The curse of the ambitious in the land of opportunity is one
that my ex suffered with constantly, whereas I, from the stagnant, rusted
bible-belt of the mid-west, felt perfectly blissed to simply have the option of
going out on any given night, holidays included, to see a show at a bar or some
art opening or film screening or other. Alas, she wanted so much to see them
all, and became overwhelmed by the nebulously expanding annals of the
metropolitan arts that laid out in print before her on the kitchen table.
Holy shit would she have hated this tape and all it stands
for; the fraying quilt of time & all of history waving erratically in the
solar winds; every conspiracy theory at every amazing dinner-turned-dance party
with the perfect hors d’oeuvres arranged everjustso; every sleepless night
beside a lesser and lesser loved snorer possibly about to die from sleep apnea;
sighing traffic jams, late night thumping bass cab rides, tsunamis and surfers
riding the perfect one and airports birthing, killing, and ridding cities of
people they’ll forget in a few months. This document is an in the face reminder
that you cannot be/see everything, but, maybe, maybe you might witness multiple
folx’ accounts of life on this batshit planet, inter-spliced, in reel time; and
maybe, if trained, you could extrapolate from there.
Thank you, Helen Scarsdale Agency, for continuing to make
the simple act of sleeping a negotiable function.
See:
Drone, noise, astral-projection, Cyrillic liner notes, zero percussiveness, reality
is collage, responsible split personality disorder, aliens, alienations,
forgetting you were ever lost for about an hour or so,
-
- Jacob An Kittenplan
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