Peaches and Pears and cream


This text was written for public domain day 2017 in brussels, organized by Constant vzw, the year where Gertrude stein was highlighted as one of the authors going into the public domain, as it was 70 years after her death.

all poetry fragments in the text are taken from Gertrude stein's poem sacred emily (1922).

screenshots used in imagery is from poetry generating software janus node or McPoet, whose slogan is «Doing for poetry what McDonalds did for food».

deep sea jelly fish captured by monterey bay aquarium.

further thanks to martino morandi for digging up old poetry generating software and a shared interest in deep sea creatures.






Peaches and pears and cream


If an author has published more than the minimum requirement of 15 publications that are public domain, a folder containing the author's work can be scanned and used to create a writing protocol and style guide for one’s inner monologue, should one’s own thought structure prove insufficient.

It is however not advisable to switch one’s inner monologue writing protocol more than once a year due to risk of neuroconfusion.

Beer in hand and still wearing her jacket she finds a chair at the back of the bar, the tension of a long day's work clutching her neck and shoulders. The barman is busy with people she is not particularly interested in looking at and she pulls out her phone. Holding it slightly under the cover of her open jacket she logs in to her personal portal and changes her inner monologue's writing protocol from «Adam Smith» to «Gertrude Stein, collected poetry». She presses «confirm» and an ease comes over her as her mind’s protocol guide scans through the folder for usable patterns and her vocabulary and thoughts are restructured.

Night town.
Night town a glass.
Color mahogany.
Color mahogany center.


The bar noise grows distant while she slowly drifts away, suddenly not minding having to wait, not minding that she arrived early while Emily is late. Her inner monologue becomes patient, picking up words as if they were unbaked dough. Her mind too resembles unbaked dough. Soft mud. Her senses are heightened, as she picks up a word and folds it over.

Do or.
Table linen.
Wet spoil.
Wet spoil gaiters and knees and little spools little spools or ready silk lining.
Suppose misses misses.
Curls to butter.

It is not functional to select this folder as personal writing protocol, to think in this structure. Not when she's at work, nor anywhere else for that matter. It is only at night, after a drink or two that she lets herself do it. It seems like a lost opportunity not to. And of course she knows the instructions, she is always discreet about her habits. Only doing it in places it can be computed as drunkenness. Because although «Adam Smith» caters well to solving her life's situations, and was a necessary career choice at the time, thinking with «Adam Smith» gives her cabin fever once there is no real practical reason to keep her thoughts organized. Organize. Organ. Eyes.

She remembers when the works of «Victor Hugo» were made available. The frenzy that followed. How popular it became to use as personal protocol. How everybody started to talk in long, winding sentences. Started to think and behave according to his logic. Personally, she never used it. It didn't do anything for her mind, didn't solve problems nor give room for escape. But when Stein's poetry was made available, it unhooked every tension. Mud and dough. She feels her tongue resting on top of a small puddle of saliva in her mouth as her vocabulary and logic twists. Arguments vaporize from her mind and her hands feel different. Normally they are always busy, but now they lay on the wooden table in front of her feeling the clear lacquer. As if the dough is starting to slip between her fingers, she finds it hard to focus. Structure is falling apart. Her inner monologue's writing protocol is now completely caught up, and synchronized with Stein’s pattern of writing.

Murmur pet murmur pet murmur.

She sees Emily arrive. Out of breath, in work wear and red cheeks, squeezing through the crowd. Emily's mind’s writing protocol still on «Susan B. Anthony» she'll give a formal reason to what held her up, politely order a drink, and smile before taking out her phone to discretely change to «Gertrude Stein», let her mind synchronize, breathe out, and put her head on her shoulder.

Page ages page ages page ages.
Wiped Wiped wire wire.
Sweeter than peaches and pears and cream.
Wiped wire wiped wire.
Extra extreme.
Put measure treasure.
Measure treasure.
Tables track.
That will do.
Cup or cup or.
Excessively illegitimate.

They smile at each other, sip their beer, gently close their eyes from time to time. Talk in mud and dough and words that split and multiply.

Leave us sit.
I do believe it will finish, I do believe it will finish.
Pat ten patent, Pat ten patent.

The barman comes over with his arms in the air and a weary look on his face. She can't make out what he's saying, but shakes her head briefly, giving him a disarming smile. This arm hanging in the air. He smiles back, disarm disappear. Skin in intimate invitation gone on only ongoing. Vaporized logic like dew on dough, though more dune-like. So they drink the drinks washing over their tongues of clean and new vocabulary twisting on a mix of saliva and beer is finished when they squeeze through the compact, fleshy people like mass destruction of order and grids and maps of the street which they find under their feet once they're out the door.

Push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea.