Creation (Nth tool of the tree)

fig.75.19) We accept and conserve because its energy will become our energy as our energy becomes inert.

"What about the egg and the milk?"

"No, you don't want it to curdle before you get some ground around it," I told her. "Don't forget the flour."

The garden was already busy this morning. The wet shock of the storm had made the stone path slippery and the leafs and the vines tossed hunterly greens around us and up into the canopy above. We were witnesses the menace as it unfolded around us with every step. That's when it dawned on me, I scooped up some mud and gravel with my two hands. The fibery moss that was mixed in with it felt delicate and honest. I compressed the wad of Earth into a tight little ball. I envied the extent to which the narwhals and hummingbirds shared this world. To my lump I added some shiny feathers fashioned from the petals of a sad cornflower. Then to finish, all it needed was a good snout. I found a bit of straw, the remains of some child's fanciful snack. I set it in place, now my contrivance looked perfect. How this ghastly wad has utterly changed now into this tiny flying narwal is miraculous.

Kat looked at me with her sharp eyes and absently pulled another fruit from the tree. "This isn't going to be how we talk about the fish every night right?"

"I think it's sex. We shouldn't call it fish anymore. Let's call it sex instead."

Comments

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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