TRICKHOUSE VOLUME FOURTEEN DOOR EIGHT, CURATED BY TC TOLBERT CONTANIMATION: HOWEVER, TETHER, AND SOME BY SAMUEL ACE, TRE NATRO, J/J HASTAIN, D'LO, TIM TRACE PETERSON, OUR LADY J, NATHALIE STEPHENS (NATHANAËL), TC TOLBERT
Landscapes (bodies), even the most remote (the most pure), contain remnants of human activity (what could be more natural than touch?). Instead of seeing those remnants as ___ pollution _____ __________________, I have often been struck by the singular___ ___ water tower, a string of power poles, the shape of (interrogation) a ruined structure, and the ability (as) of such
Have you heard the one about the girl with a flipper? On the one hand, the girl with the flipper is real. But because God, too, is asleep at the wheel, her flipper weighs more than her upper body. Her head starts to sink when she swims.
I got 99 problems but a dick ain’t one.
Genesis BREYER P-ORRIDGE
(click image for slideshow)
If the body is present, the etymological fallacy is present.
This as always already have happening.
Indeed, space astonishes.
Once we were that, and truly.
Now we are truly, and this.
If space is a pleasure and a threat.
If the body is afraid, we are real.
If genderqueer, then conceptual architecture.
If conceptual architecture, then motherfucking sexy as it gets.
I love you tits I love you tits you’re taking me.
Always and forever implacable, the principle
of critical mass become religion. The tits are bobbing
(lolling?) in the already tepid soup of tiny tits.
You are a walking tit on 4th Avenue and at the B-line
you carry tit-shaped confessions and tit-shaped guns.
Tit-driver, tit-talker, tit-caller, tit-shopper, tit-mountain,
tit-song. Tit-stopper, tit-seller, tit-scratcher.
Tit-basher, tit-masher, tit-here-kitty-kitty, tit-catcher.
That there are not more ripples
in the pond from the meathook
is a continual source of
amazement. The tits still love
you. There are two of them, yes,
but they are gone.
Pass comes to us from the Latin, passus, “a step, a stride, a pace.” Confession follows from the Old French, confesser, which came from the Latin, confess, which is the present participle stem of confiteri, meaning "to acknowledge," from com- "together" + fateri "to admit." Religiously speaking, a confesser was one who openly declared their faith under the possibility of persecution but somehow avoided martyrdom. To say someone was a confesser then took on the figurative meaning “to harm, hurt, or make suffer.” I confess: I smothered it with confession. Which is to say I believe in a fallacy of irrelevance. That history carries its own house to the party. That winter is just one version of snow. Failure is from the Old French, falir, meaning “to be lacking.” That passing is only one way to miss
If the body is trans, then repulsion is sublime.
If the body is sublime, then boundaries no longer exist.
If the body has boundaries, then the body is repeatable.
If the body is repeatable, then obscurity is required.
If the body is required, then the performance is already lost.
If the body is outside of you, then the loneliness of what passes for a kiss.
Tim Trace Peterson
There is a difference between what one can pass (a needle, for instance, or a woman with short hair on the street) and what one cannot seem to pass (faith, perhaps, or facial hair, or the belief that one will never work hard enough to earn a full night’s sleep).
Our Lady J
A place name (I) is an occurrence of retreat (miss you). A circle is (Harry Benjamin, will you fuck me?) an occurrence of light. A ground (this fence) is an occurrence of destruction. A voice is (making my vagina) an occurrence (bloody) of a madness. A rail line an occurrence of parting. (hungry) A boundary an occurrence of travail. (A vagina a consequence of light.)