Plathological

"I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision"

After four more cups of coffee:
--dancing to David Bowie (Sound & Vision, What in the World) in my bath towel in the early evening.
--RANDOM ACTS OF FASHION.
--mason jars filled with homemade jam accidentally dropped on Fort St.
--One Whole Chicken, in a can.
--What if the clown's nose was a tomato, and you bit it? What would that look like as a painting?
--back alignments in front of the parliament buildings, arms crossed below the neck like a corpse (“Sometimes I just need to hang from something”--Xavier).
--watching 19 yr old Jean Michel Basquiat in Downtown 81.
(--I would WEEP DAILY FROM JOY if I had Basquiat's work on my walls.)
--RANDOM ACTS OF MOTHERFUCKING FASHION, YOU SHUTTLECOCK.
--Matt getting me out of my momentary spasm of depression by saying I always have the option of dropping out of school, becoming an alcoholic and gaining forty pounds. I like to keep my options open. I can work in the panty section for a living.
--If Matt gained forty pounds I would still be his friend, but I would go Fat People Shopping with him, regularly.

NB: Spasm is a fucking lame word. Drinking is also lame. Fuck drinking. I'm going to stick exclusively to hard drugs from now on. My body will thank me for it--partially because hard drugs can't realistically be done as often as drinking can. I, for one, sure as hell get enough calcium in my diet.

You might not believe me if I told you, but most of the time, me and my friends drink cup after cup of coffee and talk about Religion, Art of all odds and ends, Gender, and the greater meaning, significance, and congruity of everything while smoking cigarette after cigarette. And sometimes we rail speed off of Modesty Blaise under the awning of the British Sweet Shoppe on Yates . . . or I bring cocaine in a white cylindrical waterproof container and we find an urban manmade knoll in Vic West and proceed to cut and snort said cocaine off of Julio Cortazar’s Blow-Up at ten PM. . And sometimes, sometimes one of us asks another one of us if she can female projectile ejaculate. That’s when the jars of jams get dropped, reasoned over.

_____________________________________________________________

PS, these Basquiat tags made me weep. let's keep going as we are &tc.:

SAMO as a neo art form.

SAMO as an end to mindwash religion, nowhere politics and bogus philosophy.

SAMO as an escape clause.

SAMO as an end to playing art.

SAMO as an end to bogus pseudo intellectual. My mouth, therefore an error. Plush safe.. he think.

SAMO as an alternative 2 playing art with the 'radical chic' sect on Daddy's $ funds.

Posted by caroline at September 19, 2005 1:31 AM