I was not stillborn.
I am not shipwrecked I am not blind there is no apparent king there are still lackeys, concubines where is the present the past combs its hair each strand obeys. Form reluctant insistent to its previous Design. Then strays. The climate is stranger than before.
Honor valor desire ambition branding? Oh love, woe, lo, Yo. Shouldn’t then Molly Barnes be dead? Dressed as Monroe at the newsstand De Kooning frequented, moved in with his wife and the children. Her then gallery. Discovered Baldessari? Oh love, Yo.
The delight of who has delight? Me me, prisoner I understood did they see that I understood did I appear to understand did they appreciate my understanding? Will there be reward? A simple respectful nod?
There is art. Word, image, sound, movement, facts of expression. Primary tongues. True tongues. That which cannot surrender without becoming what it is not. We don’t lie, we can’t. Sight looks and sees and tells.
This work is touching me, I recoil not convinced I take a breath I it you. Where is trust. Can it be trusted? Can I be trusted. Is trust a signed agreement? Or does it exist beneath the soil? Is it an oily connection previous to thought realized when bodies approach. I do have all my teeth although compromised.
I’m at an opening. Too much noise to process. I me you mine not yours. I am not you. You are not me. I we you it us thrown into some great contextual fabric. Our voices busy in complaints accepted as we make the present.