Being There for Double the Fun

Nailsisco Rodriguez:
A thousand gmail buzzes gather like a hailstorm while celebratory pops ring incessantly in my little ear. For three days I bend and shake inside my self's clothes to break wicked fever spells on a memory foam mattress sinking further into dream. In one of them in the early pre-dawn hours Slovoj Zizek is holding my newborn daughter up to his face, so proud for her to be born. He kisses her lips and closes his eyes. I see that she has dark hair and blue eyes. Why he adores her is unknown to me. This only makes me think I need to read at least of half of his babble including signed receipts. This summer in the Alps I'll be sitting next to him at a picnic table wiping the spit from his mouth, offering arnica oil to help slow-motion soothe the anxious "no future" trembling. After a two hour marathon talk with Michael Keenan on the phone last night I feel the decent cruelty and grace of Artaud reminding us that death is impossible. I feel it more in a classroom full of students who don't seem to believe it.

Its time we come to grips with choosing between commodity or death. Not that both aren't embedded in each other but that we figure a way to make both magic; to make the business of commodities and death magical so that we can tolerate the exhaustible beastly forces of both. I am always where you are. Your helicopter isn't so distant from mine while I lay in bed fumbling through the folds of every dream, itching to break through the wardrobe inside my belly. Your helicopter isn't so distant from mine, our propeller wings almost touching. Am fingering the idea of doing a clown workshop this summer to tap into that inner you know what in somewhere-europe to gain skills in the art of happy and sad---for goddssakes that's what my real name stands for. I am yearning for performance body stretching, disciplined yawning, all to irritate Artaud's sense of cruelty while he turns over in his impossible death cocoon crunchy protein bar.

Come join me in England-June 2011 for Natalya Ryzhova's Women's Wear Collection at Saint Martins? We shall be sitting front row drowning and laughing from all the engineered water designed to make the clothes on the models disappear--her idea since 2003 while we wait for science to catch up. While I wait for you to take off all that Forever 21 and Hollywood celebrity cruelty to come feast with me at a party for invisible foods in a velvet seated-rose filled room of non-performance and non-words. Everyday it seems I should be singing happy birthday to everyone born on this planet. Every other day it seems we should be taking paper-making classes to chop logs for our blogs to be born into books. And every night it seems just the appropriate thing for me to be held and swaddled in the arms of somebody who sees my dreams and believes in it more than I do.

Heart,
Clip Walk