April 10, 2010
This morning under a cloudy sky, I collage. Create a fabric, a texture. Lattice work between Bhanu Kapil's Schizophrene and my own Continuous Frieze Bordering Red. She, perhaps, this morning (after what I imagine is a list of household chores like feeding T and walking the dog) writes a frame. Then perhaps burns it. This evening, in a city near here, there will be a collaboration between us. There will be shadowing. A silhouette. And shades of red. There will be an immigrant. An immigrant's daughter. The spaces between. There will be gestures that resemble something like failure: symptoms of collapse in the brisk, thick air. An incompatible language will emerge, as if nothing but syllables existed. No. As if all that's left, in a dark garden or in a maroon gallery, were aspirated phonemes: truncated, rotting along the edges, after a deep winter and into a wet spring. All that will happen will happen. And nothing more.