I AM SO HAPPY TO BE OUT HERE TODAY.
Or I was until I realized my mic isn’t really working. I got it to work with my little portable recorder. That thing is the greatest. But now I’m worried that I didn’t record Eddie at a high enough volume. What I’m recording now is just the sounds of labor. When I first got here, someone was sanding or something like that a few studios over – a regular rough analog sound, without a machine. At the same time, there were a few guys out the window shoveling sand into the fake beach. Great sounds, the sound of the shovel plunging in to the sand. I just wrote: the sound of the shovel plunging into the sound. Hmm.
Anyway, what I was going to tell was about how wonderful it is to be out here today. The air is perfect. It’s FINALLY not freezing anymore. I was grouchy and achey this morning, and I have been making myself very stressed out because it is the end of the semester and I’m preparing for a performance on Monday, and I have a kabillion applications and proposals due. And I’m all uneasy and frustrated about well, love, I guess. It’s really a pain in the ass sometimes. Love and work – too much work and not enough love.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I kept trying to write about how happy I am and it keeps turning into a complaint.
I guess there is some luxury in being able to complain, especially about heartache and noise. Anyway, I was so achey on the way down here, and felt barely awake. And then I got off the subway at south ferry and was hit with the smell of the salt water and BAM! Life is beautiful again. I know that’s very romantic, but it does it to me. There is something about the sea that is magnetic. I feel this urge and longing for it, especially when I am so overwhelmed with work and obligations. I think, wow, what would it be like to give it all up , to leave and go work somewhere on the ocean. I took a day-long vacation to the sea last summer and I really didn’t want to leave. I kept thinking: what if I just didn’t go back? I could get some job bartending and spend my days swimming and riding a bike and cooking good food, spend my nights serving drinks to some stupid sleazy guys with thick necks, and smile a lot. S was trying to tell me that he thought the poor people living in the villages he visited in Cambodia were happier than he was. I basically wanted to slap him, but I didn’t. And hey, it might be true in some cases. We do find ways to torture ourselves.
So I just videoed the shovelers for about an hour. My legs hurt from crouching down at the window. So I can’t imagine how they feel. Amazing, the amount of work that goes into making that ugly fake beach.
And now I’m feeling grouchy and stressed again. I guess time just goes too quickly for me. I feel like it’s moving out of control – everything and everyone is just slipping through my fingers. Opportunities passing, work hours passing, feelings changing too quickly to monitor them. I have to go make a list of everything I have to do. There is so much. And it’s all things that I make myself do, that’s the trick.
I was with this guy this weekend who is a public defender in Canada. He was telling me about his visits to maximum security prisons up there. He said that the inmates for whom there was hope were the ones who tried to carve out a little home, a personal space for themselves, within the jail cell. Eddie has done this with his space on Roosevelt Island. I have still to do it with my space here. It’s sort of just a dumping ground for gear and a too-small desk right now. In a way, the settling in marks a kind of hopefulness. It seems paradoxical, because what he wants most is to get off that island. It’s the ambition that kills you. But it’s the ambition that saves you. N and I talked last night about how to be more in the moment, how to accept working on and living in what is happening now. We both always have too much to do, too much that we make ourselves do. She was going home to her husband and I was going home to pay bills and fold laundry and set my alarm to get up and come out here. And she was saying how jealous she was that I could do whatever I wanted with my time. Somehow it doesn’t feel that way at all.
I was also telling her about this piece, how hard it has been to establish communications, especially as there is such bad cell service on the island. She was shocked, because she says there are so many radio waves in downtown Manhattan that she can’t stand the noise. I think: the water between here and there is another glass sea, but one of communication. It’s a sudden drop-off, a dead zone.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
April 26, 2010
OK. I know it's been a while. I've been running around all over the city meeting with people, interviewing, visiting. I went to Roosevelt Island and met with Eddie for a long time. It was so intense. I think I'm going to Riker's this week. That's just the beginning of the story.
More soon. In the meantime, thinking about this term:
THE GLASS SEA
this is the name for the area surrounding Fort Jay, which is basically the killing zone.
More soon. In the meantime, thinking about this term:
THE GLASS SEA
this is the name for the area surrounding Fort Jay, which is basically the killing zone.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
April 14, 2010
It is fucking freezing out here! That’s about all I can think of right now.
Well, the other thing is the frustration of communication. Getting in touch with the mythical Eddie, who should be the easiest to reach, has been so hard. The idea with this piece is to call people interned on other islands and ask them to describe their lives and living/working spaces to me. And to use the audio recordings from these conversations in the piece. Maybe. Well, that's the beginning part of the idea. The idea is a lot more than that, but that's what I need to do right now. So:
First: I couldn’t get an audio line out of my cell phone. Then I could, then it didn’t work, then it did. Then my computer crashed. Then it turned on again. Then I couldn’t call because cell service is so bad out there. That was last week.
Then: I got a new jack, which should work. But it seems to mute my mic and only take the sound of whoever is speaking to me, not of me speaking as well. I tried to test it out by calling K, but her phone is broken and kept disconnecting. I tried calling Y but got voicemail, and she never called back. There’s no one else I can just call and test things on. Either my calling is way too loaded, or we don’t know each other well enough. Or both. That was last weekend and Monday.
Then: I figured the safest thing is just to build a contact mic and attach it to the speaker. This works. So. Then I tried to call Eddie. Except, oh yeah, cell phone service out here is terrible. I think all those helicopters don’t help. So I called and called. Then I finally got through and the operator said she wouldn’t connect me without his birthdate or social security number. So, I called Katy to get this info, except, her phone sucks. She texted it to me, but I was already back in Manhattan. That was Monday.
Then: I tried again today. The mic works, I have the numbers. Her text gives his birthdate, his room, and then says “don’t say who u r.” So I call. And again no cell service. And again. And again. I finally think I found a sweet spot in my studio where there is a signal, and I’m still attached to the cables into my laptop. I marked a big X there with tape. Last week, I marked off a 6 ft x 9 ft area that is the size of a Riker’s Island prison cell, I believe. Or my imagination of its dimensions based on my research. The X is about 2 ft away from the imaginary cell. So I called from there and got through. I just asked for his room and this operator tried to transfer me, but said it’s busy and I should call back in 10 minutes. K said it might take a few tries because all they have is one pay phone for all these guys.
In the meantime, I’m writing this. It’s occurred to me that I should just go on over there and visit, but I am not sure if that’s the point of the piece. Maybe the experience of the frustration of isolation and jilted communication is part of it. What I think is part of it is the talking, describing, and imagining that I am hoping to create through a phone call. We’ll see where this goes. Right now, my piece is a bunch of tape marks on the floor and a series of dropped cell phone calls.
Well, the other thing is the frustration of communication. Getting in touch with the mythical Eddie, who should be the easiest to reach, has been so hard. The idea with this piece is to call people interned on other islands and ask them to describe their lives and living/working spaces to me. And to use the audio recordings from these conversations in the piece. Maybe. Well, that's the beginning part of the idea. The idea is a lot more than that, but that's what I need to do right now. So:
First: I couldn’t get an audio line out of my cell phone. Then I could, then it didn’t work, then it did. Then my computer crashed. Then it turned on again. Then I couldn’t call because cell service is so bad out there. That was last week.
Then: I got a new jack, which should work. But it seems to mute my mic and only take the sound of whoever is speaking to me, not of me speaking as well. I tried to test it out by calling K, but her phone is broken and kept disconnecting. I tried calling Y but got voicemail, and she never called back. There’s no one else I can just call and test things on. Either my calling is way too loaded, or we don’t know each other well enough. Or both. That was last weekend and Monday.
Then: I figured the safest thing is just to build a contact mic and attach it to the speaker. This works. So. Then I tried to call Eddie. Except, oh yeah, cell phone service out here is terrible. I think all those helicopters don’t help. So I called and called. Then I finally got through and the operator said she wouldn’t connect me without his birthdate or social security number. So, I called Katy to get this info, except, her phone sucks. She texted it to me, but I was already back in Manhattan. That was Monday.
Then: I tried again today. The mic works, I have the numbers. Her text gives his birthdate, his room, and then says “don’t say who u r.” So I call. And again no cell service. And again. And again. I finally think I found a sweet spot in my studio where there is a signal, and I’m still attached to the cables into my laptop. I marked a big X there with tape. Last week, I marked off a 6 ft x 9 ft area that is the size of a Riker’s Island prison cell, I believe. Or my imagination of its dimensions based on my research. The X is about 2 ft away from the imaginary cell. So I called from there and got through. I just asked for his room and this operator tried to transfer me, but said it’s busy and I should call back in 10 minutes. K said it might take a few tries because all they have is one pay phone for all these guys.
In the meantime, I’m writing this. It’s occurred to me that I should just go on over there and visit, but I am not sure if that’s the point of the piece. Maybe the experience of the frustration of isolation and jilted communication is part of it. What I think is part of it is the talking, describing, and imagining that I am hoping to create through a phone call. We’ll see where this goes. Right now, my piece is a bunch of tape marks on the floor and a series of dropped cell phone calls.
Monday, April 12, 2010
April 12, 2010
Today is better. I stopped writing for a little bit because that last post just seemed way too over-the-top. It reminded me of why I stopped writing altogether, when I was in college and “studying” creative writing. It was too self-indulgent – or too revealing – or too subjective. It’s funny what can happen if you have no audience, and what can happen if you’re not sure you have audience.
I want to make this quick because I really want to call Eddie today. It’s been a comedy of errors getting things working so that I can record a phone conversation on my cell phone. Seems like it shouldn’t be that hard, but it is … I think I’m just going to solder up a contact mic and use that – I’ve heard that works. We’ll see. I’m ready, though. I really want to start talking. I think I’m learning a little from S and other journalists I have known – there’s a sense of entitlement or “end justifies the means” or just plain boldness that allows them to pursue an interview. I don’t have it, but I’m trying to fake it a little.
I loved the ride out here today. I almost always do. And I’m noticing how many of the wonderful things in my life right now involve crossing bodies of water, or just water in general. I regularly run from my house, across the hood, and across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey, and back. I love this run – I did it last night and it was sooo dark. There’s something so freeing about crossing the river and then returning. It gives perspective, makes me love New York from the outside again, and also lets me feel like I can escape. It makes me realize how close a different world is. It also keeps me running, because I can’t really just wimp out and stop in the middle of the bridge or in another state. Also, baths. I love taking baths.
And then I was watching the water through a hole in the boards along the dock as we were docking. It moves though and around – the fences and boards don’t really contain it at all. It reminded me of the way sound moves – though and around walls – and about my thoughts about how the medium, in that respect, is sort of naturally in the public realm. Water, similarly, is impossible to own.
I’m still obsessed with this Foucault. He is talking now about hysteria and hypochondria. In the 18th century, he says, hysteria was attributed to having an overly fluid body, a body in which the parts could move around, that was not “solid” enough. Eventually this was transmuted into the idea that the body was overly sympathetic, that the vibrations of the nervous system created sympathetic vibrations throughout the body, causing the person (woman) to feel things more extremely:
“Simon-Andre Tissot conceived this double function of one and the same fiber as the combination of an undulatory movement for voluntary stimulus (“this is the movement of a fluid enclosed in a malleable container, in a bladder, for example, that when I press it would eject liquid through a tube”) and a corpuscular movement for sensation (“this is the movement of a succession of ivory balls”). Thus sensation and movement can be produced at the same time in the same nerve: any tension and any relation in the fiber will alter both movements and sensations, as we can observe in all nervous diseases.”
S and I were walking in Riverside Park on that path along the Hudson River yesterday morning and there was a big huddling of police cars along the riverbank. They had found a dead body floating downstream. The ME was slow to come. That night, the body still hadn’t been identified. S says a body in the water usually means a suicide or a mob hit. The water carries, removes, displaces, decontexualizes, and washes away a lot of information.
I want to make this quick because I really want to call Eddie today. It’s been a comedy of errors getting things working so that I can record a phone conversation on my cell phone. Seems like it shouldn’t be that hard, but it is … I think I’m just going to solder up a contact mic and use that – I’ve heard that works. We’ll see. I’m ready, though. I really want to start talking. I think I’m learning a little from S and other journalists I have known – there’s a sense of entitlement or “end justifies the means” or just plain boldness that allows them to pursue an interview. I don’t have it, but I’m trying to fake it a little.
I loved the ride out here today. I almost always do. And I’m noticing how many of the wonderful things in my life right now involve crossing bodies of water, or just water in general. I regularly run from my house, across the hood, and across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey, and back. I love this run – I did it last night and it was sooo dark. There’s something so freeing about crossing the river and then returning. It gives perspective, makes me love New York from the outside again, and also lets me feel like I can escape. It makes me realize how close a different world is. It also keeps me running, because I can’t really just wimp out and stop in the middle of the bridge or in another state. Also, baths. I love taking baths.
And then I was watching the water through a hole in the boards along the dock as we were docking. It moves though and around – the fences and boards don’t really contain it at all. It reminded me of the way sound moves – though and around walls – and about my thoughts about how the medium, in that respect, is sort of naturally in the public realm. Water, similarly, is impossible to own.
I’m still obsessed with this Foucault. He is talking now about hysteria and hypochondria. In the 18th century, he says, hysteria was attributed to having an overly fluid body, a body in which the parts could move around, that was not “solid” enough. Eventually this was transmuted into the idea that the body was overly sympathetic, that the vibrations of the nervous system created sympathetic vibrations throughout the body, causing the person (woman) to feel things more extremely:
“Simon-Andre Tissot conceived this double function of one and the same fiber as the combination of an undulatory movement for voluntary stimulus (“this is the movement of a fluid enclosed in a malleable container, in a bladder, for example, that when I press it would eject liquid through a tube”) and a corpuscular movement for sensation (“this is the movement of a succession of ivory balls”). Thus sensation and movement can be produced at the same time in the same nerve: any tension and any relation in the fiber will alter both movements and sensations, as we can observe in all nervous diseases.”
S and I were walking in Riverside Park on that path along the Hudson River yesterday morning and there was a big huddling of police cars along the riverbank. They had found a dead body floating downstream. The ME was slow to come. That night, the body still hadn’t been identified. S says a body in the water usually means a suicide or a mob hit. The water carries, removes, displaces, decontexualizes, and washes away a lot of information.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
April 7, 2010
It’s another beautiful day. And I am thinking about how A. likes it when I write. Or at least, he seems to approve. I am so lonely right now, feel so cast aside myself, that I think I am seeking the feeling of collaboration or partnership anywhere. I just want someone to be monitoring me. Someone other than me. Someone to know what’s going on, and to care. Sometimes it seems like all my efforts are so small, especially because I am very alone in them. It’s enough to deflate you a little. I guess that’s why we need all these institutional structures of approval. But those are so empty without real connections, real investment. It’s a strange thing, to feel like I need to keep myself alone, protected, solo, in order to think clearly, to see the trajectory of the authorship of my work and my life, and yet to know that maybe it doesn’t mean anything to anyone.
I screamed this morning, in frustration, the loudest scream I have ever screamed. It was totally uninhibited, I just let it out. It hurt my throat. But what an amazing feeling – it just vibrates your whole body and you know when it’s done and it has all come out of you. I think that was the best part of it – just to know it was all fully out of me and finished – one long complete thorough scream that used all my air.
So now I’m out here, and I feel kinda tired. I don’t think I’m sleeping enough, or properly. There’s no one to put me to bed, and there’s always so much work to do. I’m aware of this tendency of mine and I know I have to combat it, be very ritualistic about letting go and shutting down.
There is one little spot outside my window that always makes waves. There must be something under the water there causing a rift. I can actually hear the waves sometimes, over the buzzing of the fans in the studio. I think I want to video it, and take some audio. Maybe I’ll do that next.
I have to call Eddie on Roosevelt Island. I’ve been putting it off. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I think will go wrong. I’m just scared, or shy. Or lazy. I’m afraid to bring another person into this.
I screamed this morning, in frustration, the loudest scream I have ever screamed. It was totally uninhibited, I just let it out. It hurt my throat. But what an amazing feeling – it just vibrates your whole body and you know when it’s done and it has all come out of you. I think that was the best part of it – just to know it was all fully out of me and finished – one long complete thorough scream that used all my air.
So now I’m out here, and I feel kinda tired. I don’t think I’m sleeping enough, or properly. There’s no one to put me to bed, and there’s always so much work to do. I’m aware of this tendency of mine and I know I have to combat it, be very ritualistic about letting go and shutting down.
There is one little spot outside my window that always makes waves. There must be something under the water there causing a rift. I can actually hear the waves sometimes, over the buzzing of the fans in the studio. I think I want to video it, and take some audio. Maybe I’ll do that next.
I have to call Eddie on Roosevelt Island. I’ve been putting it off. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I think will go wrong. I’m just scared, or shy. Or lazy. I’m afraid to bring another person into this.
Friday, April 2, 2010
April 2, 2010
It's absurdly beautiful today. It's one of those first spring days when everything is beautiful, everything is perfect, it's just a miracle, and people are wearing shorts prematurely. Everything is very, very clear and crisp. No clouds. I'm romantic about the twinkling caused by the sunlight reflecting off the cars driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. You see what I mean? Ridiculous.
I've decided that I'm not really having an experience of confinement out here at all. It's more like an island retreat. So, I'm very lucky. I think the closest experience I've had to feeling trapped is the subway. The FUCKING subway. I took the 1 down today and it was one of those rides when they stop it for about five minutes before every other station. We spent more time "being held by supervision" than actually getting places. What does that mean:
WE ARE BEING HELD BY SUPER VISION
?
I think I'm going to get all metaphorical on your ass now. We are held by our visions, we are held prisoner by the extent of our visions, we are confined by both the limits of our vision and our ambition to have a greater vision.
Yup. Metaphor. Either that or I am spending way too much time on the subway.
Speaking of vision, there's a little sailboat going by my window. It's quaint. It looks like the kind of thing you'd put in a bathtub, except person-sized. But compared to the ferries and water taxis and helicopters and downtown Manhattan, it looks like a toy.
I'm thinking about scale a lot today, and motion. One of my students took me to see an installation he had just made yesterday. It sort of blew my mind. And it was about those things: scale, models, the earth, man-made creations, projections, vision and perspective, silence and slow time. He is a rock climber and we talked about plate tectonics, instability, and the fact that we're just very very slowly floating around on hot liquid all the time.
By the way, what happens when you drill into the mantle? I know nothing about this stuff, but it seems like all these punctures can't be good. He's also a ceramicist. And now I'm thinking about that Keats poem (Ode to a Grecian Urn) and looking at this crazy man-made sandy beach outside my window and making associations. Earth, clay, crust, heat, cracking, subterranean motion, water, the frozen moment.
There is a Lawrence Weiner piece painted on the wood of the Governors Island Ferry dock in Manhattan. It reads: AT THE SAME MOMENT.
I've decided that I'm not really having an experience of confinement out here at all. It's more like an island retreat. So, I'm very lucky. I think the closest experience I've had to feeling trapped is the subway. The FUCKING subway. I took the 1 down today and it was one of those rides when they stop it for about five minutes before every other station. We spent more time "being held by supervision" than actually getting places. What does that mean:
WE ARE BEING HELD BY SUPER VISION
?
I think I'm going to get all metaphorical on your ass now. We are held by our visions, we are held prisoner by the extent of our visions, we are confined by both the limits of our vision and our ambition to have a greater vision.
Yup. Metaphor. Either that or I am spending way too much time on the subway.
Speaking of vision, there's a little sailboat going by my window. It's quaint. It looks like the kind of thing you'd put in a bathtub, except person-sized. But compared to the ferries and water taxis and helicopters and downtown Manhattan, it looks like a toy.
I'm thinking about scale a lot today, and motion. One of my students took me to see an installation he had just made yesterday. It sort of blew my mind. And it was about those things: scale, models, the earth, man-made creations, projections, vision and perspective, silence and slow time. He is a rock climber and we talked about plate tectonics, instability, and the fact that we're just very very slowly floating around on hot liquid all the time.
By the way, what happens when you drill into the mantle? I know nothing about this stuff, but it seems like all these punctures can't be good. He's also a ceramicist. And now I'm thinking about that Keats poem (Ode to a Grecian Urn) and looking at this crazy man-made sandy beach outside my window and making associations. Earth, clay, crust, heat, cracking, subterranean motion, water, the frozen moment.
There is a Lawrence Weiner piece painted on the wood of the Governors Island Ferry dock in Manhattan. It reads: AT THE SAME MOMENT.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
March 31, 2010
I don’t want to go back! It’s definitely true that it doesn’t take long to take your stresses with you. They came with me today. And it’s taken 2 hrs to get them out. It takes that long to let go and start to be free enough to work and dream. This whole idea of blogging makes you so exposed. I’m not sure about it. But I come here with my list of things to do, schedule, timeline, thoughts to make public. After a day I have already institutionalized myself.
It’s very cold in here today. It’s cold outside, too, relatively speaking. And very, very grey. But at least the rain has finally stopped. I got very warm just before I came out here – I was getting a cup of coffee and digging through my bag looking for my id. I just wrote idea instead of id. I think that’s pretty Freudian, no? Anyway, by the time I got to the boat, I was so hot, so I took off my coat and sweater and stood on the deck shooting video in my tank top for most of the ride. It’s good to feel the wind, but there was something frantic about the whole experience. My camera’s battery died just before we docked, so I didn’t get to shoot the whole trip.
I feel like I am always trying to insert too much into a space too small, including things to do in slots of time, tasks to complete with limited power. It’s quintessentially New York. I remember a quote about the city – something about watching someone parallel park an 8 ft long truck in a 7 ft long parking space. So much resourcefullness and creativity come from the pressure and tightness, but I’m not so sure about it sometimes. Necessity is the mother of invention, but where is the room for inquiry and mistakes? My space out here on the island is raw and institutional and empty right now – I haven’t brought out anything very large. It looks like I’m not working, but I am. I think. Or maybe I’m thinking. It’s really a perfect set-up – being given the space to think, three walls but not four, specific times when we can and cannot be here. I’m starting to think the situation of this residency is more important that the space itself. I wouldn’t mind a little heating though.
I’m reading Madness and Civilization. Foucault says:
"Montchau, who cured a maniac by 'pouring ice water upon him, from as high above as possible,' was not astonished by so favorable a result; to explain it he united all the themes of organic calefaction that had succeeded and intersected each other since the seventeenth century: 'One need not be surprised that ice water produces such a prompt and perfect cure precisely when boiling blood, furious bile, and mutinous liquors carried disturbance and irritation everywhere'; by the impression of coldness, 'the vessels contracted more violently and freed themselves of the liquors that crammed them; the irritation of the solid parts caused by the extreme heat of the liquors the contained ceased, and when the nerves relaxed, the course of spirits that had proceeded irregularly from one side to the other was re-established in its natural state.'
The world of melancholia was humid, heavy, and cold; that of mania was parched, dry, compounded of violence and fragility."
It’s very cold in here today. It’s cold outside, too, relatively speaking. And very, very grey. But at least the rain has finally stopped. I got very warm just before I came out here – I was getting a cup of coffee and digging through my bag looking for my id. I just wrote idea instead of id. I think that’s pretty Freudian, no? Anyway, by the time I got to the boat, I was so hot, so I took off my coat and sweater and stood on the deck shooting video in my tank top for most of the ride. It’s good to feel the wind, but there was something frantic about the whole experience. My camera’s battery died just before we docked, so I didn’t get to shoot the whole trip.
I feel like I am always trying to insert too much into a space too small, including things to do in slots of time, tasks to complete with limited power. It’s quintessentially New York. I remember a quote about the city – something about watching someone parallel park an 8 ft long truck in a 7 ft long parking space. So much resourcefullness and creativity come from the pressure and tightness, but I’m not so sure about it sometimes. Necessity is the mother of invention, but where is the room for inquiry and mistakes? My space out here on the island is raw and institutional and empty right now – I haven’t brought out anything very large. It looks like I’m not working, but I am. I think. Or maybe I’m thinking. It’s really a perfect set-up – being given the space to think, three walls but not four, specific times when we can and cannot be here. I’m starting to think the situation of this residency is more important that the space itself. I wouldn’t mind a little heating though.
I’m reading Madness and Civilization. Foucault says:
"Montchau, who cured a maniac by 'pouring ice water upon him, from as high above as possible,' was not astonished by so favorable a result; to explain it he united all the themes of organic calefaction that had succeeded and intersected each other since the seventeenth century: 'One need not be surprised that ice water produces such a prompt and perfect cure precisely when boiling blood, furious bile, and mutinous liquors carried disturbance and irritation everywhere'; by the impression of coldness, 'the vessels contracted more violently and freed themselves of the liquors that crammed them; the irritation of the solid parts caused by the extreme heat of the liquors the contained ceased, and when the nerves relaxed, the course of spirits that had proceeded irregularly from one side to the other was re-established in its natural state.'
The world of melancholia was humid, heavy, and cold; that of mania was parched, dry, compounded of violence and fragility."
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