subject    헬로우~

mailed-by    hotmail.com

하이~ 조앤

언니는 오늘 처음 일하러 갔다 .

동네가 valley 근처인가봐.

친할머니 집근처라 주중에는

거기서 지내고 주말에 집에 올거다

한글 되니 넘 좋네….

좀전에 너 한테 전화했는데 안받네

낼은 작은 삼촌 한국 간단다,,,,

이모는 자주 만나니?

김** 딸은 널 아주 좋아하나보네…

하루하루 시간낭비 하지말고 알차게 보내라

이제 한글 메일도 잘쓰네.

자주 소식 보내라,,

네가 보내준 유과 넘 맛있다,,ㅎㅎ

내 방에 숨겨두고 야금야금 하나씩 먹다보니

이제 다먹었다,ㅠㅠㅠㅠ

잘지내고 또 메일보내..오케

ㅎㅎㅎㅎ

아이 미스유~

엄마가  ~ 사랑해,

The extreme limit of wisdom, that’s what the public calls madness. The instinct of nearly all societies is to lock up anybody who is truly free. First, society begins by trying to beat you up. If this fails, they try to poison you. If this fails too, they finish by loading honors on your head.
The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.

Art produces ugly things which frequently become more beautiful with time. Fashion, on the other hand, produces beautiful things which always become ugly with time. Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet’s job. The rest is literature.
When a work appears to be ahead of its time, it is only the time that is behind the work.

The actual tragedies of life bear no relation to one’s preconceived ideas. In the event, one is always bewildered by their simplicity, their grandeur of design, and by that element of the bizarre which seems inherent in them. Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort.

I am a lie who always speaks the truth.

by Jean Cocteau

from this thing

FRANZ WEST,  GAGOSIAN

Maybe my voice needs to be louder
My tits need to be bigger
My ass needs to be smaller
My hair smoother
My make-up more perfect
My ability to nod and smile at your
Astounding discoveries
More apparently clear.
Maybe I need to interrupt more,
Avoid standing to the side while you talk.
Maybe I need to flutter my eyelashes,
Or tilt my head to the side.
Maybe I need to work harder.
Maybe I need a college degree
Or better yet—
A fucking high school diploma.
Maybe I need to dodge bullets
Or stand up taller
Be more poised and prepared.
Maybe I need to toughen up,
Get a thicker skin,
Learn how to play with the big boys,
Maybe I need to be more predictable.
Maybe the things I say
That make you feel uncomfortable
Need to be cushioned with sugar
Or homemade mashed potatoes.

Maybe my questions
about rising body counts,
Genital mutilation, legal prostitution, foot binding,
White privilege, male privilege, young
People drugged, murdered, incarcerated,
The deeply interwoven lines of oppression,
Queer radicalism, dying buffalo, organizing
Communities, our shared identity,
torture, Palestine, femicide,
the disappeared women of Juarez,
the way I feel when I’m at a corner
waiting to cross the street
and I have to look down
in order to avoid
the inevitable lapping tongue
hanging out a car window
and what exactly you have to do with that,
the brilliant possibilities
of infinite gender expressions,
why more women
don’t paint murals,
the reality that none of us
escaped the messages
drilled into our childhood minds
as toxic and beautiful as they were,
rape as a weapon,
child soldiering,
human trafficking,
police murder,
the wealth of prisons,
and the poverty of schools,
the truth that
not being
a straight, white, man
still means
that a majority
of human beings
on the planet
must arm themselves,
the rising wall between
Mexico and the US,
Modern segregation,
21st century slave trade,
ICE as the new Gestapo,
How Jews need to say no
To Israeli apartheid,
White people need to wake up
from a privileged coma
and do a whole lot more
about racism in this country
than just vote for Obama,
men need to be allies to women
not silent objectors,
and hetero folks need to stop leaning
on their love of queer eye for the straight guy
and phrases like “I don’t mind gay people”
as if that’s their ticket into solidarity
and in some way prevents the daily murder
of queer and trans people everywhere,
the fact that there are more women
in my life
that have been raped, molested, or abused
than have not,
and why that’s not
just a coincidence,
how I weep and thrash against myself,
how my veins pulse with outrage,
so much so that I
don’t quite buy
the idea that change
will come without violence
and I just wanna say
fuck all the bullshit
and get down,

how my vision was shaped
by my mother’s pain
and courage,
my father’s absence,
charity food,
extensions on the light bills,
a professor’s obsession,
payless shoes,
cool-aid,
punk rock,
Bell Hooks,
Earthquakes,
White anti-racist people,
Camel Lights,
40’s of Mickey’s,
the homestead act,
white privilege,
riding the bus,
Emma Goldman,
Wounded knee,
the harlem renaissance,
the catcher
in the rye,
attempts at suicide,
fist fights,
pedagogy of the oppressed,
hospital bills,
violent men,
the word kike,
Malcom X,
indigenaity,
the Jena 6,
quitting school,
allen ginsberg,
pancakes for dinner,
a gold car
with a fucked up ass
white door,
and the completely consuming
sense of responsibility I feel
to tell you all about
The necessary collapse
Of western
Civilization
As
We
Know it
All needs to pour from
A more beautiful
Acceptable
pair of lips.

But then again

Maybe I don’t need to change a thing.

Maybe its enough that my humble,
imperfect bravery
Extends this love to you,
Stands on stage or street corner,
Rails against expectations,
Shatters your assumptions,
And In one breath forgives
and resurrects it all.

Maybe I am enough
Because I believe
you are enough

and in the end
the only fair
assumption
is

that

I am you

artist, poet kristy lovich

everything just feels absurdly inappropriate right now.

this place is crazy

bling&platoon kunsthalle night flea market

sat, march 5th • 6pm

_

while cleaning out my drawer in the library.

it’s thursday night. it’s -14°C outside and i’m sitting here on my 23°C heated floors having a student-gifted slice of white chocolate n green tea cake.
things could be worse.

for raffa

for a break into spring, perhaps?