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| fig.28) able of blood |
"It's been a lark of fun. Now that I have the whole of your frowns and they're all officially upside down, Says Mister Dish. Let's shake shake shake," and then the camera spins out on its gimbal with a pivot and a whir.
"When the artists clean their webs, when they stretch them and then coat them with the milk that's been emulsed with the oil from pressed cotton seed for strength he's still right here soaking his nuts in the same water from his brushes. It extracts the oils that help transfer those colors more evenly," this is what Dish says.
"I have in several ways also attempted to emulse the lard and spear of many other orders of grease and sweat and have only succeeded so long as they remain in a state of fluidity. So you'll see, the roots of the system aren't all bad but let's not die on their myths eithe. Maria "Goddam" Constantinople," He says twice to all of the happy boys and girls that are gathered. Once they're drawn into this more deeper and sympathetic radius they really began to rally and cluck. The small group is mostly arranged on the three sofas. A few of the younger corporals are in their shirt sleeves. Some of them have found some desk chairs. They wheeled these up to form a loose shorthand for circle. A rustic tune, I Would Be a Boy washes over the walls and it spills into the corners. A telling course of engaged activity starts as everyone faces the neat pillar and the first picture appears.
Effused wet smak of my day Unbridled enthusiasm Naps and worry in the strata Thank you space Its cupola is folded It's genderless spire tucked beneath the arm that will not keep it dry Earnest as a flint Thank you for yesterday Thanks for the time that's now gone spent spent spend This place This crime of soft hands Warm as a victim's teeth safe among houses Dry as the ablest of Aces and Vagrants This wanna-be Lamb's basket Tender these wretched poor Their dimes and their hats too hand Welcome here to hang this wall where the wagon aught go Welcome morning sun Wet smak of my day
"There's a restlessness in the gallery that's easily hidden beneath the quiet of the morning. It's the sort of quiet that's like a long suffering pill of calamity. Somehow it's made it's way up to the heart of the whole experience of the sofa and it's gonna stay there. You'll know it soon," Donnie looks around. There are zippered suits hanging from lines of taut cord. Each one's a vector that's crossing over another vector and in turn each of those are being crossed over again and again in turn over turn. Here in the center of them is this calming calm of space. Here's where Donnie's playing cards are. They're strung up from the ceiling. They hang around him like a gaseous puke of floating glitter (big dumb glatter please). In the late night they were washed with a deluge from an upstairs pipe that burst.
"They're still wet," he says. "They were my mom's," He turns around and sits on a hard wooden box left by the preparators.
"I like it here anyways, don't you," Serena cranes her neck to avoid a damp Jack.
"I suppose," Donnie's not a mule of the flesh. Some might say that he acts slowly and without warning. "But you could say it's a full house today," He answers.
"I think there's a restless Italian feel to the gallery. It's wet and shiny now. It reminds me of seventies disco. But it's all tied up here. What do you think Donnie?"
"That's not really the idea. There's this angel baby in this old sad song I know. It's gone and white. A little like blind paintings for deaf people," He plucks a card that's twisting by his ear. The paper's old and it's pliable from being wet. "I wanted all of these to look bright like the stars. Mom collected them from diners and filling stations that she passed through. I think these were from Idaho or Louisana."
"I can take your picture now?"
"Nah, let's go."
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