Auguste Perret, Interior
Auguste Perret, Interior
If the multiverse theory is true, then there’s a universe where it isn’t.
Multiverse theory doesn’t cover paradoxical situations
Except in the universe where it does
i’m having an aneurysm
One morning with a 12 gauge my brother shot what he said was a linnet. He did this at close range where it sang on a flowering almond branch. Anyone could have done the same and shrugged it off, but my brother joked about it for days, describing how nothing remained of it, how he watched for feathers and counted only two gold ones which he slipped behind his ear. He grew uneasy and careless; nothing remained. He wore loud ties and two-tone shoes. He sold shoes, he sold soap. Nothing remained. He drove on the roads with a little hole in the air behind him.
But in the high court of linnets he does not get off so easily. He is judged and sentenced to pull me on a rough cart through town. He is further punished since each feather of the dead bird falls around me, not him, and each falls as a separate linnet, and each feather lost from one of these becomes a linnet. While he is condemned to feel nothing ever settle on his shoulders, which are hunched over and still, linnets gather around me. In their singing, they cleanse my ears of all language but that of linnets. My gaze takes on the terrible gaze of song birds. And I find that I too am condemned, and must stitch together, out of glue, loose feathers, droppings, weeds and garbage I find along the street, the original linnet, or, if I fail, be condemned to be pulled in a cart by my brother forever. We are tired of each other, tired of being brothers like this. The backside of his head, close cropped, is what I notice when I look up from work. To fashion the eyes, the gaze, the tongue and trance of a linnet is impossible. The eyelids are impossibly delicate and thin. I am dragged through the striped zoo of the town. One day I throw down the first stillborn linnet, then another, then more. Then one of them begins singing.
— Larry Levis, “Linnets”
A black crow attacks one of the Pope’s white doves.
Sphinx vignette, 2011
Ink on paper, 21 x 29 cm
six word autobiography: “fuck goddamnit i fucked up so bad”
guys i specifically made that sentence seven words long so someone could comment “but thats seven words” and i could say “fuck i did it again i fucked up” so we could all have a good laugh but no one said it. yall fucked up. i fucked up because i assumed yall wouldnt fuck up. everythings fucked up