• 5th Wall Press

Emptiness fragment ii. [ - ] GLASS GHOST

Fin Sorrel


{Transcript / Interview with Susan B Sara April 3, 1945 }

b) apple glitching: Yes, hello xxxxxxx, what happened at the Crown Tide Theater on the night of March 30th, 1945.

Susan: Well, when I talk about the theater, I always make sure to fold my hands like this… [Shuffling sound.] When I fold up my hands I have an epiphany, I imagine myself all alone on the shore against a wild sea. What theater is that? Again? The movie theater is always nice, when I go. I go to the one on 5th? I don't know if you remember that one, they have an arcade for the kids? Do you remember the one I’m talking about?

When I go out, if I’m going anywhere, I look to see if they have a piano. I don’t know why people won’t take me seriously about this. I am a very interesting piano player, and I am attempting to do something that no one else has ever done in their entire lives! If I’ve even gone to one of their pictures, to tell you the truth, I would have to crawl through the side door, not the front door… No, not the front door. No.

Boss man: (stunned) okay, your belief even after we've gathered rather subsequent evidence on the contrary, mam, it says here that you remember nothing about the night of March 30th, 1945 is, to say the least, baffling, mam. Are you aware there is a witness claiming to have seen you driving with a squid on your head, mam?

Susan: That's absurd, sir what are you some kind of aquarium life detective? An expert in (indecipherable) Who do you work for, ahaldhlakdhlkadhlsakdalksdlsa Is squid on my head, illegal, should I be bared for life from eating calamari, or going to the aquarium with my kids, is that it? I must get to my house so I can play the piano. My husband will have taken it away by now, he takes my piano away, were you aware of that, sir? I know you people have been recording me through my home phone. I can hear you. (click, click, click.)

b) apple glitching: Mam, that is unnecessary, we are investigating a mysterious theater for possible xbxbxbxbx bxbxbxbx, and your car has been witnessed flying off of Lake Drive into the water and reversing back in midair, crashing and reversing? Does this sound strange to you, mam?

Susan: I don't know. I'm not even sure who you people are.

b) apple glitching: (indecipherable speech) [sic] Thank you for your time, mam. We will be in touch.


[JOB] Roomy here, this bubble, these rolling rugs, kovry... I escape from out of the fabric curtains, tipped like a jug, my viscous body of collodion is poured onto the red of the sewer, into a calm subway, exiting the river Xxxxxxxx. At the front steps of the homeless hotel, I enfold my jacket tightly, creasing the feathered plastic couch, and felt, swan, discolored pieces of found white-leather-gloves and sewing machine fowl, and I get to the front desk. A low lit yellow room set in the late 1920’s appears in a fully animated cherry colored, rose flavored tint, and, gathering up my table and chairs before the staff, I'm watched jamming the scanner and radio, and cables in with much groaning to my luxury travel case [Guiseppo brand.]

I adjust my facial mask, the white shield of me against the poor world of them, and begin to compose in their language a sort of arrangement for my travel-case-flow pot, and I, to get a room.

After some talk with the gaunt staff I am gestured through a bookshelf, and into a dank subway, where I again board a glowing cuttlefish. The river of them under way loop through the subway, to the underground elevator shafts, where ten other men wait for the elevator with their similar looking [Guiseppo] cases, and travel flow pots.


Time becomes a trap, a bane of pressure, and anxiety, setting out logic to chaos, order to free will, our basic instinct has mutated under its confines, formed of organization rather than grace, patience, beauty, strength against natural elements… It is called a Timepiece, and it holds the measure to natural order. We are using a crude measure to attempt to wrangle up nature and sell it for a price - as quick as we can.


[Section 16 | Mustache3 | xxiii.]

Off to work we go; Lemonade gets on his knees upstairs, on his knees upstairs, on his knees upstairs! Floating along a slime trail that empties out of the cave and down the mountain, into a wooden hut along the shore, he goes! This picture shows him waiting for me, [look at the picture] on his elbows, [look] upside down, on the floor, he’s waiting so he can get back right.. He prays to his electric god, the old picture frame, a gaudy-golden reflector, see [our family tree] There is the doctor I've become, [there, finger, there] grubby fingers and the doctor I used to be. [what’s up doc?] (Lemonade no longer worries about the doctors I’ve become) The Fish stops at rust Avenue. Fish cars are fun. It slithers through the terminal, emptied from a bag of fluids, into the subway platform.

The subject of Lemonade has been left at home with the flow pot... Static and commercials… Upstairs, he weaves baskets of his legs into Terra Incrementum mats, and surfs the slime trail back and forth from his cave to the hut on the beach. He waits for the silverfish east to Little ton, too dragging his Terra Incrementum legs down the platform. (Ah, there he resides! Still no face, huh, kid? His hair looks great. We morph into one body with two heads, dancing the fluid change up) [That's better.]

He reads the times over a morning bowl of scurvy to ease the tension, fruiting anxieties, talk on the intercom, perhaps its the disease? I watch the workers entry and exit with special briefcases (gaunt fellows, lazy eyes, black eyes, dead flowers, hand me down clothes and shoes. Real riffraff if you ask me.) What time is it you got Charlie?

His old watch doesn’t tick the time anymore. Dead lookin’ fella.

From one head, I see him there, trying to give out the clock. My other head, Lemonade searches dark caves for his face, he lands on the passing turkeys, birds without owners, who wander early morning through the subway terminal.


“If you went in search of it, you would not find the boundaries of the soul [psyche], though you traveled every road – so deep is its measure [logos].” (Heraclitus)


A boat has now come in through, a large boat, carrying deer. Newspapers scatter at its arrival. Screwing metal vapors to blue exploded, dull, paper bag air. Lemonade eats four bags of rice, returning our credits to the booth car. The butler stalls hover beneath two emergency signs, smoking champs.

"Use the tuner for your mind. & don’t forget to eat your apertures." The morning news blares; sonic tulips falling out of the radios speaker, yellow roses, notations of soils in the radios thin thin air we could use to grow our own food. We’re in the trash sector, so I take out my pulley, and get digging. City of apartments, sections of 16 at a time. (two headed trash digging, half glimpse, and scanner commercials, half glimpse and scanner commercials.)


“The past of every form and way of life, of cultures that formerly lay right next to or on top of each other, now…flows into us “modern souls”; our drives now run back everywhere; we ourselves are a kind of chaos.” (Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil)


Altering the clothes with needle and thread, with its interference sewing eyes [my and Lemonade's blankets], canning fruit... And so on. Everywhere Is a leaf I've torn, and left behind, along with my home appliances, all leaves torn along the static lines of the zenith flow pot. I've packed in an extra handheld scanner for work occasions, (of course) but my main scanner stays home to be (everywhere)

Sir, you may pass.

Thank you.

We’re led through a body scanner.


"I hate everything that merely instructs me without augmenting or directly invigorating my activities.” (Goethe)


GOO plays in the back room -

Littleton fish believe the subway a coward... Through their days work, sighing cows, and winter scarves, they lumber through rust Avenue, scraping metal with blue light torches, to pass along the rafters, where Lemonade gathers his suit cases and boards to Little ton wharf (east.) on the giant, stinky fish car.



From everywhere at once I leave my scanner at home to help fold the laundry and do our sewing, thinking strict goals, beating myself with bruises until I have become something closer to this guy named Lemonade, at least in similar shape and form, I beat myself back into the Little ton fish door alongside him, the algae sealing strip connects as it does. Eons ago, I fell... And Lemonade and I met with hands of crab and lobster in an elaborate room, beneath here, but I know very well, I am not him.(Note: The rooms beneath are as they appear above.)

Here follows my entrance address to the surrounding crowd:

“I am a doctor of Little ton, pretending to behead ghosts in my spare time, pretending to dissect frogs, drain moats, entertain children, dream waterfalls, pour out Burmese cats from a bag, dry out figs in a small room under the sewer, and teach flying lessons over at the nursing home behind Stanton elementary school.”

The crowd groans, and shake their heads, no.

From which everywhere comes through the small apartment at the desk of my scanner, and where she tirelessly sews and cooks, listlessly knits her yarn sweaters, staring at our fish tank, for our whole life into each closet, she pours her knitting so that all of the rooms can be spoken in the sciatic nerve of her silence, while GOO plays in ye who shall not be named back room.

The ironing board was there for awhile, bitter old bitch, but she is still somewhere peeping, and poking around. I don’t trust her.

When I'm set under the trance, I lay back next to Lemonade in the guts of the sturgeon, stars and seeds, warm heart beat. I take rest in the kidneys. The rytymn, neatly ready and able to set up my napkins and fork, knife and spoon so as to enjoy a nice nap, with dark warm heart, fish swimming under subway, and a side of swirly Popsicle colored Lemonade cane dice, nicely packed into dank sub level station, here.


I get to my floor on the 3rd, walk to a back hallway, through a pool of dark water, into a green lighted dead end before an emergency door, and fire escape. The broken door handle draws my attention, and I set my cases down, searching for a stick to plug in place before the damaged doorway to keep it propped. The door warps open. I see a mean looking psychopathic ward unit staff and the patients in the courtyard there between my hotel and theirs. Brown jackets whimper and whistle, talking to the repetitive beat of a water heater, and the one closest to me growls, baring his dirty brown teeth. Sharks, mulling about. I slide the door shut, and press it forcefully closed, to see as it pops back open, staying open.


The carrying of my random cases: scanner + wiring, chair, table, radio, maps, and hookups, wall plugs. All to be plugged in pronto, it’s settled. The door to my room is already open in the dark and Murky hall and I quickly close it, sealing myself inside where I set up the flow pot, sweating. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching as the first tube worms in her. A play of [ff>>] commercials + double speed - no sound. I hold the remote, and [MUTE] comes off. The room fills with the blabbering sound of commercials.


Tossing the suitcases under the bookshelf and lying back to watch the color lights leak in the room, I place a flower in my mask, and nibble its dead alive tasty bits. The curtains are dreary, dust coated, grey. The knock at the door startles me. I will not answer, I will not answer. Yes? I get off my back, foot up splayed five toes like frogs to the door, and peek through the glass eyelid to the flicker of badly painted green in the hallway where a little old woman in a pink dress lunches there on fish sandwiches, her tearing a fish sandwich I can smell through the paper door.

Who are you?

mm here avout va vob! she says.

What vob? I snarl. I need privacy. Thank you. this is a private room. Please leave, the looney bin is the next door, down that way. No! To your left! The door handle wiggles a little and the door pops open. vir, vey assed me to show vu va vob vownvairs. She enters my room and ignores the wires and scanner in the corner, staring at me as Lemonade hides desperately inside the closet. With her black fish eyes reflecting the Blitz of commercials. She smiles to the back.

Getting settled in nicely I see. (clearing her tongue of fish guts, she spits bones onto the grey carpet.)

Hey! Your gonna clean that up. She ignores it, and begins stomping around swiftly through the room, checking cabinets and opening doors.

I need to get to work! You shouldn’t be here! Get out of here!


Well, that's just it, sonny boy, (she wiggles her bony finger at me.) I’m special Mustache Rosemary Smith and I’m here to show you THE WORK, down in the basement. She points down at the stained rug, and I peer at the black smut z.

The work? Okay, so, ah...

Okay. Well let me just gather my things, let me get my suitcase here…

NO! You don’t need them, leave it here, we will be quick.

I'm not sure I understand. Is this part of my stay here? Like a kind of work charade?

Yes. Exactly, a work trade.

Yeah, work trade, right.

Now, come along. Your stuff is safe, we'll take the elevator down. I follow the grumpy old lady onto the old elevator. I adjust my shirt 10 times, and stare at the wallpaper.

In the basement there are piles of garbage and tourists pointing at them and taking pictures.

Can we get a picture of you sir?

A plainly dressed tourist holds up a giant camera and points it at me.

Um. No.

But you are Wordsworth Sales! I love your work.

The woman tourist smiles, curling her lip.

I see, you have the wrong person. Just a mistake, sure, take a picture.

She snaps a shot and another, and another.


She walks on, photographing the heaping piles of garbage.

We pass many pits of trash and the little old lady points into a dark corner.

Over there. That's what needs to be done.

What needs done exactly? All I see is a dark corner.

That. Fix it. She hands me a pair of keys and tells me to let them know when I'm done working. I look into the dark corner. It startles me. Undulating faces, grim. the tourists mull about, snapping shots. They sip their mochas.


I need to split farther apart, I look back at the old woman in a soothing warm light, and peer up at a hanging extension cord. I pocket the keys. I zoom in on the red carpets, and focus those, allowing the image of the old woman to dissolve away into the basement, and I see Lemonade walking closely by, and it ignores me. We walk out into the road before hotel au homeless, and follow this focal point to an area where a subway connects like a river to a chestnut tree. The city had been forced to call this: ‘The Last Stop’ where they built inside, and around the free, incorporating the shoots, branches and trunk to look like a jungle gym.

For years they had attempted to build directly through the chestnut, with no luck, and the tree had fought back and of course, won. They had to give our tree a hundred thousand Yillie!

I finger my pocket with the keys and keep the job in mind, fixing that great darkness. After lunch, indeed I'll work, doing something, but my hopes were on my scanner programming, let's hope they haven't just traded the room and are stealing information, etc… The nut house drab changing out my things for theirs…


The scanner needs to warm up its soft tissues inside of its body. Picture the humanity of her, the skin covers all of its metallic tubing, and pores. scanner with plunger, rig, needle, shooting up into the human tissue, growing new eyes. Any hold on me had to wait, I had business to take care of. Way before she can begin the tape transfer, she’s got to get her skin on, and shower and dress like a scanner star... Slide the veins of news to the rug in a thin coating of commercial softness to the ground, avalanche the signal from the body of the back of the brain, down onto the rug, and stain it for musical notes of soft-between-oven. Smash down the notes to make noise and light.

The only reason I would have you picture this is for the special occasion in getting a room off grid, and for the same reason this sector of Xxxxxxxx is being a rather rough patch of traumatic technology. Much of the neighborhood is eroded, and delicately covered over in thick red rugs, so as to keep the places patched up in a pangea so the rooms underneath don’t poke through.

I’ve got my pocket scanner here somewhere…

Digging out my collection of contents, I’ve got it here, pull out the long antennae, and flip the switch, to map my way better along these redden pathways, due east, .45.30.21 south east, straight.

This trash sector is easier to gather up Technicolor for my personal studies. The harbor meets land, so, I follow it to the end and watch the waves, spot Man-o-war, a jellyfish twenty feet long, glowing while the sun rises.

A house has been washed up, crooked on shore, the half of it has been exposed and opened to customers, where they serve steaming plates of scurvy, delicious. 1 yilly each!

I order three and pay with paper clips and 2 apple seeds that makes up a yilly. I tip some lint for good measure, but the girl is not impressed. The girl has on her crab hat, its pincers squiggle up her hair. She looks over, glum, and accepts the Yil, pouring the change into the container and closing it in.



I find a seat down at a fallen tree. Tanker birds swoop in and try me, their silver beaks snap at the food, golden beaks flying in circles.

Hey! I grab up my pistol shank and shoot them off with an exploding combustion, my inflamed arms sway greedily about, swatting the air. I’m hunching over the scurvy, starved, my shoes untied, no matter, must protect food. I finish eating the plates and tie my ugly, black shoes closed, before they start talking to me again, with their lisp, I can’t tell you how much I dislike the lisp. of the tongue. Let's hope my shoes don't try to talk to me tonight. I need as much quiet as an Mustache can get. Me and the scanner transcribe interfaces/interferences, feeds, bathing times, up late. I stuff the Pistol shank in my layered coat.

Got to get the print-outs ready for [b) apple glitching] tomorrow... Oceanside job was a good retreat. I’m happy with myself.


Phone call Sir. The crabby girl comes out clutching a silver tray with a pink rotary phone on it. This must be the boss.


Yeah, Mustache3, we've got an issue. You need to switch positions with Mustache7. He's in sector 45. 45?! How am I?!

I know, Sorry to fuck up your vacation, er whatever. But, we're going to send a car over, you don't need to ride the subway. I'm going to need you to investigate a mysterious theater in like, a half an hour. These people are freaking out. Where are you?

Well, what about the transcribing?

I assume you can do both. We've arranged for you to stay at the Landmark Inn tonight and, you know for the duration. Where are you?

I'm... I'm... Well, I'm in Chinatown, near the Man-o-war goalie in Xxxxxxxx.

Oh, I know it, we'll be there in half an hour.

I’m near the homeless hotel. I have to pick up my suitcases there. Over and out...

Bye. Bye. I hang up. The crabby hat waitress takes the phone platter away along with my plates and the scurvy starts to kick in, making me suddenly ill behind a rock. I wipe and stroll the rugs back up the hill, get to the hotel to gather my things, leaving the key that the old woman had given me on the rooms dresser and packing up my scanner. Lemonade jumps out of the closet and climbs in my coat, shivering. He’s freezing cold and pale nude. The old Volkswagen Beetle arrives in front of the hotel. I used to ride in one of them as a child.

b) apple glitching, he's the passenger of b) apple glitching, so the cars full of b) apple glitching. He’s brought the mirror again. The four way one.

How am I gonna fit?! I shout. Throwing up my arms.

Scoot over! He shouts at the four way mirror, nudging the side full of his cigar smoke out of the way, before I pop in through the door. All my cases, scanner, wires, and the stolen towels go into the back seat and we burble the motor car off along the ocean, a bunch of clowns, towards 45, to the East Side st. To the theater.