St Louis, MS (2002), Moss and Soul

fig. a) the courtesy of song

fig. a) to the Westward, ho

A dozen or so artists from Chicago are invited to St Louis to participate in a group show. It's an uncommonly warm Mardi Gras weekend. The show is installed in a downtown space among the tallrises that are the somewhat derelict remains from an older century's booms and bust. Before being commandeered as a culture hub, the 4th or 5th floor of this building was an unremarkable industrial space. But by 2002 it's already imagining itself being transformed into a flattering collection of spare roomlets, each with a stainless micro-kitchen and a brisk patio for bachelor inspired hibachi maneuvers.
Once the drinking and the revelry is over and we've picked ourselves up off of the floors and pulled ourselves up from the short sofa's, when we've finally poked at our last beers, brushed our teeth and had a good-morning cigarette or two, then we'll gather up for brunch at the fluffy little crepe shack back in the gallery district. We are 4 abutted tables long, drinking our coffees black and chewing up all of the buttery eggs unless we are actually one long table and waiting for our turn to complain about the other sons of molybdenum getting the jam.

fig.a) harvest angels

After breakfast, while standing in the rain, we make our good bye noises. Some of us stop to look up before flying away like the jerks we are. Psychogeography, channeling the arbitrary nature of suggestion, of theater and the pull of it's narrative. That's the joke, right? We'll get most of it back when we're done here. There'll be a missing print and the map tacks are going to be damaged but most of it arrives inside of a dented shoebox anyways. Someone does get hurt, but someone's always getting hurt in the rapey bowling alley and the trashcan will stay lost.

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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