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Archive for November, 2011

i woke up feeling very peculiar today. after sleeping off the beginnings of a debilitating hangover and the horrible, stale smells coming from my tangled mess of hair, i remembered why i was still in the warm haven of my bed. a national holiday, today. semantically significant but false and largely based on decorations and frivolous parading. hey! hey, look what we did! never mind what’s happening now, or the fact that any slight semblance of autonomy disappeared long, long ago into the bowels of the next big bully who took over. by god, we can march like no one’s business.

i’ve been parading too, internally. to keep me on one end of the teetering ledge between complete hysteria and partial hysteria. i can’t forgo their company, their rage and forgiveness, their ugly logic and practical aid. i used to be independent, i still pretend to, but i don’t think i am. my thoughts are completely out of control but in control of me. theories/memories/plans/decisions/images/conversations, raging, making love to each other in my head then disagreeing and trying to claw their way out of the inside of my skull. i’ve gone loopy.

but i feel you, lebanon. at least we put on a damn good show.

installation: wooden drawer, wallpaper, split peas, needles, silk/lace, LED lights

We are deprived of function

And inherently functionalist.

We exist without being seen

We do not exist.

We have existed, prior:

in flippant silks that have come to mock us

preparing taught fleshes to watch them grow brittle and hollow

fixing and making with tools that impale

painting dainty patterns that make us unwell

Now we retire in obsolete peace

Retaining selflessness of past obligations.

Retaining those who, while self sufficient now,

Once needed us:

desiring our silks

eating our fresh fleshes

praising our dexterity with tools

admiring our dainty patterns

That is our eventuality, and this is a vaccine.

ImageImageImageImageImageImage

first strikes magic, and then tragedy

the lamp and the nightmare, the rocks, the bamboo gates around our small box, up in the sky, alone and assured and never expecting the fissure. we played and sweat and swam and it was ours. who can claim it now? surely not me. i wouldn’t want it, what with the cues and smells, the bridge and the stairs, the mosquito net draped over our healthy nest like a royal canopy.

i’ll yield it to whomever. i’ll never go back again.

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