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I know this view truly like the back of my hand How many settings I’ve seen it in. Peeking through first day’s light. Shutting behind sleep’s eyes. Past the shoulder of a back my nail’s are dug into. Through the steam of so many noodles.

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Wichita

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Anglicisms

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Like when you won Solitaire on your family computer.

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A pensive dear friend. We don’t speak often. Our friendship has grown quieter. But we have had some joyous times.

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This man beats me at chess now regularly. At this time, he was a friend of a friend in Paris. One night so drunk he stayed in my bed as he couldn’t get back to where he was staying. Tried to kiss me but I’d been told about his girlfriend that evening. For my birthday he painted me a painting just like this one. I’ve still never beaten him at chess.

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Walking up the crest of a hill towards the ruins of an old castle. The path is dusty, a turret in the distance, and toiled corn fields to my right. Tom and David Attenborough are breaking huge burnt branches, and burnt horses faces into charcoal, by hitting them against the ground. Each time one breaks, they collect the dust between their feet. Tom throws an enormous branch and nearly hits me, the dust from the charcoal surrounds me in the air.

I enter the castle and find a small hamlet in its fortifications. People leaving an art gallery that I view them from a flight of stairs that end in a window which is too small to pass through.

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Martin Werthmann

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Quatre pattes fermement placé et un certain regard

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So above, as below

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Covering up my indecency with two ceramic mugs

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Jean Dubuffet - Jardin d’Hiver This was today at the Pompidou, following a salubrious want for things that could stir me up. I have cried twice in the past year, both times because someone had put brush to toile or was unabashedly expressing themselves through dance. Art is the join between my inside and the insides of other people. I can rarely summon tears for myself.

The beautiful man at the ticket counter regaled me with a story from his childhood, that he used to come to the Pompidou and dreamed of seeing the Jardin d’Hiver, which was always closed. They have reopened it now, a cave in the side of the permanent collection. People tentatively stood at its steps, but eventually stepped inside. I stayed in this corner for some time, feeling the ridges along the sides as it they were the smoothed curves of a real cave, and jumping into the pitted floor to see it all from a different angle. 

I thought of Mike Nelson’s Coral Reef, being entirely removed from the space that you thought you inhabited in the outside world. Even that is a construct, someone has built our urban landscape, never knowing that another could come into the meaning of that space, and invent a new existence within their walls.

Adrian Ghenie - Pie Fight Interior 11

Jürgen Klauke - Self Performance

Guiseppe Pernone - Respirare l’ombra

The trees and we do not breathe in the same way. 

A gold gilded set of lungs surrounded by the pulmonary avenues of a laurel tree. The scent is subtle when you walk in, but putting your face against the mesh that contains the leaves, you then inhale from the lungs of another.

Birgit Jürgensen A leader of avant-garde feminism, to be researched.

Marcel Broodthaers - La Pluie (projet pour un texte)

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Traveller’s tales

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Claudia, Wilhelm R And Me

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Nice to meet you.