Art Work

I FIND IT TOO PAINFUL NOT TO WRITE

I STOPPED ASKING WHAT MONEY IS USED FOR, TOO BUSY ASKING WHERE IT COMES FROM.

IT DRIPS OFF ME

1––I DON’T GET TO YOU

2––NO YOU GET TO ME

I’M IN SUNGLASSES THAT YOU FOUND

SHROUDED DIALECTICALLY

FROM THIS BLACK 

SUN

ONE GETS THE SENSE THAT EVEN IN THE MOST CAUSTIC OF CLIMATES, YOU DO FIND MOMENTS OF REPRIEVE. THEY DON’T FIND YOU. YOU ACTIVELY SEARCH FOR THEM. 

YOU ARE DRIVEN BY THE DESIRE FOR A HACK THAT WILL ALLOW YOU TO MAKE THE MAXIMUM AMOUNT OF MONEY USING THE LEAST AMOUNT OF TIME:

NOW: IN SIBERA A 20-MINUTE INTERVAL DURING WHICH THE SUN IS MOST VIBRANT, AND AT THE CORRESPONDING PLACE AT THE BACK OF HER SOLAR PLEXUS. WHOSE SLOW WARM STAYS WITH HER FOR AT LEAST AN HOUR, BUT REALLY IT’S THE WHOLE DAY. GEOGRAPHIC PHENOMENA TEND TO SEEM BOUND IN PLACE BUT REALLY THEY’RE JUST SEWN. 

BEYOND THE SIGNIFIED’S BEING BUTTONED TO THE SIGNIFIER, THERE IS THE POSSIBILITY OF AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT FORM OF CONNEXION. A FREEDOM. A CONVERGENCE OF PARADOX OR REALITY WITH ITSELF. PURE MOVEMENT. SOMETHING FAINTLY GREEK? 

1––I SHOULD READ PLAYS WITH THE CHILDREN. 

2––WHICH ONES? 

1––PLAYS THAT DEPICT SELFLESSNESS AND/IN FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND REAL PAIN. 

Dad, I Wish You Would Make it Easier for Me to Hate You:

1––I WISH YOU WOULD GIVE ME A JOB.

2––WHAT WOULD IT BE?

1––I DON’T KNOW.

And that’s just the problem. I harbor latent resentments against your gender, self-hatred, nascent anger toward one or both of my parents, misgivings about time, a tendency away from sequentiality, my heart beats to strange polyvalences, blood courses through like archaeology, I can’t seem to remember what to do ever, “Your TBI is showing,” she thinks. Whatever whatever whatever. I’m willing to be the most both: schizophrenic and depressed girl on this train. 

“You, I wish you would make it easier for me to hate you”, is graffitied on someone’s blue Lexus sedan. I hope everyone reads it. I hope Google Maps sees it. 

When

How do I say when? I forgot to say because I wasn't sure when. And that's why. Really it's when that I say why. But to you. That's when. So say! Because when I said I say, that was why. You're when. I say to what that I can only see what's visible. And I mean that in the context of when. You're what. It's something I say to you.

Who am I and what is my debt to Yvonne Rainer?

Artist as Exemplary Sufferer

Artist as Self-Absorbed Individualist

Artist as Young Girl

Artist as Changer of the Subject

Artist as Medium

Artist as Ventriloquist

Artist as Consumer

Artist as Transgressor

Artist as Failed Primitive

Artist as Failed Intellectual

Artist as Shaman

Artist as Visionary

Artist as Transcendental Ego

Artist as Misfit

Stick To Me Like Glue

Even on your most confabulated days I still smell the honesty on your personal carcass...

Shy Girl

She is very desired. She uses her words sparingly, in the sense that she spares them from themselves. She was nervous about dancing, so she told me. This is her magic: What she feels, she is. Her appearance is yoked completely with her being. Her appearance is totally hers. There is volume to her––that kind of volume that costs nothing, weighs nothing, is nothing. She leaves you space to be. Her body is wise and quiet when she is doing something. The things she does feel lucky to have her. Three or four moments. She is like your little sister’s long hair sweeping across your thigh as she bends down at the dinner table to pick up your dropped fork. Her eyes meet yours and there’s nothing there, so there is everything there. 

3 times agirl

1.

I’m not a punching bag, or flat stone. I’m a living person whose understanding floods monstrously like gaping, tumorous people. I am gaping, tumorous people. And I think of you sometimes. I thought of you when he was inside me, punching me like a hole puncher. And when I heard your calamitous heaving echo through the single walkway. I think of you when I’m hating you, when I’m annoyed by you, when I’m considering you, when we’re saying nothing talking, when I’m waiting for or coming to you. I think about you. I don’t want closeness with you, I just want somewhere to go, all the time. I know you know I’m extraordinary. I don’t think you know about outside of extraordinary. I don’t want to fall into bad habits––that’s when I start to lie. If I don’t get enough sleep, I can’t free every person I see. 

2.

I am moving from above- to underground. The air and light around me changes. 

3.

Why is it that when I’m most emotionally unmoored it’s my identity as a girl that I turn to? The girl, she is aloneness in a room. Objects and subjects are just furniture there. I’m there. Sound is. You’re not. The girl there is perceivable and honest for this reason. Her body is in a room. She’s questions alone. I was in that room once. I turn to those songs because they’re the ones I listen to alone. Leave me to her. Lead me to her. I’m there. They’re only for me as they’re only in me. I’m that room I’m a girl listening to alone songs amidst free time I’m me. This is basically a tautology. I love people, I do. And I’m that girl. Maybe there’s another one. But there’s always that room. The one beneath my feet, beneath my hands. And there they are. Going with you now. When I’m in that room I don’t forget. I’m just remembering anything. No one thinks I’m weird because there isn’t anyone there. Or the only no one is me. I’m not-me in that room. I’m the presence of the absence of others. I’m made of myself. You survey a transparent globe from a courteous, rumbling distance. I glance you from afar, my budget. And when you put your hand where it belongs, me, I get so snowy inside. I’m the holidays in that room. My hands grasp my feet, the floor. I’m the ceiling. You insulate me. I go to the room where there is only sound a movement and alone, girl. I play my favorite songs and take off all my clothes, paint my nails, fold my clothes, do my eyebrows, roll out, apply tiger balm, journal, watch a movie, clean up, stretch, read, write. I do fucking everything in that room. YOU CAN’T COME IN. I am trying to save the world in all caps. 

Poem for Frege

If I was ever in an empty room, that’s full. An Eastern European show runner looks exactly like Jessa from Girls. I don’t really know what my job is, or what anyone else's job is. A sheet of veiled substance hosts thoughts and their memories. An opening door lifted in the air sings my emotions. We lift this small girl. The one that is not us. Another girl sings and cries a song we all know to be sadness, longing, utopia. I sat on a satin couch feeling very seen as you silently complained of your station. I hear unfortunately everything you say, your body being my strange, desired book. A male pop star chooses a name for himself. Some years later he hears a girl say "his name" as she introduces herself: "I am ____." We learn hers is only spelled slightly differently. They are extensionally identical and intensionally distinct.