Some Scores

- Broth: Seeing what's far far far far away. Seeing through surfaces to see that far away. Dancing to there. Sensing that everything in between my body and that far far far away sight is affecting my seeing without touching me and without even being the object of my sight. Affecting me like broth. 

- Apples: Refrigerate a honeycrisp apple for at least 24 hours. Unimportant whether you paid for it or not. Remove the core, seeds, and stems. Slice the fruit with a sharp knife into thin sections. Arrange the slices on a plate or in a bowl. Squeeze half of a lemon's juice onto the slices, ensuring that each piece gets some juice. Toss the slices around with your hand to make sure this happens. Cold, sour, sweet: eat and sense the mischief of a pitch-black sky at 4:00pm. 

- Practice: Write five questions everyday. Don't think too hard. Imagine that they're the clothes you're living in. Pick out an outfit. 

- Five: Record five paradoxes everyday in the form of "x and y" where x and y are two distinct things that can be both true and false at the same time. Test it out by feeling them in your body. Operationalize your intuition. Do it all with a smirk. Don’t think that words describe things, just think of things. 

- Room: Every night, take your clothes off and look in the mirror. Step out of your questions and dance answers. Feel really profound about it all. Put your clothes back on and write in your journal without lying. 

#latenightthoughts #uup

"Here, then, lies the difference: modern aesthetics is an aesthetic of the sublime, though a nostalgic one. It allows the unpresentable to be put forward only as the missing contents; but the form, because of its recognizable consistency, continues to offer to the reader or viewer matter for solace and pleasure. Yet these sentiments do not constitute the real sublime sentiment, which is in an intrinsic combination of pleasure and pain: the pleasure that reason should exceed all presentation, the pain that imagination or sensibility should not be equal to the concept.1 

The postmodern would be that which, in the modern, puts forward the unpresentable in presentation itself; that which denies itself the solace of good forms, the consensus of a taste which would make it possible to share collectively the nostalgia for the unattainable; that which searches for new presentations, not in order to enjoy them but in order to impart a stronger sense of the unpresentable. A postmodern artist or writer is in the position of a philosopher: the text he writes, the work he produces are not in principle governed by preestablished rules, and they cannot be judged according to a determining judgment, by applying familiar categories to the text or to the work. Those rules and categories are what the work of art itself is looking for. The artist and the writer, then, are working without rules in order to formulate the rules of what will have been done. Hence the fact that work and text have the characters of an event; hence also, they always come too late for their author, or, what amounts to the same thing, their being put into work, their realization (mise en oeuvre) always begin too soon. Post modern would have to be understood according to the paradox of the future (post) anterior (modo).2"

Jean-François Lyotard, What Is Postmodernism?

Announcement

I will never give up on myself. I have to make peace with this fact.

Room Intervention

I want to make my attention visible

I want to make my attention clean

My lore is obviously balletic

My lore is obviously dharmic

I want to be a mirror

I want to be a window

I want to be a camera

I want to be an eyeball

I want to be a practice

I want to be a bedframe

I want to be a lamp

I want to be a room

I want to be a studio

I want to be a trash can

I want to be a New York City apartment

I want to be a mattress

I want to be everything I throw away

I want to be able to afford it

I want to be monthly

I want to be included

I want to be free

I want to be a broker's fee

I want to be free

I want my mom to love me

I want to email my idols

I want my lovers to love me

I want my kitchen to be clean

I want to be a kitchen

I want to be curtains

I want to be mold

I want to be a yoga mat

I want to be cockroaches

I want to be bullshit

I want to be a dancer

I want to be rich

I want to be true

I want it to be possible

In this city I want to be possible

In this room I want to be me

Rigorous Truth

About a complex issue

Man Poe m

What do I want to say to you? Feet on steely chair, a massage travels two ways. Don't eat a sandwich at 10:30 PM. A message travels through itself. Opportunity misses you. I miss us. No time for parties. I can't talk to her anymore. I can talk to you anymore. I can write a word anymore. Small baby hand holds itself up to white light. Into softening belly I press send. Now we hope.

Protegé

What would the name of the world where i can go in two directions opposite at the same time three ways underneath one light continuous as long as you can see it evaporates as short as the minded eyeball imagines how do we build that world? What language will we speak there and will i be invited? Am i real enough to see? New york news the real city accelerates toward the 19-year-old son while twenty versions of three me's run late and a long rehearsal happens five times / an invitation faked should have a different name so i can call my writing something mine when i hate it so i could refer to that thing which rips feathered gaze toward ongoing treasure situated jointly between being and being a dancer and living an edited life and your tall body and a small body and forty million beautiful hands in forty million poker games wielding peppermint hope in this one night