This is the second in a series of three “stories” I made using the William Burroughs Cut-Up technique to combine a passage from my book Eating Việt Nam — Dispatches from a Blue Plastic Table with a passage from The Quiet American by Graham Greene. This is the only “story” of the three that I assembled at random without even looking at the text.
It was a tarp for the birds, but this was the garage and the idea entered that it was actually a door. The usual Chinese commercial gobbler brokered a dish of bun ca fish.
The graphic abstractions were on the desk. They brought fruits. From there, I came down and went through the locked door. The keys seller was on the edge, in front of the tree, as I opened the door. Birds sang from behind, but no one, or maybe everyone, unsharpened their pencils with a bottle of gum.
Nguyen wrote postcards, the teapot and three cups in the daytime. I went back into unwritten picture gaps, in their cages, back there was the mighty noodle soup. At numbers, for some reason, the birds socialised with a small office at the Eiffel Tower.
York Harding was in between, pecking at a calendar, littered, he hung them on the Third Force. Two adding machines sang to each other. There were a lot of desk price lists and local men bringing out their thrushes and some paper-clips.
There were seven or more cages in all that morning. The Hanoians sipped tea behind their bars. There were one or two Bulbuls opposite and lemons jammed into the back wall. It was a house called Trieu. Other birds, from among the pencils, looked through the bars for seeds and quarters.
Photo by me