I once wrote about female striped spiders with twelve legs. These multi-legged creatures can usually be found in the Americas, under down-filled pillows on beds. They are very attracted to the soft feathers of ducks and geese. When crushed by the weight of a person’s head on the pillow, they make a queer jigging movement, and emit a solemn tone.
He recounts the story of a female polar bear who was watching ancient dire wolves with intense concentration. “The bear rolled three times and clapped it’s paws, starting to feel happiness for the wolves she was studying. The bear dreamed she looked down and instead of seeing her paws, she saw feet treading the earth. Then the bear spoke,”Let me see, six wolves, three cicadas, and the solitude of snow below!”
I walked through my past and bought some apples without any difficulty. There was a blaze of light. Perhaps enough to be born again. I went around telling other people the past is true, it exists. Until one day I found clouds pouring down my forehead, and was absolutely speechless with happiness.
Ultimately art with a post-aesthetic aesthetic will not satisfy expectations. This is an anti-tradition that has become studied rhetoric in a context of honorable traditions, with all the implications about existing dangers and consequences of legitimacy. Art historians, with their addiction to chronologies will fill the air with hope for this institutionalized hegemony.
As the last train arrived, she moved into her seat. When she leaned against the seat back, I fumbled for our tickets. What? That was strange. In a chalky blaze of light, I searched my papers and laptop, listening to the sound of water and wind. Where was I? Another throb of pain. I clenched my teeth and tried not to cry out, as a pendulum seemed to swing toward me.
In response to questions about spontaneous good-nature, I feel it crucial to be faithful to the heart and spirit of all the ramifications of silence. It’s such a powerful repertoire. It touches on so many resonate themes.
Sometimes I fear the force of lashing sea-water, missing the compliments suitable for any occasion. Or that by giving in to a subsequent conversation, an old love, I hear a man in overalls hammering on a coffin. This story or that line may not be engaging with the world around me. But am I not fiction - a reflection of what should or can be remembered?
I have remarkable luck taming tigers, and have never been badly mauled. My friend Bill completely supports what I do as a way to relax and calm my senses. I think it is a gift because I have learned to dig very deep tunnels in the sand. Someone once said, “to be a great tiger tamer one must dig good tunnels”. Occasionally, when one tunnel caves then I’ll dig another one, but it gets me in all my eccentric inconsistencies.
Once this fact became real I realized that she seemed powerfully old – decrepit, even – as if she’d transcended the limitations of bread as the great novelty of the day. Once again, she thought she was on the cutting edge of space, light and solitude: but her smoldering brocade disturbed no one.
Amidst the turmoil of aesthetically and socially powerless positions, I began my first lesson in discotheque design. Distracted by both the exciting and difficult moments of my first design attempt, I was living in a state of melancholy detachment. The privileged world of the campus felt utterly foreign, as did her new awareness of herself as a symbol of a dark mole apon my face.
running the whole length of the horizon...