This curtain, a poorly lit lamp and some coins have to do when the map is lost again. Just like people, the old drums and the broken homes make a softer music if they can't speak cheaply. Just like you, I've been spent on worthless teeth and thin soup. - Three Sentences
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Sous les pavés, la plage - MDW ART FAG CITY
I Totally Appropriated This From A Lori Waxman Article Thank You...
I'm really disturbed that so much maliciousness and misunderstanding is radiating from the MDW event this weekend. I see some stalwarts of our august community striking enigmatic and judgii poses while hoping to see fireworks and fiddle playing. This event, fair, or un-fair did what it has done in prior years when it didn't face eviction or hurricane related issues. It brought together a community to gaze at some belly buttons and drink some beer and talk productively with one another. I think that MDW's critics miss or have missed the essential nature of what this community is and how it comports itself in the face of an art world that refuses to catch up with us. Despite inventing the gangster and the skyscraper we are here because so many before us were here too. As Chicagoans we understand and embrace this rich history. Our presence in this city is our gift to each other. As well as the chance opportunities afforded by any reminder that a beach is under the Magnificent Mile.* Also**
*Ed, Ed, Ed, really? **Michael Workman and Pedro Velez sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Let's turn in early, in the corner where our bed is made, there are Pickles and there is pie and maybe soon there'll be some more, Write it down and say it loud, O fishing fable eating names, breathing then and breathing more, Let's trumpet trumpet, Let's blow on it, Then bury me under the door, Then bury me a house for my money and sing me a song when it's gone, Then sing it once again, This time sing it for Mary and then sing it again for the world, Our bed's in the water and barely turning, Burning like flames in the basement, Burning like eggs full of ape shit- This Long Old Song
We all call out to Sister Susan, to Henry and the troll of trolls, Abe "the sparkle king." We call out to them lounging on their rock, beside the spring, "This is not yet a question of radical memberships or normalized narratives. These are not like your flowers at all. We have to renegotiate the roles of these entities much more better then they have been. They won…
After the fire, the stinging ember of its broken flame, the old house sits and it creaks a lot like a little bit of joy. It's the day after the water has melted apart, when there are sandcastles everywhere but not near enough to the sea. It's the day when I remember the night that everything nearly opened up. The night that I sat up in bed, both of my eyes were filled to their depth with an impossible panic. I couldn't feel the sheets anymore and I couldn't think of Elizabeth's name either. Instead I heard the deep and heavy trucks. The crackle of bull horns that slam into the indecent walls of brick and lumber like they're whiskey finding itself a good wife. I look off into space. Between us, I know my hand is sitting there. I look at the glowing door and I scream like I'm a hot little girl that's burning up from too much heat.
"It's all, touch me. It's touch me if you can because I'm being silent now," she says to me. I can see …
Oh Alice, sweet Alice, down the well and in the low field across from the helper-bees. We'll face our frontier with a buzz. We'll cast our piddling stones in the wind and wait. Dream, Dream, Dream, "Cordial and regrettable things, stand solid, unflappable and gummed inside this wonky tide of glue." She's ankle deep in tired feet herself. Climbing from her hole, she's laid her potty mouth in the river by the road.
"Please, the victims aren't even gone yet, Gert! They hover around our ears. Sometimes they'll leave to go away but for now, they've stopped to listen to us groan. They're watching us when we slide under the nest of clouds and the silver weight that they bear. They're quiet below the simple round moon and they're quiet for us now too."
"Those are craven and nasty things. They're easily locked inside of my box or chucked under the bed. What, why me worry at all, is all that I have to say that."