we?  Me: How do we stop?  Lover 1: What do we do to stop?  Lover 2: What do you think about killing the person who doesn’t ask a question?  Lover 1: Is that fair?  Me (to the fish): Can you say a statement?  Bob (also a fish): Why? Do you want me to die?  Me: Didn’t you try to get me killed?  Lover 1: Who killed who?  (Following this last absurdly appropriate question Answer came wandering on stage and took a very predictable position to stage right. Why predictable? Because he answered it.) Answer (to all questions): This is no play.  

                                    And in predictable fashion that had overtaken the play, the play ended. The writer paused to reflect on the loss of control he had endured these past few pages. It was as if he was automatic, but that’s not the case according to Breton.


            I watched on the television device in my room the other day a program discussing the conquests of Alexander the Great; he had big machines that were capable of launching an attack from water on island fortresses. While this was on the television device I was unaware that bug had entered my room, not just any bug though, an invisible imaginary one.


                                                            Later on that week I put the Disney Channel on while attempting to pass into the dream world that occurs only when eyes are shut and sleep entered. The channel continued until it was turned off automatically by the sleep feature already programmed into the television device. So this device operates outside of human interaction but based on human interaction. Breton, does this sleeping television enter into automatism? Or are we blind. “Great Men” he replies in French as if that means something to anyone but him.

 If we were in England at an older time this is what this document might look like. Or so Bill would have you believe…

Certified Morally

Do not engage the public in this way. Coke is only coke.  We’re fresstyling now. I can’t read script because it isn’t English.                                                                                      Sign Here please._________________  Do not look here for any kind of intellectual debate, we hate those.