Back in August 1956, rollicking was the Whole Sick Crew’s favorite pastime, in- or outdoor. One of the frequent forms it took was yo-yoing. Though probably not inspired by Profane’s peregrinations along the east coast, the Crew did undertake something similar on a city-scale. Rule : you had to be genuinely drunk. Certain of the theater crowd inhabiting the Spoon had had fantastic yo-yo records invalidated because it was discovered later they’d been sober all along : "Quarterdeck drunkards," Pig called them scornfully. Rule : you had to wake up at least once on each transit. Otherwise there’d only be a time gap, and that you could have spent on a bench in the subway station. Rule : it had to be a subway line running up and downtown, because this is the way a yo-yo goes. In the early days of yo-yoing certain false "champions" had admitted shamefaced to racking up scores on the 42nd Street shuttle, which was looked now on as something of a scandal in yo-yo circles.

[…] 

Stencil took this advice one evening after five, came out with one rib to his umbrella broken and a vow never to do it again. Vertical corpses, eyes with no life, crowded loins, buttocks and hip-points together. Little sound except for the racketing of the subway, echoes in the tunnels. Violence (seeking exit) : some of them carried out two stops before their time and unable to go upstream, get back in. All wordless. Was it the Dance of Death brought up to date ?

Thomas Pynchon, V.

Quelqu’un jette sur les portes le cadavre d’une vieille momifiée, encore vivante peut-être, pendant que nous grattons sur nos grattes et que nous improvisons des chansons en yaourt.

Je cherche sur la carte : Sotchi c’est le Causase. C’est à l’ouest de l’est.

Le Miroir. Picturalistiquement beau. Endormi à l’horizontal, vaincu par les semaines, pendant, les cervicales, les courbatures au torse, aux côtes, aux omoplates, bercé en russe, bercé.