Let US/ We can funk you up

fig 98.) We'll get there still

O' no I'm not alone nor lost at all My head's not stuffed nor filled from density My eye's aren't split to open No their seams are whole and dry I like to sing Let's sing again Around around the circle From now to when let's sing again Around around and then - Right around to Wrong, Miles Sharplie

"Ham," She gives him a rolling push before turning and walking away. It's brave enough to know just enough of what we do. Now there's also the additional effort necessary to produce any program or event at all. Then it all needs to be determined, to be considered before it is too. Rather than a worthwhile exhibition these things, any valuable or historical paradigm remains irrelevant until any and all things that substantiate them can be assessed. Then there's the curious removal of symmetry from any of our specific inquiries. "It's all becoming brief as any witness will say," I tell her over my shoulder from here inside the dark bathroom of my soul.
"So I'm pretty certain we still have a dozen eggs in the fridge," She answers me from the stairs. She's pulling her cotton shirt up over her head and pauses on the rug. "They'll be fine for breakfast. But boiled eggs the next few days, too much maybe? We'll probably want bread later on too." She hangs her arm out like a relaxed tree broken in a dancing yard, green and breezy from my mirror. "I have 5 meals this week. That might be too small, but let's have a look together?"
"Breakfast mustn't cry." Kiss kiss...
"It's why we still have theories, you know."
"You and I," I wink and cut my cheek. "Gah, tender! Moving Ahead, was probably excellent. It's too bad we didn't stay."
"I was with you the whole way. I mean sure we could have but why would we, Right?"
"Time travel with bee's and lot's and lot's of snow globes. Wait, wait, waiting," I apply some toilet tissue to my cheek. The pink and white blotch is like a dot with a slippery red tail letting down towards my collar bone. I watch as the mellow thing of it stretches into a comic vector for a slippery red stick ball, pong style. "Time travel is curious. I like the potential of exploring our one sided relationship with time."
"Events," She yells up from the landing. I daub the spreading knob of blood with a warm face cloth. The porcelain sink doesn't care, not really.
"I could bleed out."
She yells, "Events with gore, maybe some boar tusks hanging from monofilament." I laugh at her joke. When we met there were boar tusks. We were waiting, at least she said she was and I agreed. "It's what I do," She handed me her drink and walked off. The windows were open and the walls were done.
Finally after being closed for years the project was done. The walls were originally a concoction of slow plaster and narrow lathe slapped down across charred studs. All of this was replaced with quick walls of gypsum laid over fresh new metal supports. Every sixteen inches or so the wall bowed slightly to remind us of what was behind it.
The new walls are covered in posters thousands of them have been stapled up, or glued and then taped to it's fresh surface. Then painstakingly they were ripped down and rehung all over again. The pieces got smaller and more mottled the whole image of it got more dense and even more aware of itself as each new facet was revealed, layer after layer.
When she came back for her drink she asked if I'd been busy?
I told her, "No." She seemed satisfied with that.
"Time travel's like that."

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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