INSTEAD (at Dogmatic, ca.2006)

Here's a sketch for a group project, our last project which led straight into the nostalgia for another dead space scene. So much withering and morbid confusion in that time. Like panicked flesh, old skin should simply go (where, among the breakers there's a sudden cutaway and Dogmatic dies before seeing the world refreshed). Written with a slightly short hand, the words here confess an acuity for being dimly abrupt or all to easily drunk before noon on the weekend. Without surprise they go one after the other across the lined page of their splotched exam book. Maybe they regret what has happened, what they didn't do better, but they're only simple words. They didn't invent the automobile accident or the tragedy of knowing better.

Nothing more needs to be said about walking away. The last program at Dogmatic will be a walk through audio trip. There'll be no work, no objects. Instead the show will be descriptions of the works that the artists did for the space through out it's tenure. It should be named the Last group show, A Show of Sound curated by (John) Wanzel. The floor and walls will marked in grids, just like (a) hanger where disaster is being reassembled and black boxes reveal whatever truth might be found in disaster.

Instead of, Instead I've got this drunken sprawl of self loathing... What was that, fantasies never fart? Oh well.

Comments

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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