Stanley, It's a dark and stormy night, Umper-Kunst

Judith Halberstam did say, "Desire Has A Terrifying Precision."

The water's getting there. The truck is keeping it's lights trained on the embankment. A rusted TV aerial is twisted up in the scrub at the base of this dead tree. I keep pulling on the antenna but nothing keeps happening again. Stanley comes over and wipes at his brow in a methodical way that suggests that the action isn't entirely fruitless.
Honest urchin, Stanley raises up his hand. Tom I'll swear it out on a stack of Al's holy's. They're clocks, just like fucking clocks.
I grab my shovel and look the foul tangle over again.
What’s to keep these institutions from forming bigger more aggregated versions of themselves... They're sure as shit gonna buy into each others collections. It won’t be partnering then but it'll be something like it. More like they'll be lashing them collections together until they form one massively cohesive jobber of a snowball. Them umper-kunsts will redistribute all that history however they see fit then. They’ll toss gobs and gobs of civics and beauty at us pigeons down here. They’ll make up more and more children to tell all their stories too. Once you get 'em wound up, He says finally. There ain't no stopping them. Not until the history just runs right out. The pile of sand was washing out again and the coarse bags kept floating off.
I don't know Stan. If this goes the whole fucking ditch is washing out.
It's your say Tom.
How much juice is left in that Truck...
Maybe an hour.

He's the king of the kings of all of the things... That his father has laid before ya... He's set his table with dishes radishes and porridge... I'm working at Planet Jesus... I'm eating fried cheeses... I'm washing some dishes and wishing I was kissing... All of the girls I'm missing...

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The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

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