Schema, no mas grande marioneta

Despite the mess the paintings are beautiful and they're very old. They're well hung and make good use of the sturdy light from the hallway. From here in the doorway I can take them all in at once but I want to linger on each of them. I want to dote and be amazed so I move closer. It takes some time to examine even just the smaller pieces and I still feel that I'm missing something among them. An asymptomatic generational pattern of complex symmetry can appear if the tools being employed are either distinct or large enough. In this group I should be seeing regionalism and the state. The Son's of Noah with their puritanical racism and all of their hogs killing a snake. I should be seeing all of this but I'm not.

You said we'd know. We'd know darling and we'd know well. You said we'd know now. That's how you put it John, We're standing in line behind a charging wave of incense and self flagellation that's behind a herd of dots and homemade tight pants that's even further behind a tightrope walker and the tea cup guy. So we decided to get wasted and take turns hanging our wet clothes over the back of the sofa-couch. Then we'd talk about the Monstre' the Auxiliary and that guy from the hopper with the clicker-buttons. It's all a gas until the physics of it kicks in. After some sharing we realize that we're in a toxic maze of concrete and steel designed to look like this simple box like thing. Cultural advancement, at least as a provision of personal gain is built right into it. It's part of the box's function. It amplifies the false positives that keep us on task and moving around inside here. The Monstre's like this friction and the friction's joule like heat and disturbing imbalance.
They pour the poor Fellows into these cubes that only reflect the nature of them what casts 'em out, Laslow adds.
So it is, Priscilla says handily. They'll need to remove us far enough away to watch the creation of their broken institutional apparatus. It's not for us, so we need to get out of here alive. We can't lay around here talking about the bad stuff anymore.
I know I know, I interject. My wet shirt is steaming at the end nearest the radiator. The large open windows in the project's galley rattle when another gust of wind blows through the old building. Our work table is covered in broken blades cold pry bars and a variety of assorted hasps handles triggers and buttons all painted red. Pree has her feet slung up on it's edge while she leans back and cradles a cup of hot chikory coffee.
Bud+LU are a danger to themselves and every other damn cat that's near enough a sack and some water, Laslow's looking for his roll ups in the back behind the old stack of doors. This isn't the way out kids, he shouts across the room. It's got to be made up while we get on with it. You're both looking for the dot-dot-dot in the ALL CAPS. I can see it and I hate to dash your hopes but we're sinking here and their ain't no time to be waiting on no thumb grasses or cherry flavored button holes or the like.

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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