AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

August 9, 2006 9am

Angular poetry revolving down jagged slopes. Absinthe splash and flow through shattered goblet.

We feel fine.

Music and mutterings and shouting and laughter. Pigments foot-smeared cross hardwood floor. Frayed paintings melt into one another.

Hangman. The answer is "flatulence".

Cashed bowls, slashed canvas and broken glass. Strange kisses, uncomfortable hugs, dizzy goodbyes. A creaky fire escape and a very well behaved rabbit.

Here is the love.

A quarter of a lifetime's drawings, photography, and paintings, scattered and trampled. The debris of the new season.

Here is the love.

Twin Peaks. Techno. Macaroni and cheese. Dinner in a teacup.

Nobody knows the Chapman brothers. The nice ones are not happy. The happy ones are not nice.

Tilt -a-whirl toy room. A piano. Please don't let them break anything else.

Four hours to sleep. Three and a half. Three. Why is the big party always on a Tuesday? And who are these people anyway?

Host style turns to hostile. But not really.

Echoes of whisky sip on a hairline crack. Crack lengthens. The glass is refilled and the crack makes a right angle to the left. When the whisky is gone and the glass is turned over, there will be a letter "L". L for Love. L for Life. L for Lost.

We're supposed to be turning in Spirals, naked and wet in the light of the full moon. Dancing to the beat of the stars.

Except. I can't dance, so I can't lead them. And even if I could, the only rhythm they can hear is coming from that laptop over there. The only light from the same.

And so it goes. Without our own forward motion there can be no spiral; the turning force twists us instead. We are ground up and crushed in the mortar. Like matter, like matter. All of life is beauty. All of beauty is Love. And nothing is created or destroyed. Ever.