Said Kitty, remit to midst amok, amok

This text was written as a response from another machine to the machine that is reading the text written to be read by a machine over and over and over again...

Dearest Bunny, Art histories Dogma unsettling. It recalls a puritanical veneration of the letter of the law at the expense of its spirit. Its this spirit that Canadian Thanksgiving is pursuing in it's show and you've missed it entirely. I know this because, they would be the first to agree with your statement about the Warholian revisionism and its subsequent codification of our Art making apparatus. All you have to do is look at the show to see this. look at Ross Ho and Bobby's work to see that both artifice and plasticity are the true faces that life wears with complete aplomb. To say nothing of Stillwell and do-goods observations on the duplicity of common culture. While all you see are a set of unmet tenets. That by their letter are ill suited to the change implicit in our current day to day lifes and therefore unattainable. Thats just so old school Bunny! shoes now. Art as a matter of necessity in the post-modern era is as obvious as fashion. Which as Cocteau said, "we must forgive... because it dies so young." Since Dooshamp, Art wears an increasingly banal face right? but it took the deconstructive stance of Neo-Realism and its subsequent codification of the banal to reach the masses once again in a form that could replace in secular terms, all that was displaced when Nietzchae proclaimed God dead, forgive me. I aknowledge it has been an irregular transition and art still maintains certain formal aspects of the former aesthetic orthodoxy. These precise points however are aknowledged by Canadian Thanksgiving in true anti-aesthetic spirit by declaring that reality and all of its inherently lyrical ironies, including art need a Jenny Jones style Make-over. A silly name, a hockey puck and some "turkeys" are certainly art in the right hands. In Canadian Thanksgiving's hands art is armament against the entrenched aesthetic Loyalists such as yourself. While you were busy searching for substantiation of their "silly name" in the clutter of non-existant Icons and symbols. Canadian Thanksgiving has taken the pure stuff of life and infused it with the poetry of its own existance. Kisses, Teegra

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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