international arrival (wastrel and the sand)

it apostrophy is...

Statement of Intent: I'm tired of working for my gravy. I'm going to do another thing. I'm going to stop keeping notes and pictures. I'm going to open up my room instead. I'm going to hide my bed in the corner. I'm going to harness this big big power of my look. I'll be evident, I'll be the sad misanthrope last seen standing on the dusty floor below the music. The lights will be grim. They will be cold and unflinching lights, blinking at me like a gut knife in the panic.

This is not a chemistry that will be measured for accuracy. Alternately the beach, it's also a service to the function of memory's use of the plastic arts that are stored within. Experimentation and reaction can be engaged with clear eyes to boot but it's important to respect the enormity of our experience. It's only ever sometimes seen with both of these eyes through polished lens or frail mirror. It can only ever be translated very poorly by me. It can only ever be misconstrued or ignored using these rules one time because it can never be faithfully executed using the tools that are before us today.
Optical acuity is a spectacular obstacle to our overall awareness and to our healthfulness. It is not the rule, but it is the accumulation of a series of inextricable guidelines that cannot be bypassed, exchanged or altered. Representation and abstraction as form are confined by our perceptual limitations. This object is itself only a place holder. It is only ever in transition between action and inaction. As a result the following states can only ever be documented and then set aside.

These flowers will be seen.

These are those flowers.

Here are some flowers.

The flowers are naked.

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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