Telegrams

WE STEP FORWARD … SCENT OF GARLIC AND ORANGE … BODIES AT EMPTY.

WATCHING THE WEATHER … THE SHIP SAILS AND A ROPE SWINGS … TWO SONS LOST AT SEA.

A THIRD SON LEFT BEHIND … WALKING THE RED MILE … SPILLED TAR BY THE MONUMENT … COMPASS POINTS SPINNING.

A FIRTH … A COAST … A MOUNTAIN … THE DEATH OF A FATHER … THE BIRTH OF A DAUGHTER.

A YOUNG WOMAN AT THE PORT … SNOWFLAKES FLOATING DOWN … ONTO HER FLOATING HAND. –John PerivolarisPeriv

Elmer’s Derivative

Elmer U. Kettlebaum punctured time with the tip of his pen. As the future revealed itself—slowly, indecently—he punished it, inflicting fresh wounds with each new stroke. Wounds that would never heal….

the instrument of his own undoing

His technique formalized the appearance of any contrived future, by using a modified bucketeering code he’d learned as a teen. This code was endemic to finance, in the form of contracts meant to secure arbitrage for certain unrealized variables. When traded, these contracts would, in fact, determine the characteristics of such variables— but Kettlebaum did not write his code so that others could hedge value. He wrote it to form autonomous, self-fulfilling proclamations which could determine any outcome, variable or not—on any scale—enabling bearers of such documents to fold time.

He hatched plans to nest his proclamations—as decrees ordaining the proclamation of further decrees—to enhance their influence. He contrived language to fit dozens— indeed hundreds—of decrees within decrees until finally proclaiming the ultimate code: an integral formula which defined a limit to the future, as the number of decrees approached infinity….

It was while executing this last contract—this instrument of supreme influence and the pinnacle feat of his terror—that Elmer U. Kettlebaum was swallowed whole. He was sucked, spaghetti-like, into a vortex of time ripped by his own pen, within view of a room filled with disciples who in turn also vanished, one by one, during the future moments of their lives.

The sole remnant of Kettlebaum’s scheme is the very instrument of his undoing—an item we here at Lost Signals keep hidden, deep within our stacks….

—Hilbert David

The Shut-Down Image

The slide shuts down-or de-activates–at night. Or in the dark. No one knows for sure. Several months ago during inventory of the slides holdings in bunker #11 one of our head archivists found herself suddenly lurched into darkness when the power cut-out during a violent electrical storm. We have all been trained to carry back-up night-vision goggles when in the bunker archives (who follows such protocols?) and so, and thus.

Can’t you imagine, for yourselves, what happened next? The archivist donned her goggles to continue her work when she noticed that–faintly illuminated by the red light of the emergency exit sign–each of the slides before her bore faint traces of their images, except for one. One that had shut-down, de-activated, or gone to sleep in the absence of direct light.

Also, time seems to pass in the image, although we have only just begin to document this. That is, the objects in the slide remain stationary, but appear to age, to decay, in real-time. We first noticed this with the two bushes on the easterly side of the house at far left, bushes that slowly turned brown (the effect of drought?) after several weeks.

But it is the first phenomenon–the shut-down–that captures our attention. The fact that the images de-activates or sleeps as a (hopeless) act of preservation against, it appears, time itself.

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Daily Distribution of Labor

Sometime during the early 1900s Lost Signals instituted a record-keeping system whose methods were labor based rather than item-archive based. Previous systems of categorization (dating back to our founding in the 1830s) had centered on the archival materials themselves; recording the labor necessary for archiving and cataloging was incidental. What do we know about why the shift to a record system based on labor, not objects? As usual, there is an abundance of physical evidence marking the evolution to labor, but the meaning of this evidence remains murky.

What we know is this: around 1902, Grace Gomez devised the “Daily Distribution of Labor” pages, printing them in booklets labelled “Time Book.” Each employee was given one of these booklets per month in order to keep a daily record of his or her labor in the archives. We’re fortunate that, despite the numerous purges of the archives, there remained–squirreled away beneath a cement floor–a complete, blank booklet, a page of which is pictured below. Why the booklets (and almost all references to Grace Gomez) were purged is not exactly clear, although we have our dark theories.

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Black House Rising

The Black House reconstitutes itself perpetually, never fully succumbing to chaos, never fully succumbing to order. It manifests a desire for something, but what? And at what cost, per chance that desire be met? Black House is always supposedly “rising,” about to seize power, and yet year after year, decade after decade, it sits there, reconstituting itself, perpetuating its own architecture. If only Black House would shift beyond the banality of its form and express itself, even if that expression wiped out the mechanisms of that expression. Those who hope for and actively labor in secret to bring about the rise of Black House are, inevitably, as disappointed as those who work for its demise.

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Faceless

On the fifth sub-basement level of the northeast regional archives compound (NERAC) are around 6,000 photographs and sketches depicting subjects whose faces are covered, either by their own hand or some other hand. There are versions of what’s known as “the woman with the gun” photograph (below) dating from circa 1948. It’s difficult to say which image is the original, the primary image, and in fact more than one archivist has suggested–after careful inspection of the details–that they are two separate photographs taken at precisely the same moment. This theory has gained traction of late, as digital encoding and sourcing technologies have improved to the point that we can say that the two images are, in fact, in perfect keeping with each other, apart from the two obvious differences (left-facing/right-facing and exposure). As improbable as it seems, we know now what quantum physics knows: that two incompatible states can exist simultaneously, that A and B can equal B and A, or BA/AB. The doubled, doppelgänged world is the natural world, made unnatural by its division. At NERAC the archivists are working to collapse that division and restore the balance.

 

The Boy with the Camera

Item #18,374 from the Lost Signals 35 mm reversal film archives, series C. This arrived at LS long ago, sometime in the autumn of 1968, from what can be gleaned. The boy in question (standing 4 from left) is, unfortunately, a familiar face here, whose name we are not yet prepared to reveal. (I.e., we are not yet equipped to defend ourselves from him once we expose him.) The camera in question, the one that hangs around his neck, does something terrible to those unfortunate to fall within its finder, its vision. It cripples them in a way that only gradually reveals itself, cripples them from within, a cancer of the soul, some have said, or else a cancer of spirit. In fact LS itself has lost to this crippledom a very dear archivist, in fact the very archivist who delivered this picture to us in ’68. This is the first of three images of “the boy” scheduled to be published here. We have to wait and gauge his response–and then settle upon our own response to his response–before pushing ahead with the other two posts.

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